Chapter 3
Lady Tolliver, having summoned all her daughters for both breakfast and luncheon thereafter, was in magnanimous form as she sat beneath the great elm at the rear of the Tolliver townhouse.
The footmen had drawn chairs in shifting constellations beneath the tree, and the Tollivers had assembled to continue their favourite familial pastimes: gossip, eating, and alarming one another.
Lottie sat with her back against the tree’s trunk, a plate balanced carelessly in her lap, as she listened to her mother drone on about the Ferringtons, who simply must have mortgaged half their estate to afford such ostentation.
“Now that you are quite restored to us, dearest Charlotte,” Lady Tolliver said at last, dabbing delicately at her lips, “we must speak of your return to Society. I have every faith you shall be married before the summer is out.”
Lottie lowered her sandwich. “Married? Good heavens, Mama. I have only just regained my freedom. Must I surrender it again so soon?”
Lady Tolliver looked horrified. “Freedom? Matrimony is not imprisonment, Charlotte.”
“No, not imprisonment, Mama,” said Lottie. “Merely indentured servanthood. I have no wish to serve as a gentleman’s decorative breeding mare.”
“Charlotte Anne Marie Tolliver!”
Across the table, seated upon a garden chair, Hetty groaned and pressed a hand atop her prodigiously rounded belly. “Oh, Lottie.”
“Do not look so pained, dear sister. I am not referring to your person. You are positively glowing with domestic bliss. Though the evidence suggests the enterprise of manufacturing the next Viscount Langley is considerably more unpleasant than advertised.”
“Indeed. I am the size of a small carriage,” Hetty replied, sighing, “and I have not seen my feet in a fortnight.”
Lottie gave her a critical once-over. “You are. Enormous, I mean. I should not be in the least surprised if it were twins.”
Hetty laughed, then winced. “You have now informed me of it twice. It is a most dreadful thing to say to a woman in my condition.”
“Quite dreadful,” said Lord Langley, carving the pheasant beside her. “Though I confess, I rather hope it is twin boys. Then perhaps I shall never again be obliged to endure a pregnant wife, nor prevent unruly daughters from running off with scoundrels in the dead of night.”
“Why, Lord Langley,” said Lottie, “I believe that remark was directed at me.”
“You are this family’s most instructive cautionary tale,” Theo replied. “And yet, by some remarkable perversity, its most enthusiastic champion.”
“Precisely,” said Lottie. “I see no reason to attempt a thing if one does not mean to excel at it.”
Georgiana, tickling baby Henry’s feet, said mildly, “Would someone pass the bread before Lottie begins quoting Mrs Wollstonecraft?”
The baby squealed and kicked his tiny feet.
Lady Tolliver’s hands flew to her mouth. “Did you hear that? Henry spoke! He shall be a brilliant orator.”
“Or a howling terror,” said the Duke of Morleigh, who had thus far been listening in brooding silence at Georgiana’s side. “Depending on which of his aunts influence him most.”
“He shall grow up to throw soup at his governess if Nell keeps encouraging him,” Georgiana said, only half in jest.
Nell grinned. “He bit me like a lion.”
“I should think he is teething,” Mari said quietly, without looking up from her plate.
Seated at the opposite end of the table, Lord Tolliver chuckled into his wine. “Good lad. The mark of a future politician.”
“Papa,” Georgie said sweetly, “your grandson is but four months old.”
“Which is precisely when true character begins to emerge,” Lord Tolliver replied. “I shall begin his Latin primer at once.”
Lottie, perceiving a convenient opportunity to divert the family’s attention from her matrimonial prospects—and from the Duke of Morleigh, whose presence she had been carefully ignoring—nudged Mari’s shoulder.
“Mari, my dear, it shall be your turn soon enough. You will be married and producing heirs before you know what has become of you.”
Mari blanched. “I should rather take the veil.”
“Do not be absurd. You would perish of boredom within a fortnight. No balls. No gossip.” Lottie brightened. “Besides, debutantes make excellent spies.”
“I do not wish to be a spy either.”
“Well then, we must discover a profession requiring no dancing, no conversation, and absolutely no attention whatsoever.” Lottie regarded her with grave consideration. “Perhaps you might become a ghost.”
“Go to the devil.”
“Language,” Hetty scolded.
“Where do you suppose she learnt it?” Theo asked.
“From her beloved elder sister,” Lottie replied, “and I have yet to regret a single syllable.”
The luncheon proceeded in the usual Tolliver fashion—that is to say, only marginally under control.
Georgie fawned over baby Henry, as Lady Tolliver issued a stream of instructions on the proper management of infants (“You must support his head, Georgiana. No, not so—good heavens, you shall ruin his posture before he is six months old. And do not allow him to grip your necklace like that; he will develop the most dreadful habits.”) Nell tossed bread rolls to her dogs, Mari read, and Lord Tolliver explained his firm conviction that England ought to establish a proper zoological garden.
When a footman tripped over a barking hound and nearly dropped the pudding, Lady Tolliver shrieked, the duke merely lifted one brow, and Hetty looked as though she might go into labour then and there.
Lottie observed the entire spectacle with a genteel smile.
