“I’m not good enough for you either.”

CHAPTER 7

Xavier waited on the patio to lead me to a table in the corner of a deserted parlor. I repeated etiquette rules to myself as we crossed the wide expanse of the room, so that I wouldn’t replay Colin’s kiss in my head. I felt warm, too warm. Had Colin really just kissed me?

A lady does not cross her feet when seated.

And had I kissed him back, just as eagerly?

A lady does not shake hands at a ball.

“Mother, Father, allow me to introduce to you Miss Violet Willoughby,” Xavier said, stepping aside to present me as if I were a particularly shiny new toy. I had to force myself to pay attention.

“Miss Willoughby,” his father said pleasantly, lowering his newspaper. He wore gold rings and a gold pin through his elaborate cravat. “How do you do?”

I made a small curtsy, then immediately wondered if a short bow would have been more appropriate. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Xavier beamed proudly. “Isn’t she just as beautiful as I said?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Or where to look. My smile didn’t fit quite properly.

“Xavier, you’re embarrassing the young lady,” his mother admonished. “Do sit down, Miss Willoughby.”

“Thank you.” I tried not to flop onto the couch. Women always lowered themselves so gracefully. I had no idea how they managed it while wearing a corset. I nearly toppled over but caught myself by bracing my foot around the leg of the brocade chair. Xavier sat beside me, smiling.

“I think Miss Willoughby loves hot chocolate best of all, don’t you, darling?” he asked, nodding to the silver tray in front of us.

I wondered if he had me confused with another girl or if he just assumed all girls preferred chocolate. And if I had to drink chocolate now, I might be sick all over his mother’s very fine silk shoes with the embroidered buttons. My fingers ached at the sight of those buttons. I felt sorry for the poor seamstress who’d had to manage those stitches by gaslight.

I swallowed thickly. “Tea would be lovely.”

Blast.

Did a lady remove her gloves to take tea or only at the dinner table? I couldn’t remember.

“Milk or lemon?” Mrs. Trethewey’s dress was yellow and matched the gold curtains. Citrine stones dangled from her ears and hung heavy around her neck. Her gloves were folded primly next to her.

I hurried to pull mine off, nearly elbowing Xavier in the kidney. “Lemon, please.”

This was already the longest tea in the history of tea. The cup in my hand was painted with roses and doves.

“Xavier tells us you are from London, Miss Willoughby.”

“Yes, ma’am. Near Wimpole Street.”

“Is that near the park?”

“It’s not far,” I hedged, taking a hasty swallow of tea and burning my tongue. At home I’d have eaten a spoonful of sugar to soothe the burn. I could just imagine what Xavier and his parents’ reaction would be were I to dig into the sugar bowl. I nearly snorted a laugh right there at the painted table and shocked their elegant sensibilities.

“Your mother is very popular there, I understand,” Mr. Trethewey said. “In the Spiritualist circles?”

I nodded. “She is accounted a good medium, sir.”

“Better than good,” Xavier bragged lightly. “I heard tell if this sitting of Lord Jasper’s goes well, there’s a duke who’s interested!”

I’d hadn’t heard that rumor yet, and I sincerely hoped my mother never did.

“And you’re from a good family, aren’t you?” Mrs. Trethewey asked, stirring her tea carefully so that the spoon never made a whisper of sound against the cup. I couldn’t recall if my spoon had clattered. Probably. “Who are your people?”

The illustrious Willoughbys were confined to a series of portraits in the stairway at home, all lined up in a row to watch over us. Mother told people they were her husband’s ancestors, but the truth was, she’d found them behind a stall in Covent Garden one morning. My favorite was the old woman with her cocker spaniel, which was dressed ignominiously in a lacy white christening gown with a ridiculous pink bow on each floppy ear. I wasn’t sure Mrs. Trethewey would take to her.

“Yes, my father died when I was very young,” I replied, not quite answering either question. Telling someone your father had died usually ended that particular train of conversation.

“Oh dear, I’m very sorry,” Mrs. Trethewey said. “Have some more tea.”

“And what do you do for pleasure?” Xavier’s father asked. “Horseback riding? Collect seashells? You’re not one of those rarefied girls afraid of a little exertion, are you?”

I was the best pickpocket this side of London Bridge, I made an excellent plum pudding, and I knew how to string flowers on thread so they looked as if they were floating. And, apparently, I now saw ghosts and heard voices.

I didn’t think those would count as pleasurable pursuits.

“I am very fond of reading,” I said.

Mrs. Trethewey set her cup down. “Reading.”

Xavier winced.

“And seashells,” I hastened to add. “I love making seashell lamps.” I’d never made a seashell lamp in my life, but I’d read all about them in a ladies’ periodical. They’d been touted as a dignified pastime. “And I assist my mother,” I said, hating myself a little for playing the game. “She did a reading for Lady Charleston just recently.” Lady Charleston was considered a very fine lady and arbiter of all things fashionable.