“I expect him to hold my cloak,” Lily said. “And a lovely cloak it will be too. I fancy a bright blue velvet to bring out my eyes.”

“Be serious,” Hyacinth replied. “Iris is right. The Duchess of Clonmere can’t be a gudgeon. She must be a paragon.”

Holly set aside her book. “I missed the classes in being a paragon. I did watercolors, dancing, deportment, French—until Papa let Monsieur go. I’m not sure I can be a paragon.”

“Of course you can,” Iris said. “For a husband you esteem greatly, you can achieve nearly anything you set out to do.”

That reassurance felt like a betrayal, because Iris should be encouraging her sisters to achieve their dreams for themselves, though their dream was apparently to become Clonmere’s duchess. Iris also felt as if she was betraying the duke, who was more than a trophy stag whose family crest would be mounted on his duchess’s Town coach.

And perhaps, a little bit she was betraying herself.

Cousin Hattie came in carrying Puck, an enormous sloth of a feline. “Brace yourselves, my dears. We’re to have a caller.”

“If that odious Mr. Billings Harman comes around again,” Holly muttered, “I am prostrate with a megrim.”

“I claim the bloody flux,” Hyacinth added. “That leaves a lung fever for you, Lily.”

“I had lung fever last time.”

While Iris had had the longest half hour of her life, dodging Mr. Harman’s innuendos and his hands. Thank heavens Hattie had been steadfastly remarking the time every five minutes.

“The Duke of Clonmere is at our front door,” Hattie said. “He’s brought Mr. Thomas Everhart along, and I’ve already sent for the tea tray.”

Lily stashed her embroidery hoop into her work basket. “Mr. Everhart? The composer?”

“They’re cousins,” Iris said, not that she’d been studying Debrett’s until midnight or anything. “I’ve danced with Mr. Everhart. He seems very pleasant.”

“Oh, lord, I’m not wearing any lace,” Hyacinth said, examining herself in the mirror over the sideboard.

Holly jostled her aside. “I haven’t a stitch of embroidery on.”

“Bother that,” Lily said, pinching her cheeks and crowding Holly. “My hair is a fright.”

“Your hair is beautiful,” Iris retorted. “If you all rush off to change your dresses or re-do your hair, the duke will be gone before you can rejoin us.” Though for fifteen minutes, Iris wouldn’t have to share him with her sisters.

Disloyal thought.

Disloyal honest thought.

Disloyal, honest, hopeless thought. The sooner Clonmere chose his duchess, the sooner Iris could retire to the country in peace.

The butler, a venerable relic named Sooth, glided into the parlor. “Henning, His Grace of Clonmere, and Mr. Thomas Everhart.”

“Thank you, Sooth,” Iris said, rising. “If you’d see to the tea tray.”

“Lady Iris,” Mr. Everhart said, bowing. “May I present to you my cousin, Henning, Duke of Clonmere. Clonmere, Lady Iris Fallon.”

Further introductions followed, with Iris’s sisters bobbing like blossoms in the breeze, and Clonmere bowing gravely over each proffered hand. This was a necessary step on the way to the altar, of course, and by having his cousin make the introductions, Clonmere was getting off on a very proper foot with Iris’s sisters.

By the time the silver tea service was rolled in, along with a fruit basket, cakes, lemon bread, and a pair of French cheeses, awkwardness had arrived as well.

“Mr. Everhart,” Iris said, “won’t you tell us of your latest composition.”

“Please do,” Lily added. “I thought your airs for the harp inspired.”

Everhart, another dark-haired blue-eyed fellow, though not as tall as the duke, looked pleased. “The harp is a beautiful instrument, and in its quiet grace, it commands attention more effectively than does a brass quintet. I’m working on a piano sonata now, though the slow movement has me rather confounded.”

“Play it for us,” Lily said, when Iris would have asked the duke if he’d like more cakes.

Mr. Everhart took the piano bench and folded back the cover from the keys. “You needn’t pretend we’re at the Philharmonic concerts. I’m happiest making music, but I don’t expect the company to cease conversing because I’m twiddling about on the keyboard.”

“If you’re twiddling, that’s more cakes for me,” Clonmere said, holding his plate out to Iris. “I prefer the raspberry flavored sweets.”

Holly and Hyacinth hadn’t said two words so far. They sat side by side on the love seat, like a pair of school girls goggling at the new art teacher.

“Hyacinth is fond of raspberry jam,” Iris said, adding three cakes to the duke’s plate. “Holly is fond of plum tarts.”