It was, in all the very best and most ridiculous ways, home; and though she had no intention of spending the Season behaving any better than she had the last, there was comfort in knowing the Tollivers would always be there, barking dogs, bickering siblings, offensive remarks and all.
As the remains of luncheon were cleared, the conversation turned once more towards the Season.
Lord Tolliver leant back with great satisfaction. “Ah, London in the spring. The scent of crushed violets and dashed matrimonial hopes. How thrilling it shall be.”
“Thrilling for whom?” Mari muttered, nose still within her book.
“For you, my girl. You are seven-and-ten now, are you not? Precisely the age for being trussed up in silk and admired by young men with far too much pomade in their hair.”
Mari’s complexion went ghostly.
Lady Tolliver reached across and laid a soothing hand upon her daughter’s. “There, my love. You may wait another year before making your curtsey, if that is your wish. We have already settled the matter, have we not?”
Lord Tolliver blinked. “Have we?”
“Indeed,” Lady Tolliver said smoothly. “With Charlotte requiring rather… more attention this Season than most young ladies, my nerves would not withstand the strain of presenting two daughters at once.”
Lottie inclined her head. “It is touching to see my talents so widely recognised.”
Georgiana folded her hands neatly. “One may wait until eight-and-ten, or even nine-and-ten, Papa, if one prefers.” With a pointed glance at Lottie, she added, “Or five-and-thirty, if one is determined never to wed.”
Lottie raised her glass. “I should rather be legendary than leg-shackled.”
“Nevertheless,” Lady Tolliver interjected, “you shall be reintroduced this year, Charlotte. I shall hear no disagreement.”
“I have already been presented. By you, Mama. Only last year.”
“Indeed,” Theo murmured. “And we all recall how that ended.”
“I heard that.”
“Nevertheless,” Georgie said smoothly, “it is customary for a young lady entering her second Season to be formally reintroduced under the auspices of a relation of suitable standing—particularly when her first concluded with, shall we say… vigour.”
“Scandal,” Hetty supplied.
“Distinction,” Lottie countered.
“Disaster,” said Theo.
Lord Tolliver nodded vigorously. “Very good! Mari may enjoy another year with her books, and Charlotte may terrify London at her leisure under a sponsor. But who shall act as sponsor? We have no relations of high standing, do we?”
Georgie lifted one brow. “Well, Papa… as it happens, I am now a duchess. And therefore, ideally placed to act as Lottie’s sponsor.”
Lady Tolliver gasped. “You shall sponsor your sister?”
“Whyever not, Mama? As Duchess of Morleigh, I am obliged to see to the advancement of my sisters. With your blessing, I shall escort Charlotte to Lady Malverne’s spring garden party and the first assembly at Almack’s.
” She turned to Lottie, her expression composed.
“And I shall be watching you like a hawk.”
Lottie narrowed her eyes. “You are aware I intend to misbehave?”
“Indeed. That is precisely why I must keep an eye on you. Under my guidance, you shall do so strategically, and with a mind to find a suitable husband. A duchess cannot afford to sponsor a catastrophe.”
“If you are sponsoring me, darling, the catastrophe is assured.”
Lady Tolliver pressed her lace kerchief to her breast. “Another scandal would be the end of me, Charlotte!”
Nell pushed the salts across the table as though quite used to the routine.
Lady Tolliver took a deep sniff and resumed. “Still, I am comforted to know you shall be in such capable hands. A duchess in the family! And Almack’s is indeed a most appropriate beginning—provided we can secure the vouchers.”
“They are already arranged,” Georgie said.
“Useful fellow,” Lottie murmured, casting a sidelong glance at Morleigh.
The duke inclined his head. “On occasion.”
Lady Tolliver brightened. “Well then, dearest, we must make a list of suitable engagements. Lady Braithwaite’s ball, the Trotters’ masquerade, the Compton musicale, and the theatre, of course.”
“I have a box of my own, Mama,” Georgie said. “We shall use that. And you needn’t attend if your health is afflicting you.”
“Yes, Mama, you must rest,” Hetty added, wincing. “Although perhaps we should avoid the March of Charity Ball. Last year the refreshments were tepid and Lottie danced atop the supper table.”
“It was a raised platform,” Lottie said with injured pride. “And it was entirely part of the cotillion.”
“It was a minor scandal,” Theo muttered.
“It was exhilarating,” Lottie replied, eyes gleaming. “This year I fully intend to top it.”
“I’ve no doubt you shall,” Georgie said, dabbing her lips. “Just ensure you do so in a manner that does not result in another hasty removal to the countryside.”
“Where is the delight in sensible mischief?”
“Where is the future in scandal?” Georgie returned.
“I want no future that involves monogrammed linens and tedious accounts,” Lottie said, rising with a languid stretch. “I desire intrigue. And champagne. And perhaps an adventure or two involving a gentleman with excellent shoulders and abysmal judgement.”
“Oh, good God,” Theo muttered, as the duke choked on his drink and Lord Tolliver thumped him heartily on the back.
Georgie, unmoved, lifted her chin. “If you must make a scene, Lottie, make it a spectacular one. But remember: you have my name behind you now.”
Lottie’s grin was wicked. “Darling, I intend to make it a sensation.”