Griselda felt a smile curl on her lips. Things couldn’t be better. “Now,” she said, “we can talk.” She sat up. Griselda made it a point to sit up straight as rarely as possible, since her figure showed to its best advantage on a slight incline, but that particular rule—like so many others in life—only had pertinence when there were gentlemen in the room.

“We are most grateful that you agreed to chaperone us,” Tess ventured, eyeing Lady Griselda rather nervously. Mayne’s sister was quite intimidating, if the truth be known. Tess could tell that Annabel was memorizing every single aspect of Griselda’s appearance, from the tiny ribbons on her slippers to the matching ribbons adorning her ringlets.

“It is my pleasure,” Griselda replied. “In all truth.” Then she smiled at Tess, and it was as if that china shepherdess came to vivid life. “I had almost lost hope that my darling brother would marry, and now I have hopes in that direction.”

Tess could feel her cheeks warming and would have protested that Mayne had said nothing to her, but Annabel intervened.

“We are naturally delighted to think that Tess may have attracted the attention of the earl,” she said.

“Annabel!” Tess protested.

“I much prefer plain speaking,” Griselda said. “In fact, in order for me to launch the four of you onto the marriage market, we shall have to be ruthlessly clear about certain facts among us. Four husbands are not easy to acquire in one fell swoop, even if we include my brother amongst the four. Although, you may be a little young, my dear.” She turned to Josie. “Do forgive me for not knowing your age. Are you out of the schoolroom?”

“No,” Josie said quickly. “I’m not. Our guardian has hired a governess, who should arrive tomorrow morning.”

Tess opened her mouth, and then thought twice of it. If Josie wasn’t ready to be launched onto the season, then who was she to insist that her little sister do so? She was only fifteen, after all.

“Good,” Griselda said briskly. “Because I don’t mind telling you, dearest, that with your figure, the gentlemen are going to line up in droves pawing at the door. ’Twould be best for your sisters if we fire them off on the market without your competition.”

Josie blinked incredulously. “I’m fat,” she finally said.

“No, you are not,” Griselda stated with utmost confidence. “Believe me, gentlemen see slim and think scrawny. Scrawny is most unattractive. Thank goodness, that is not a fault that we share!” She gracefully reclined back against the settee. “Tell me, Juliet—is it Juliet?”

“Josephine, actually, but I am called Josie within the family.”

“We are family now,” Griselda said with a twinkle. “Now, Josie dearest, would you call me fat by any stretch of the imagination?”

“No, certainly not,” Josie gasped. Griselda’s body had the sultry curves of a Renaissance gentlewoman, those luscious curves that used to be nursed and enhanced by Renaissance clothing, designed to swoon to a narrow waist, and then blossom (with the help of starched petticoats) to rounded hips. Of course, these days clothing was designed to hang on a slim form as if a woman had no more curves than a tree.

“I suppose one could be foolish enough to call me plump,” Griselda said, looking still only at Josie. “But I assure you that no gentleman in the world would agree with such a brainless assessment.” There was a sultry look in her eyes that showed she understood precisely how potent curves could be and that she wouldn’t trade one of her lush curves for a moment.

Tess truly liked Griselda now.

Griselda gave a mesmerized Josie one final smile and straightened again. “So,” she said briskly, “Josie would like to wait for a year before entering the season. Who’s next in age after Josie? I am guessing that you are, Miss Imogen. How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Please, you must call me Imogen as well.”

“As long as you all address me as Griselda,” she said unperturbed. “Not Grissie, if you please. My brother addresses me by that paltry diminutive, and it always makes me feel like a frizzled curl.”

“I am twenty,” Imogen said, “and I have no wish to go on the season either.”

Griselda raised one eyebrow. “Now that might pose a problem, my dear. You are not precisely a spring chicken, you know.”

But Imogen was unoffended. “Since I don’t intend to marry, I would consider entering the season with the pretense of being eligible for marriage a falsehood.”

“And why, pray, do you not intend to marry?”

Imogen raised her chin. “I have given my heart away.”

“Ah,” Griselda said. “You lucky child. I seem to be quite unable to do that myself, although I regularly try to encourage the practice. In the end, you know, they’re just men, aren’t they?”

Tess choked, and Annabel giggled outright, but Imogen’s chin just went higher. “It was no hardship to give my heart to Draven. I love him!”

“And does this Draven return your feelings?” Griselda inquired.

“Lord Maitland is promised in marriage,” Tess put in, trying to head off the question of his feelings for Imogen.

“Maitland? Maitland?” Griselda said. “Do you mean Draven Maitland?”

Imogen nodded.

Griselda eyed her and clearly almost said something, but rethought it. “A predicament,” she said at last. “I do adore a social problem. Something to sink my teeth into. Now the problem here is twofold.”

Imogen waited, eyes wide.

Griselda said, “You do remember that I advocated utter honesty among us, darling? Because otherwise how am I to launch you on the season and chaperone you, etc., etc.?”

Imogen nodded. She was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, looking as if she were about to face the Inquisition.

“The truth of the matter is that Draven Maitland is, by all accounts, something of a hellion. Unlikely to make a good husband, due to an addiction to the track and—” Griselda coughed delicately—“although this may well be odious gossip and not true, slightly less intelligent than what one might hope in a husband. The former characteristic is naturally more difficult. A lack of intelligence in a man is not always a fault, after all. But am I incorrect in thinking that he spends a good portion of his day at the racetrack?”

“No,” Imogen said reluctantly.

“That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” Griselda said. “My, how boring I find all that talk of fetlocks and furlongs and all the rest of it. Mind you,” she said to Tess, “my brother can talk up quite a dust storm when he wishes, and all over that stable of his.”

“I don’t mind talk of horses,” Tess replied, somewhat untruthfully. “My father was just the same.”

“Your father,” Griselda said, and stopped again. “Well, sometime you’re going to have to explain him to me. You do know that your dowries are horseflesh, do you not?”

Tess nodded.

Imogen said, “The fact that you consider Draven to be an objectionable spouse due to his—his racing and his—well, I think he’s remarkably intelligent—that is beside the point because he is betrothed!”