Clonmere took the plate and offered it to Hyacinth. “You must join me, my lady.”

She took a tea cake and set it on her saucer.

Mr. Everhart began his slow movement, a lyrical, dolorous offering that made the lack of conversation more painful. Lily was clearly riveted by the music, so Iris sent the twins a visual plea: Say something.

Holly was munching on the tea cake, Hyacinth was staring straight ahead.

“You prefer Mr. Burns as I recall,” Iris said.

“The Scot?” Holly asked.

“The very one,” Clonmere replied. “I find his airs memorable and pleasant, for the most part. An entire symphony is too much work for my untrained ears.”

Lily sent him reproachful glance, as if nobody ought to be talking while Mr. Everhart’s sonata was plodding along.

“I’d think an English duke would prefer an English composer,” Hyacinth said.

“I am an English duke,” Clonmere replied, “also a Scottish earl, though perhaps it’s more relevant to say I’m a simple duke when it comes to music, and thus simple tunes appeal to me. Have you a favorite composer, Lady Hyacinth?”

He could tell them apart. While one was blond and the other brunette, people did confuse them. They were the same height, had the same figure, used the same turns of phrase, and moved alike.

Hyacinth had an answer prepared—Haydn, who, she assured the duke, was English in all but place of birth.

“If you like him so much, Hy, why don’t you learn any of his sonatas?” Holly asked. “And you’ve never told me he was your favorite.”

“You never asked. That is my tea cake Hollyhock Marie Georgia Fallon.”

Holly’s expression went blank. She hated the name Georgia. Hated it with the passion most women reserved for incontinent house pets.

“What is your full name?” Iris asked the duke. The question was inane and personal, but it stopped the twins from bickering. And Iris wanted to know this, wanted to collect this fact to store beside the duke’s admission that he preferred raspberry tea cakes.

She also wanted him to leave before Holly and Hyacinth resumed their spat.

“My name is Henning Perseus Mendel St. John Dunning Quayle Whitcomb. Quite a mouthful for a small boy. I tried to adopt Perseus as my given name, but my sisters refused to accord me any heroic associations.”

Another awkward beat of silence went by,while Mr. Everhart fumbled for his melody.

“Do you enjoy mythology?” Iris asked.

“I was made to study the myths in detail,” Clonmere replied. “A subject to which a fellow’s attention is forced will usually fail to inspire his passion.”

Oh… dear.

“I agree,” Hyacinth said, a little desperately. “Better to read as your interests lead you, and let curiosity inspire your imagination.”

Clonmere stuffed another tea cake in his mouth.

Would this slow movement never end?

“I’m glad Iris made me study Voltaire,” Holly said. “I thought him silly at first, but he’s not.”

Clonmere stirred his tea. “Lady Iris suggested you read him?”

“She taught us French,” Hyacinth said. “We had to speak French at breakfast, then at lunch. We learned the names of every dish ever served at an English table. Then we had to speak French when we went shopping, and I nearly gave up shopping.”

“It was terrible,” Holly said, nodding gravely. “All summer this went on. Iris is very firm in her opinions—”

“And very fluent in her French,” Hyacinth added. “Then we were to speak French at dinner, and then we were to go all day on Tuesdays speaking French.”

“Then,” Holly said, “she added Thursdays and Saturdays. Lily would pretend to get her days mixed up if she didn’t know the word she needed.”

Lily was sitting next to Mr. Everhart on the piano bench—when had she moved?—while Iris wished the mythic roc would flap out of the sky and transport her to some faraway isle. I was my sisters’ French tutor. I am a glorified governess.

She had known this, but knowing it and hearing the situation laid bare before the Duke of Clonmere were two different orders of painful.

The duke’s slight smile suggested the twins’ chatter charmed him, but the pity in his eyes said he knew the truth: Iris was a spinster in training, not even paid for teaching her sisters French. Or for doing their hair, embellishing their ballgowns, managing their social calendars, and teaching them to ride and drive.

The sonata dragged on, pretty, sad, and sweet, while Iris’s heart broke. She wanted to know the Duke of Clonmere better. She wanted to ask him what literary subject he had enjoyed, if mythology had been such a forced march. She wanted to tell him her middle name was Ann—plain, boring, short Ann—but that had been her grandmother’s name, so she treasured it.

And she wanted Clonmere to close his eyes, point to a sister, and get this whole farce over with. For however long his duchess lived, Iris would be forced into occasional proximity with him, and faced with what she herself had never been allowed to want.

A man worth loving, worth being foolish and brave and trusting over. Clonmere was all of that, but he would never, ever be hers.