Romance Junkies

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Excerpt

Prologue

The face. . .

It was the face that haunted her nightmares–-but here, in clear daylight, distinct amid the crowd.

Clarissa Fallon drew a deep, disbelieving breath.  It couldn’t be.  A moment ago she had been happily engrossed in the street scene, inhaling the aromas of savory meat and pastry that drifted from a street vendor’s cart, as his call of  “Hot meat pies!” rose above the clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels.  She had paused on the sidewalk to relish the sparkle of sunlight off the polished panes of shop windows, which displayed enticing wares like a bonnet trimmed with yellow roses, a pair of  elegant ecru kid gloves, and a flowing swath of crimson silk draped artfully across a stand. . . .

And Clarissa herself was free, at last, to consider such once-unheard of luxuries, free to lift her head to meet the eyes of the ladies and gentlemen strolling along the walkway.  Free. . .

And then she’d caught sight of the once-familiar face, and fear pierced her like a thorn lurking hidden amid a nosegay of roses. 

Her brother had promised that Clarissa would be safe now.   But the face was here.  It was turning–-at any moment, those dark bulging eyes would meet Clarissa’s horrified gaze, and then--

Clarissa jerked her head aside and plunged away from the specter that had appeared so abruptly out of the cheerful melee.  She pushed her way past two chatting women and ran as if the devil himself waited to snare her soul.

Behind her, someone called.  “Miss Clarissa, wait!”

Ignoring the cry, Clarissa rushed ahead.  Her heart beat so loudly, the blood pounding in her ears, that she could hear nothing else.  Even the noise of the busy London street faded, and she was lost in her worst nightmare.

She ran.

Chapter 1

Dominic Shay, seventh earl of Whitby, sipped a glass of port.  His head was lowered, and he didn’t seem to notice when Timothy Galston, standing just to the side of the comfortable club chair, paused.

“Whitby!”

Timothy had practiced his tone of righteous indignation carefully in the privacy of his own rooms, and he was annoyed to observe the other man ignore his greeting.  They were old acquaintances, and there was no reason for the slight prickle of unease that the earl always seemed to provoke in the younger man, but there it was.  Timothy almost had second thoughts about his rehearsed speech, wishing for a moment he could just slip away, but dash it all, the girl was his cousin.

He cleared his throat and said, more loudly, “Whitby, I’m speaking to you!”

His perfect features set in an expression of arctic disinterest, the earl lifted his face, his deep brown eyes so dark that they could make one shiver.  “Oh, hello, Galston.  Have some wine; the sutler has just uncorked a quite tolerable bottle.”

Timothy waved away such a minor consideration.  No, perhaps not minor, but he could not be distracted until he’d aired his grievance.

“How could you do it?  Why shoot down a girl in her first Season, who needs all the advantage she can muster, what with those freckles and the habit she has of smirking--”   He paused.   No, no, he was getting off the track.  “I mean, she’s a perfectly nice girl, with only a moderate dowry to recommend her, and you had no call to say that she dances like an African giraffe who’s drunk too much homebrew.  The girl can’t help being tall, you know!”

The earl frowned, and but it seemed more in puzzlement than in anger.  “Of whom are we speaking, Galston?  Some new infatuation of yours?”

Timothy shook his head.  “No, dammit.  But she’s my cousin, and she deserves better. You dashed her chance of a good Season with one careless bon mot, and you don’t even recall?  Miss Emmaline Mawper, that’s who!”

When the earl continued to stare, Timothy added, “At Almack’s last night, don’t you remember?”

The earl shrugged.  “I was in a bad mood, old man, wishing I hadn’t allowed myself to be cajoled into looking into that wretched Marriage Mart in the first place.  And I’m sure no one remembers one careless comment of mine.”

“You think wrongly, then,” Timothy retorted.  “I’ve heard it repeated twice today already, with more jests tacked on, and Emmaline is in tears, my aunt says.  Aunt Mary hauled me out of bed–-at any ungodly hour, let me tell you--to complain, although what she thinks I can do. . .   You’re the most eagerly heeded arbiter of the Ton since Beau Brummel took himself off to the Continent to evade his debtors.  If you weren’t so damned perfect, with your elegant neckcloths and impeccable tailoring, not to mention that flawless Grecian coin of a face the ladies swoon over--”

This time the earl shook his head, and a strand of dark hair fell back.  For the first time, Timothy had a clear view of the ragged scar that marred the earl’s left cheek.  It started above his temple and ran past his ear and down beneath the erect shirt collar, the jagged line almost–-but not quite–-hidden beneath the earl’s slightly too-long hair, and damned if that shaggy hair hadn’t started a new fad among the calflings who aped Whitby’s casual elegance. . .

