Richard, the other man of the group, wore a tidy new scarlet uniform signifying his membership in His Majesty’s Army; he had his brother’s coloring—brown hair and brown eyes—but a very different disposition. Whereas Gerald was thoughtful and bookish, Richard was fun-loving, teasing, and restless. Often during the recent summer celebrations, Retta had heard Richard lament that “Boney” had been captured and incarcerated before many a deserving young officer such as himself had had a chance to win honor and glory on the field of battle.
When the butler had retreated, taking the earlier tray with him, Rebecca reached for a biscuit from a tiered serving dish. She nibbled at it daintily, then spoke again. “Is it true, Retta, that you refused Willitson’s offer? I simply could not believe it when his sister relayed that bit of news to me! He is handsome and titled. What more could a woman wish for, especially one who has been on the marriage mart for a goodly length of time?”
“It is not as though you must hold out for a fortune,” Melinda said.
Retta felt chagrin and annoyance spreading warmth across her cheeks. She glanced at the painting on the ceiling, a scene of cherubs frolicking in white clouds, and wished herself anywhere but right there, right then. Finally, she brought her gaze back to the group where she sensed sympathy from her friends and curiosity from her family members.
“Viscount Willitson’s sister has no cause to be airing her brother’s private business,” she said to Rebecca, hoping she would see the obvious parallel. She turned to Melinda, who sat next to her on a settee, and added, “Moreover, this is hardly the place to discuss financial affairs—mine or anyone else’s.”
“So it is true.” Rebecca ignored Retta’s less than subtle admonishment and made a show of examining her nails. “Well, I suppose that means that as an elder—spinster—sister, you really should have danced barefoot at my wedding.”
“Old wives’ tales notwithstanding, I believe my behavior that day was proper for any guest at an elegant ton wedding,” Retta said primly. As she returned the teapot to its place on the tray, she silently berated herself for allowing Rebecca and Melinda to annoy her so.
Gerald rose to stand next to the unlit fireplace and leaned his arm along the mantel. “So, Retta, now that Willitson’s sister has made the matter public fodder, would you care to share with us just why you did refuse the fellow?”
“May we just dismiss the subject with a simple statement that I did not think we would suit?”
He nodded. “As you wish, my dear.”
“But that is ridiculous!” Rebecca insisted. “Willitson is not some doddering old man seeking only to get an heir on a young wife before he departs this world. Willitson is not yet thirty. He is heir to an earl. And . . . he is known to be of the Prince Regent’s set.”
“Viscount Willitson has much to recommend him,” said Harriet who could always be counted on to lend a calming influence. “No doubt he will find a suitable bride in due time.”
Hero nodded her agreement and tried to divert the topic, if only slightly. “You know . . . in some circles, being of the Prince Regent’s set is not exactly high praise. Princess Caroline enjoys a remarkable degree of support in her efforts to force her husband to recognize her rightful place as the future queen of England. One can only feel sorry for the poor woman.”
Retta smiled her appreciation to her two friends who sat together on a gold and teal striped settee opposite the one she and Melinda occupied. However, she was not surprised when her sisters refused to drop a subject that would cause her discomfort.
“So why—or how—did you not ‘suit’? It seemed a perfect match to everyone. Did it not, my darling?” Rebecca cocked her silver blond head to send a simpering look up at her husband, who had risen to stand near her chair.
“That it did.” He patted her shoulder in a show of possession.
“Come on. Tell us, Retta. Do.” Melinda bent her darker blond head toward Retta in a conspiratorial manner and placed her hand on Retta’s arm. “I mean, after all, we are all practically family here.”
“Perhaps Retta is waiting for a knight in shining armor to storm in and sweep the princess off her feet,” Richard said with a saucy grin. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and laced his fingers across his chest.
Tactfully disengaging Melinda’s grip on her arm, Retta rose and began pacing the room. She released a brief sigh of resignation. “Nothing of the sort. I just happen to think there should be a certain meeting of the minds—shared interests, if you will—between a husband and wife. There should be more than just position and—and—whatever . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I think Retta makes a very good point,” Harriet said, twisting to catch Retta’s gaze.
“So do I,” Hero said.
“Well, you two would, would you not?” Melinda’s tart tone bordered on rudeness, and she ignored Retta’s glare of reprimand. “My friend Rosemary said that when she went to Miss Pringle’s school just last year, the three of you were still famous as a trio of bluestockings who took no interest in society and were held in contempt by the girls who did. And just look at you—not one of you is married yet.”
Retta was embarrassed, more by her sister’s lack of manners than by the hurtful things she was saying. But rather than becoming overtly angry and making a scene, she merely said, “Perhaps one would do well not to listen to idle gossip.”
“Besides, those tales are somewhat exaggerated,” Harriet said. “We liked society well enough. Much of it, at any rate. And we loved music and dancing. Still do.”
Retta said in her best “reasonable” tone, “We liked books. We enjoyed learning. Still do. But in certain circles—”
Hero broke in. “After Retta was so audacious as to criticize members of the Four Horse Club as reckless fools whose racing on public highways was endangering the lives of others and was an abuse of horseflesh as well, Lady Frances Pennworthy gave us the cut direct. Her friends followed her lead. And—not that it matters a great deal—they are merely civil even now, years later. Her brother was one of the leaders of the Four Horse Club, you see.”
“The man is still a great horseman,” said Richard.
“After that—” Harriet threw up her hands. “Some members of the ton have long, if not wholly accurate, memories. And young girls can be very . . . well, adamant in the lines they draw. But you must not think for a moment that we had no other friends—that we cried ourselves to sleep every night out of pathetic loneliness.”
“Good heavens, no,” Hero said. “Remember the time Miss Pringle herself caught a number of us girls in Retta’s room having a gab session—”
“At two in the morning!” Harriet said.
Hero deepened her voice to sound stern. “‘You girls stop making so much noise and the rest of you go to your rooms this instant. Disgraceful. Utterly disgraceful.’ We have such memories, have we not?”
A murmur of nervous laughter followed as everyone seemed to find refuge in a teacup or a biscuit.
Then Rebecca, setting her cup and saucer on a table near her chair, again returned to the topic she had introduced. “But why, Retta? You have refused at least five offers since your debut. Whatever do you find so objectionable in England’s eligible men? The rest of us find them quite unexceptional. Some are quite adorable.” A coy glance at Lenninger accompanied this declaration. “You even refused the heir to the Marquis of Dorset, though he comes of excellent family and Mama thought him an eminently suitable match for you.”
Retta fought her