Izzy laughed. “Perhaps, but my figure is now more womanly than girlish. The point is, nobody seemed to suspect you weren’t our cousin.”
Matteo came in with a fresh pot of hot chocolate and to inquire whether the ladies were warm enough. He found their desire to sit in the summerhouse bizarre when they had warm houses to go to. But the summerhouse was their special place, and they assured him they were all quite warm enough.
“But please take those plates of cakes and things away,” Clarissa said. “I’ve eaten far too many of them as it is.”
“You’re eating for two, remember,” her sister reminded her.
“Yes, but when things like that are sitting there, under my nose, looking so luscious and delicious, I’m tempted to eat for four,” Clarissa said gloomily, “so please take them away, Matteo.” She resolutely picked up the pomander she’d been making, and started poking cloves into an orange.
After Matteo left, taking the remnants of the feast with him, Izzy turned to Zoë and said, “You’ve said precious little about last night, little sister. It was your night, after all.”
“It was wonderful,” Zoë said. “Everyone was so kind. Thank you again for giving me such a delightful party.”
Izzy and Clarissa exchanged glances. “We’re going to have to drag it out of her,” Clarissa said.
“Drag what out of me?”
“The handsome young man with whom you quarreled—”
“—in French—”
“—in the middle of the dance floor—”
“—while waltzing—”
“—and then kicked,” finished Izzy.
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, him. Not that you would have done much damage with your dancing slippers, but it was a very definite statement in a very public situation. He was the man who accosted me in front of Hatchard’s that time, calling me Vita, remember?” Izzy said. “We discussed him at the time, if you will recall.”
Zoë remembered, all right. She’d hoped they hadn’t.
“Race says he’s Lord Foxton,” Clarissa said. “You didn’t tell us that before.”
“I didn’t know it until last night,” Zoë admitted.
“He called at our house this morning,” Izzy said. “Asking for you. Matteo told him you were not at home. And when Lord Foxton asked when you would be at home, Matteo shrugged and said since you were not a resident of the house, he had no idea.” She chuckled.
“And then he called at our house,” Clarissa said, reaching for more cloves, “and Hobbs told him that nobody of that name lived there and advised him to try elsewhere.”
Zoë sighed. “He also called at Lady Scattergood’s, and Treadwell said—in that way he has, like squashing a beetle—‘Lady Scattergood and any guests she may have are not at home to gentlemen callers. Ever.’ ” She mimicked his ponderous tone, and the others laughed.
“Now stop feeling guilty about this, Zoë,” Izzy said. “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
“But clearly there is more between you than you suggested,” Clarissa said. “At least he seems to think so. Not to mention that kick.”
Yes, that kick. Zoë wished now she hadn’t done it. Of course people would be talking about it. Only she’d been so furious at what he’d said about Rocinante and Hamish. She couldn’t believe he’d done it—he was such a liar—but she wasn’t sure.
But if he wanted to talk to her, why had he told her something he must know would upset her? The man was infuriating.
“Perhaps it would help to talk about it,” Clarissa finished.
Zoë wasn’t sure. She’d almost managed to put him out of her mind—for some of the time, at least—but his reappearance had thrown her thoughts and emotions into turmoil. As for that waltz…it had awakened all the wonderful sensations she’d experienced in his arms that night when they’d made love. She knew he was an unprincipled rat, cheating poor farmers to benefit himself, but it seemed her body didn’t care about that. It had no conscience. It just wanted him.
But her sisters were right. And they were more experienced than she was in this sort of thing. “All right. I didn’t tell you the whole truth when I told you about our time together.”
Izzy leaned forward in her chair. Clarissa put her half-completed pomander aside. Zoë began, “When I first met him—oh!” she broke off as the door flew open with a crash. Milly, their irritating neighbor, stood in the doorway, panting, damp and disheveled.