“Flawless?”  The earl’s voice was icy.              

Timothy swallowed.  “Oh, that don’t signify.  It just adds a touch of the exotic, don’t you know, romantic war wound, and all that–-in fact, the ladies love it,” he protested, but he knew his voice wavered.  Damn, he always forgot.

“But that doesn’t alter my contention,” he said, trying to recapture his momentum.  “The Ton still looks to you, Whitby, and it ain’t right--you misuse your power over Society’s opinion.”

“If I have any power, as you claim, it is quite unsought and totally irrelevant.”  Whitby lowered his face again to sip his wine. 

Timothy swallowed, almost tasting his relief.

“Not to the persons you cut down, it ain’t,” he argued.  “It’s easy enough to put someone down, much harder to build someone up.  Why don’t you do something agreeable for a change?”

“I assure you, Galston, the next time I see Miss Mawper, I will be charm personified--”

But a new voice interrupted.

“Look, a woman–-a lady, I should almost say!”

The earl turned back toward the bow windows of White’s, where several younger gentlemen lounged to watch the street.  This was male territory, and any respectable lady knew it and avoided St. James Street with utmost care. 

So why was a young and very pretty girl dashing down the pavement, pursued doggedly by a stout, red-faced female?

Even Timothy paused to stare.  None of the onlookers could make out the words spoken outside the window, but they saw the older woman catch the girl by the arm and her lips move in what was obviously an energetic scold.

The girl’s expression twisted.  Was she a lady or not?  She was dressed decorously and with obvious expense, but her attitude to the older woman–mother, aunt, governess, whatever--didn’t seem in keeping with her youth, nor did she seem abashed by her social transgression.  In fact, now she jerked away from the other woman’s hold, and while the men watched, entranced, landed a passable left hook into the woman’s rounded midriff.  The woman staggered back.  The girl’s hands curled into fists, and her bonnet slid off her fair hair as she waited for the woman to recover.

“Ten pounds on the younger lady!” one of the watchers called.

“Done.  But hardly a lady, I’d say,” another of the gawkers suggested.  He added a comment which made the other men guffaw and offer a few disparaging guesses of their own as to the girl’s social status–or even profession.

The earl frowned.  One of the men sitting closer to the window looked up to see it, and beneath Whitby’s reproving glance, the laughter faded.   The other men turned back to watch the mill in progress.

“See,” Timothy muttered.  “I told you people listen to you.  All you have to do is frown or smile, and the Ton obeys. . . ”   He paused to stare out the window at the continuing struggle between the two women.   He had done what he had come for, so why did he still feel dissatisfied?   Someone ought to show Whitby just how misguided the most arrogant earl was, he thought.

Outside, the stout woman–apparently thoroughly out of temper--slapped the girl’s cheek, but the younger lady did not give in.  She ducked and evaded the next blow.  When she glanced up again, her cheek was reddened from the impact, and her eyes were wide with fear.

Timothy thought that the earl had stiffened.  Timothy said, “I say again, raising people up is much harder than cutting ‘em down.  For example, I’d bet you a hundred pounds you couldn’t make a lady out of–out of–well, whoever that girl is.”

“Probably some rich cit’s daughter who hasn’t heeded her lessons in deportment.”  The earl shook his head.  “Or mayhap some escapee from Bedlam, judging by her barbaric behavior.  Can’t make a silk reticule out of a sow’s ear.  Anyhow, we don’t even know who she is.”

“And if I can find out her name?  What about the bet?”

“I can’t change her birth, and I’m sure as Hades no damned governess to give lessons in ladylike conduct.”  The earl’s dusky eyes seemed to darken even more.

But this time Timothy, elated to at last observe a chink in Whitby’s armor, stood his ground.

“So you admit my point?  You can cut down an aspiring miss without a second thought, but you can’t lift an awkward girl with, obviously, no sense of propriety, nor expend any real effort in the attempt?  Afraid it will be too difficult a task, eh?”

Whitby narrowed his eyes.

Timothy’s surge of confidence faded just a little; he tried not to gulp.

“If you learn her name, if she has any pretension to gentility at all, I will see that she is the toast of the Ton.  Are you satisfied?”

