“And what about the secret and scandalous thing?”
“It’s going to be a surprise,” said Marta. “But it will be something your mother wouldn’t even think to put on her list of rules because she would never conceive that you might try such a thing.”
A thrill rippled through Sandrine’s body. “It will be at nighttime?”
“Yes, you can know that much.”
“It won’t be something dangerous to my reputation?”
“We’ll make sure that you’re not exposed,” Francesca promised solemnly.
“Or dangerous to me?”
“There will be no actual danger involved. We always travel with stout, loyal, and impeccably discreet footmen. And all of us have undergone the initiation, and no harm came to us or our reputations.”
Oh good Lord. What was she agreeing to? This was too much, too dangerous.
She’d never been allowed to have close women friends. Her mother always said that the wrong sort of friends might lead her to temptation and sin. But Sandrine was so tired of the fearful voice in her head proclaiming the rules of acceptable behavior.
Perhaps with a little help from her new friends, she could begin to find her own path in life.
“I want to do this. It’s time for me to begin living my own life.”
“Bravo, Sandrine!” cheered Marta. “What’s your new goal?”
“To think like a rake,” Sandrine replied.
“Yes,” said Marta, “and?”
“To win the leasehold to Squalton Manor.”
“And how will you do that?” asked Francesca.
“I’ll beat him at his own game. I’ll be disarming and flirtatious and make him fall madly inlove with me, grant me the leasehold, and then I’ll spurn him and leave him in the dust.”
“Hear! Hear!” said Francesca.
Marta handed the brandy flask to Sandrine. It still tasted forbidden and sinful, but this time it also made her feel powerful. She raised the flask. “To making Lord Dane pay!”
Chapter Eleven
Flirtatious behavior such as fluttering one’s eyelashes isn’t proper for young ladies.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“This is punishment for all my sins,” Dane groaned, throwing down his pen. “I don’t know how you stomach it, Warburton. Drowning in paperwork. Besieged by land agents. I’m not cut out to be the duke.”
“It’s not as bad as all that. You’re new to it, that’s all. My father died when I was twenty, and I quickly learned the tricks that make the job manageable.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s simple enough. I engage a scrupulous and trustworthy steward, and I pay him an outrageous sum to keep such meticulous records that even a lout like me can follow the estate finances. I limit my appearances in Parliament because no one wants to see this scarred face give speeches. I spend most of the year at my ancestral pile in Surrey where life is uncomplicated by women or family, and I hunt and ride to my heart’s content.”
“You make it sound simple, but I don’t have a scrupulous and trustworthy steward. I have Cleveland, a dour and pinch-faced fellow whoapparently blames me for all the ills of the world, including my brother’s death, my sister-in-law’s ruinously expensive tastes, and the incomprehensible mess of these record books. For example,” Dane said as he jabbed his finger at the book lying open on the desk, “why on earth do Piety’s stockings cost three quid a pair? What are they spun from, silver thread and moonbeams?”
“That is exorbitant.”
“And what, pray tell, is a master aesthetician? The fellow charges my sister-in-law truly shocking rates for weekly treatments involving tonics, stimulating massage, and plucking. Plucking of what, I wonder? What in the ruddy hell is going on around here?”