Page 39 of The Lady Knows Best

Bell nodded. “And Tristan, of course. Erica too. Oh, and Paris, if Rosamund can spare him. It’s a pity Galen is on that pedestrian tour of the west of Ireland. Your impending engagement to a scoundrel might have been the means of bringing all of us together again.”

Daphne closed her eyes, suddenly grateful for the focusing pain of the quill’s broken ends jabbing the tender heart of her palm. “Are Mama and Papa expected too?”

“Well, no, silly. They can’t come all the way from Dublin in a day. But you know Papa gave Paris the authority to sign marriage settlements on our behalf. And failing that, I’m sure Gabriel or Tris would—”

“Has Lord Deveraux accepted this invitation?” She opened her hand just enough to let the pieces of the quill, one of the bundle he’d sent her, fall onto the dressing table. And then she looked at Bell to see the answer written across her sister’s face.

“Delivered by messenger, not five minutes ago,” she replied smugly. “Would be very pleased, et cetera, et cetera.”

Daphne had seen enough gentlemen’s correspondence—more letters of complaint had been sent to the Magazine for Misses than letters seeking advice—to know that the et ceteras might not be Bell’s invention. She would not be surprised to learn that Lord Deveraux wrote in that immoderate style. “You read it, then?”

“I heard Cami telling Gabriel.”

“Over heard?” She spun in her chair. “Have you been eavesdropping, Bell?”

She could not very well claim enough moral high ground from which to chide her younger sister for such a thing. But it did increase the possibility that Bell had misheard or misunderstood. Perhaps things were not quite as dire as they seemed.

Bell looked affronted by the accusation. Excessively so, to Daphne’s way of thinking. “I have not!”

Daphne tried to hide her disappointment. She’d hoped to have another week, at least, time to finish her essay and refine her plan for ending her secret engagement without revealing everything. Now, thanks to her family’s interference, her hand was about to be forced.

Provided, of course, that Miles survived the after-dinner port with Paris, Gabriel, and Tristan.

“When the Season began,” Bell said, flopping onto her bed, arms spread across the coverlet, her gaze focused on the ceiling, “I didn’t even think you wanted anything to do with the marriage mart. You made such a fuss about having to shop or dance or pay calls—it was unsettling, really. I’d never known you to hide before.”

“I wasn’t—”

Daphne cut short her own protest. She had been hiding, at least in a sense. She had carved out her own narrow corner—her place in her family, in the world—and told herself she did not mind being otherwise overlooked and ignored. She delighted in the prospect of working on the Magazine for Misses, but everyone knew, especially she, that Daphne was not as clever with her pen as Cami and Galen, nor as passionate about subjects as Erica or Paris, nor as pretty and perfect as Bell.

But the truth was, some part of her had always hoped to be seen and appreciated for who she was.

Miles had seen—at least enough to know the best ways to court her, with Irish airs and fresh quills and a playful spirit.

None of that was real, however. It was a sham courtship, at her request, and if she wasn’t careful, it was about to become a sham marriage, without openness or understanding. Without love.

With a sigh, she collapsed on the bed beside Bell. “Well, it wouldn’t have been very nice of me to outshine my little sister.”

Bell laughed, though not with her customary giggle. And when she propped herself on one elbow to look down at Daphne, Daphne saw for the first time an unexpected maturity in her face. At nineteen, Bell was a woman grown, not the baby anymore.

Perhaps Daphne hadn’t been seeing things as clearly as she ought either.

“I’m sorry,” she began, though she hardly knew how to apologize for a lifetime of certainty that she knew best, when the truth was, she didn’t know anything at all.

Bell only shook her head. “Eejit.”

And then they were laughing together, in a way they hadn’t for years, the sort of laughter that made Daphne’s sides ache and tears leak from the corners of Bell’s eyes. Eileen the cat, who had been sleeping curled in her customary cozy spot between the pillows, puffed up her tail and jumped down from the bed with a disgruntled “merow!” that only made the sisters laugh harder.

Finally, breathless, Daphne dropped her head back against the mattress. “Oh, Bell. What am I going to do?”

“Do?” Bell turned onto her side, facing Daphne. “What do you mean? I had the impression you rather liked Lord Deveraux. And he doesn’t seem a bad sort, despite what people say.”

What people say . . .

What she—Miss Busy B.—had said, in other words.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Bell everything, what Miles had demanded to keep her secret, and the supposed—and temporary—“solution” she’d contrived, the one her loving family now seemed determined to make both real and permanent.

But if she told Bell the truth today, it would only highlight her reluctance to do so before. Bell would be hurt by her lack of trust, and Daphne could end up more isolated yet.