Grinning, Timothy looked up just in time to see that the matronly woman had finally succeeded in pulling the still-struggling girl back up the street.  They were almost out of sight.

One of the men in the window groaned as his mate urged, “Pay up!”

“Oh, very.” Timothy tried not to laugh in the earl’s face.  “I’ll let you know her name when I find it out.”

And he hurried out of the club to follow the two women.

Clarissa Fallon was sitting in the broom cupboard.   Again. 

The kitchen cat, a handsome tortoiseshell with black and gray markings, had slipped in behind her when she’d darted into her hiding place.  Purring, he twined around her feet.

“Shhh,” Clarissa told him, rubbing his favorite spot just below his ear.  He settled beside her, tucked his paws neatly beneath him and watched her with large golden eyes.

Clarissa rubbed the sore spot on her arm where the governess had pinched her when she had grabbed Clarissa in the street, then hugged her knees and tried not to make a sound.  She could hear the heavy footsteps of her frustrated governess, Mrs.Bathcot, as the woman tramped by outside the closed door.

“Clarissa!  Oh, where is that wretched girl now?”  The woman stomped past the cupboard.  In a moment, Clarissa heard the squeak of rusty hinges as the pantry door swung open.  She knew that her governess’ gaze scanned only barrels of flour and sugar and bins of root vegetables, finding no runaway there.  Clarissa had indeed considered taking refuge in the cold pantry, which was larger, but the door was too noisy.  Now she thanked her stars that she had chosen the other cupboard nook.  But would the formidable Mrs.Bathcot check the broom cupboard, too?

Clarissa held her breath.  She’d hidden here two days ago, when the governess’s scolding had been too much to bear, and had not been found.  Perhaps Mrs.Bathcot thought it not large enough to hold her.  The cupboard was narrow and tall and usually crammed with brooms and mops.  But the maids had taken most of them away, and until they returned from cleaning the upstairs, there was enough room to insert one skinny female whose petite frame made her look   younger than she really was.

And the small space gave her the illusion of safety, of obscurity, of being hidden away from the peril she had thought no longer threatening.  In fact, the whole house had seemed a castle when her brother had first brought her home, but today, in the briefest of moments, that comforting sense of security had been shattered.  Shivering at the memory of her near-encounter on the street, Clarissa tried to think what she should do. 

She must not panic, not again.  Her wild flight down London’s unfamiliar streets had only gotten her into more trouble.  Trying for calm, she drew a deep breath.    It was her downfall.  The cupboard was not just small, but dusty, and as Clarissa inhaled the musty air, her nose tickled.  She tried to contain the sneeze, but--despite her best effort--it exploded.

Startled by the sudden sound, the cat bounded to its feet and scratched at the door.

Oh, bloody hell.

The door swung open, and light flooded the narrow cupboard. 

“There you are, you miserable girl!”

The cat sprang out, causing the governess to shriek in surprise.   Another hiding place gone.  Clarissa climbed out reluctantly.

“Stand up straight, my girl, shoulders back–how many times have I said it!  But keep your eyes down, a lady does not put herself forward, but at the same time she must look the dignity of her station.” 

Clarissa tried to obey.  She would never remember all the finicky rules that the governess had tried to impress upon her.  She wasn’t even sure she wanted to!

Now the governess observed Clarissa rubbing her still-tickling nose on the back of her hand.

Mrs. Bathcot scowled.  “Clarissa!  Where is your handkerchief?  You are not six years old, for pity’s sake.  And as for your disgraceful performance on the street, how am I ever going to teach you how to be a lady if you keep running away from me, not to mention your abuse of my person, and your total lack of ladylike remorse?  Actually, I wish you were six–I could just take a cane to you and be done with it!  Perhaps that would make you listen!”

Clarissa shivered, but she lifted her chin defiantly.  “I been caned by stronger arms than yours,” she said, knowing that her tone was rude.  “And it ain’t going to happen again, never.  For one thing, I’ll claw your eyes out if you try.  And for another, my brother said so.”

“Your brother can take his misguided instructions and--” There was a pregnant pause.

Oh, dear.  Clarissa felt just as much chagrin as the woman whose scowl had suddenly been replaced by a totally insincere smile.  Her brother stood just a few feet away, and the look he bestowed upon Mrs.Bathcot made Clarissa–-almost--feel sympathy for the woman.  Matthew Fallon looked as if he were on the deck of a ship again, gazing down on some hapless ensign who had fouled a line.  His glance was icy, and when he spoke, his tone even colder.

