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Violet knew she was a formidable woman. Most people were frightened of her. They didn’t touch her or embrace her. They certainly didn’t grab hold of her arm with such an air of familiarity.
    God, she was glad that someone did.
    She sniffed and surreptitiously brushed her fingers against Amanda’s hand. “What is it?”
    “I need to speak with you,” Amanda repeated, glancing up the stairs. She bit her lip, and then looked over at the footman who’d answered the door. “Billings,” she said, “Go get Mama and tell her that Aunt Violet is here.” She didn’t look at Violet. “But please do me the favor of walking very, very, very slowly.”
    Billings turned and began walking toward the stairs at a stately pace.
    “More slowly,” Amanda suggested, and the man slowed to an even glide.
    “Come,” Amanda said. Even Violet’s stiff glowering had not put her niece off. Amanda took Violet’s arm and led her into the front parlor.
    The room, as always, was warm and welcoming. The thick side curtains had been drawn back so that only thin, gauzy panels of fabric shielded the window, letting in sunlight and the warm, swirling suggestion of a square ringed by grand houses. The furniture was cream and gold, the colors of an early spring sun. The paintings on the walls suggested new growth—flowers and apple-green leaves and fields of ankle-high grass.
    But it was coming on June and no matter what lies the walls told, the room was still too hot. Amanda gestured Violet to a seat and sat daintily on a cushioned chair opposite her. But instead of talking, Amanda twiddled her thumbs.
    Whatever Amanda had on her mind, Violet was going to have to start this conversation. “How fares your Season?” she finally asked.
    It was utterly ridiculous to think of the girl having a Season. That would mean that Violet was old enough to have a niece on the marriage mart. But Lily, a mere handful of years older than Violet, had married at seventeen and had managed to produce her first offspring within the year.
    At Amanda’s age, Violet had been pushed out into the hubbub of social calls and balls, too.
    It had been terrible for her, but it would likely turn out better for her niece. For one thing, Amanda was not nearly as awkward as Violet had been.
Her
eventual husband would want more than one thing from her.
    Violet folded her hands as she sat on the embroidered sofa in her sister’s front parlor and tried not to shift uncomfortably. The cushions were too soft; it took an effort to stiffen her spine and not slouch.
    Across from her, her niece was examining the embroidered fabric of her cuffs.
    “Come, Amanda,” Violet suggested. “Sit up straight and talk to me.”
    Amanda lifted her head. She had a gentle smile on her lips, and wide, innocent eyes. “My Season,” she said, her voice sounding like the tinkle of merry little bells, “is going excellently.”
    Of course it was, if she was that good at lying. Violet frowned. “Oh?”
    “Indeed,” Amanda said. “Mama thinks that an earl is going to offer for me. Can you think of it? Me, a countess?”
    Anyone else would see a silly, foolish little girl—one with stars in her eyes from her first Season, dazzled by the possibility of an offer from one of England’s highest peers.
    Violet shivered, imagining Amanda as the sort of countess that Violet herself had become. Cold as stone, with no possibility of more.
    “He’s only a few years older than I am,” Amanda continued, “and handsome. And…” She trailed off, looking into the distance. “And…”
    And that was the end of his virtues. Violet waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.
    “Didn’t Grandmama teach you anything?” Violet finally asked. “If you want someone to think you’re excited about the match, you need to have better praise for your prospective husband than ‘not old’ and ‘reasonably good-looking.’ I suggest ‘kind’ or ‘romantic.’”
    Amanda’s lips twitched, but she didn’t