“That is no way to address a lady, Mrs.Bathcot, and certainly no way to speak to my sister.”

The governess drew herself up.  Since she came only to his shoulders, that was not an easy accomplishment, but she managed to assume an air of offended dignity.   “If you’re going to discharge me, Captain Fallon, you can save your breath.  I hereby tender my resignation.  No one can teach this imp from Hell how to behave like a lady.  I advise you to ship her off to some convent school for the mentally deficient, preferably one where the nuns administer only the strictest discipline and feed their charges bread and water.  Perhaps that might make an impression on your sister!  Certainly, I have not, and I will be the first to admit it.”

“I think you should go upstairs and pack your things, Mrs.Bathcot,” Matthew Fallon said.  His jaw seemed to be clenched.  “Both your advice–-and your insults–are unneeded.”

To Clarissa’s gratitude, he said no more as the woman lifted her chin and marched away, her footsteps heavy on the flagstones.  When the door to the hallway had swung shut and the sounds of the governess’ passage faded, he turned to gaze at his sister. 

Across the kitchen, both the cook, who stirred something in a bowl, and the scullery maid, who was scrubbing potatoes, had their backs to their master and his sister as they bent over their tasks.  They were very patently pretending the pair were not present.  Clarissa was thankful for that, too.

Should she tell her brother what she had seen on the street, explain her fears?   She hesitated.  His expression was not angry, which she might have borne more easily, but instead disappointed.

“Clarissa--”

“I know,” she interrupted.  “I’m bloody–-I mean--very sorry, Matthew.  Really, I am.” 

“Despite Mrs. Bathcot’s offensive manner, some of what she said is true.”  He took her hand and led her into the hallway so that they had more privacy.  “You really  must learn to behave like a lady again,” he told her, his voice very gentle.  “I know it’s my fault that you were sent off to that wretched foundling home and then sold into service, but--”    

“I don’t fault you for going to sea,” Clarissa interrupted.  “Matthew, you ain’t–-I mean-- you are not the one to blame.  You were only trying to provide for Mother and me, and I know that you made a fine captain during the war.  If that dishonest solicitor had not abandoned me to the foundling home after our mother died, I wouldn’t ‘ave ended up working as a nursery maid for that awful man.”

“I was the one who chose the solicitor,” Matthew told her, his expression darkening.  “And between him and that bullying matron at the home, as well as your brute of an employer, you had a terrible time of it.”

For an instant she saw again the face in the street, and Clarissa shivered.  But in her brother’s reassuring presence, her fear had faded, and now she felt less sure.  Had she really seen the person she still feared, or was it only a vision out of her nightmares?  And how could she add to Matthew’s already heavy load of guilt by telling him of her moment of panic?

As she shuddered, Matthew said quickly, “But that is all behind you, Clarissa.  You are safe now, I promise you, and you will never be abandoned again.  Please go change your dress.  You’re covered in dust and cat hair.”

Clarissa glanced at the cat, who sat a few feet away by the hearth, licking one paw and washing its face.  No bad memories haunted the cat.  It had no responsibilities except to capture any mice which strayed into the house, no rules to follow, no etiquette and code of manners to memorize.  She wished for a moment she could trade places with the animal.  Sighing she stood and tried to brush off the skirts of her checked muslin gown.  But the dust clung stubbornly.  Matthew was right, she would have to change her dress.

She left Matthew and went back into the main part of the house, climbing the staircase and trailing one hand on the carved bannister.  She’d had a hard life as a serving maid, rising early, working hard all day on scant rations–at least her brother and sister-in-law fed their staff well!  But she hadn’t had to change her gown several times a day, or remember which fork to use at dinner, and as for her speech–she sighed again.  Their widowed mother had seen that, despite their penury, Clarissa had been well brought up as befit their station in life, but during the years spent among the lower classes she had picked up less refined habits, and now she found them hard to break. 

On the bedroom landing, she encountered one of the housemaids dusting the bannister.  “Ruby, would you please come and help me change?” 

“Oh course, miss,” the girl, who was hardly older than Clarissa, said readily.  She tucked her dustcloth into her apron pocket and followed Clarissa to her bedroom.  Matthew had wanted to hire a lady’s maid for Clarissa, but she wasn’t ready for that, not yet.  She still felt she should be the one on her hands and knees cleaning out the grate or scrubbing the floor; it was hard to remember that she had been, and was now once more, officially a lady.

Ruby undid the back of her muslin dress, and Clarissa shed the dirty frock.  She washed her hands and face in the bowl on her dresser.  Then they looked into the clothespress and Clarissa selected a clean muslin dress, this one sprigged in blue.  With the maid’s help, she put it on.

“Shall I brush out your hair and pin it up again, miss?  It’s coming down in the back,” Ruby suggested.

“Yes, please,” Clarissa said, though again, it still felt very strange to sit still on the stool and allow someone else to pull out the pins and brush her thick blond hair with its glints of red.  For the last few years, she’d just crammed it beneath a servant’s cap and hurried to get on with her work.  Now she had the luxury, the opportunity, to be pampered once again.  She should have been thankful, and she was, but it didn’t feel right.  She felt like an impostor.

“There, now, miss,” Ruby said.  “You look very smart.”

Clarissa gazed into the looking glass.  Yes, she looked well enough, ladylike and trim.  The pristine white dress with its sprigs of blue skimmed her petite frame and breasts, the fair hair was drawn up on top of her head, even the pearl eardrops which had been her brother’s gift on her nineteenth birthday last week looked just right.  There was no doubt that she looked like a lady.  Why was it so hard to feel like one?

Clarissa turned her head to take a searching glance at Ruby.  The servant was pleasingly plump, with ruddy cheeks and brown hair tucked beneath her cap.  Her apron and gown were neat, and her hands strong and slightly calloused from her work. 

Clarissa glanced down at her own hands.  The callouses were just now fading, after several weeks of ease in her brother’s home, and the bruises from her last employer’s abuse had also disappeared.  She appeared little the worse for her years of exile, except, perhaps, inside her head. The sense of not fitting in, the nightmares that troubled her sleep. . . seeing the ghost of an old nemesis amid a crowded street. . .  Had the encounter been real or only her imagination?  The more she thought about it now, the less certain she was.

“Are you happy here?” she asked impulsively.

The maid looked surprised.  “Of course, miss.  Lady Gemma, and the captain your brother, too, are very kind and always fair, though they expect good work, of course.  It’s the best ‘ousehold I’ve worked for since I left ‘ome, and I’ve been in service since I was fourteen.”

“I’m glad,” Clarissa said simply.  “Thank you for your ‘elp–-help, Ruby.”

The maid curtsied.  As she turned to leave, the door opened, and Clarissa’s sister-in-law came into the room.

“There you are, and looking very pretty, too,” Gemma said with a smile. 

Clarissa smiled back as the maid made an unobtrusive exit. 

“I heard about the–-ah-–unfortunate incident with Mrs.Bathcot.  We shall inquire for a more patient governess, Clarissa.  I’m so sorry you felt harassed.  She came with such excellent recommendations, too.”

Clarissa made a face.  “It was as much my fault as hers,” she confessed.  “I ran away from her on the street and ended up in front of a men’s club, White’s, Mrs.Bathcot said.  In fact, she said the whole street is not for ladies?”

To Clarissa’s relief, instead of looking shocked or angry at her sister-in-law’s gauche behavior, Gemma laughed.  “That’s true, I’m afraid.”

“Why?” Clarissa demanded.

“I don’t know, it’s just how it is,” Gemma told her.  “But you should not run away from your governess.  You might get lost, Clarissa, and there are dangers for a lady alone in the city.”

Clarissa nodded reluctantly at the gentle reminder.  “I try to remember the rules, but some of it makes no sense.  We had been shopping only a few blocks away. . .   Oh, Gemma, I don’t know if I can do it-–learn to be a lady again, I mean.”

Gemma came closer and put one arm around Clarissa’s shoulders.  “You are a lady, Clarissa, just as your mother was.  That is your birthright.  And the habits, the demeanor, that will come back to you.  I know it’s very hard.”

Clarissa thought that Gemma did know, much better than most.  Gemma had once briefly been subject to the harsh rule of the foundling home herself and had met Matthew when he first returned to England and began searching for his lost sister.  Clarissa was very glad that Matthew had chosen Gemma to marry–-she could not have asked for a more loving or understanding sister-in-law.

But still, she bit her lip.  “I don’t know, Gemma.  I don’t feel right, inside.  I should be happy.  When I was told that my brother had died at sea, I thought I was doomed to a life of servitude forever.  Now he’s home, safe, and I have him and you and a nice house to live in and no worries–at least, except for the bad dreams that come at night, and during the day, trying to mind my tongue and remember to behave like a proper lady.  But I feel so–so confused inside.  Why should I feel this way?”

Gemma hugged her again.  “Why should you not?  Your whole world has been turned upside down, and even though it’s a happy change, it takes time to adjust.  Don’t fret yourself.  You’ll feel at ease again, eventually.”

Clarissa was not so sure, but she didn’t argue.  It was ungrateful to worry Gemma and Matthew because Clarissa seemed to be so twisted inside.  And as for her fright on the street, she opened her lips to bring it up, but Gemma continued to speak

“Get your shawl,” Gemma suggested.  “Let’s take a stroll before dinner.  You don’t need to sit in your room and brood.  Today was the first day you’ve been out of the house all week.”

Nodding, Clarissa rose.  “Yesterday Mrs. Bathcot made me parse two dozen sentences because I kept using ain’t, as well--” she added, determined to be fair– “as a few other words she considered improper.”

They headed out together, walking a few blocks and looking into shop windows, then visited a lending library.  At least Clarissa’s knowledge of reading and writing had not left her, though she had had little chance to use those skills during her years as a servant.  She looked eagerly over a stack of new novels and chose a three-volume set to take home.

They returned in time for dinner.  Gemma went upstairs to change, but Clarissa simply washed her hands–-surely, she did not have to change clothes again!-–and came down at the appointed time.

Gemma must have said something to her brother because Matthew said no more about the departed governess.  They chatted amicably through the first courses.

They paused as the footman and one of the housemaids returned to remove the linen cloth, then an array of desserts was served.  Clarissa dipped her spoon into a serving of creamy blancmange–sweets were still a great treat to her unaccustomed palate--and wondered if Gemma, too, had moments of unease in her new role of lady of the house.  She had not always known her  parentage, Matthew said.   She, too, had had doubts about her identity.  But Gemma seemed so much the lady. . .  If her sister-in-law could conquer her uncertain past, perhaps Clarissa could, too.  

Nose tickling again, Clarissa put down her spoon and, this time, remembered to draw her handkerchief out of her pocket and dab discreetly at her nose.

But even as she congratulated herself on remembering to use her handkerchief, her elbow brushed the table and knocked her spoon off her plate.

It clattered to the floor.  Clarissa dived off her chair to retrieve it and bumped into the footman, intent on the same mission.

Red-faced, Clarissa accepted his help in returning to her chair.  She sat and stared at her plate, and in a moment, the servant brought her a clean spoon.

She was afraid to look at her brother, knowing that his face would show–-not anger but the guilt which he would always feel.  He would always believe that her years of exile and her current struggle to learn how to act like a lady were all his fault.

“It’s all right, Clarissa,” Gemma said, her tone soft.  “Eat your dinner, my dear.”

Blinking back tears, Clarissa obeyed, though the creamy pudding seemed to have lost its sweetness.

“Perhaps,” she said, not looking at either of them, “I should wait till next Season to make any appearance in Society.  I’m so–-I’m not learning very quickly, and I do not wish to disgrace myself, or you.”

“You would never disgrace us, Clarissa,” Matthew told her, his inflection firm.

And from the corner of her eye, she saw Gemma shake her head.  “The Season is still in full swing.  You have plenty of time.  Even attending a few social events this year will make it easier for you, Clarissa.  Otherwise, you will spend the rest of the year dreading next spring.  It’s confidence you lack, more than knowledge.  I’m sure your ease in society will return to you.”

Clarissa took another bite of the sweet and wished she could be so sure.

The next morning in the drawing room Clarissa sat properly, her back erect, doggedly studying a book entitled, A Gentlewoman’s Guide to Proper Decorum.  She would have much rather been deep in her new novel, but–-aware of her brother and sister-in-law’s faith in her, however misguided she feared it might be--she kept her eyes on the text, trying to memorize a list of titles, and just who took precedent over whom in social situations.  An earl’s wife was a countess, and an marquess’s wife was a–-she sneaked a peek at the page when the title did not spring to mind-–a marchioness. And marquesses were second only to dukes, who ranked beneath princes. . .

Then the door opened, and Gemma looked up. 

“Here you are, Clarissa.  Your brother and I have been discussing a replacement for your departed governess.  And I have someone for you to meet.”

Clarissa braced herself.  Whether the next governess was stout or thin, tall or short, she would–-Clarissa had no doubt–-soon wear the same disapproving, hopeless expression of the last one.

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