That was one good thing she could say for Mama. She made such a convenient excuse for everything. At the moment, she had her feet propped up on a footstool as she leafed through the pages of a ladies’ magazine.

“She’d never agree,” Charlotte said. “Not now.”

“You don’t think she’s still trying to match you with Lord Granville?” Delia asked.

“It’s likely.”

Highly, definitely, certainly likely.

“But you’ve made it clear how much you dislike the man,” Delia murmured to her sketchbook. “And for the past few days, he’s taken no notice of you whatsoever.”

“I know he hasn’t,” Charlotte said, more dispiritedly than she ought to have allowed herself to sound.

Somehow she and Piers had managed to avoid notice after returning from their tryst in the meadow. Everyone had been resting or preparing for dinner, and they’d all assumed Charlotte was already upstairs in her room. Piers hadn’t needed to offer any explanations.

And now, for two days, he’d scarcely spoken at all.

He was avoiding her, belatedly—just as she’d begged him to do when they first met. Now, however, she wanted nothing more than to see him, speak with him. Be held by him and breathe in the scent of his skin.

At the very least, take a stroll around the garden one afternoon.

She couldn’t understand why he’d become so suddenly aloof. Unless . . .

Unless everything she was feeling had simply left him cold.

“You do still want to go, don’t you?” Delia’s voice grew small, hesitant. “I wouldn’t blame you if you’d changed your mind. I know I won’t make the most convenient traveling partner. I walk slowly, and I—”

“Never think it. I couldn’t imagine a better companion.”

“Oh, good.” Her friend looked relieved. “Because if I have to spend another season sitting in the corners of ballrooms—”

“We’re going to break free, the two of us.” She reached out and squeezed Delia’s hand. “This time next year, you’ll be painting views of the Mediterranean. I promise.”

Somehow, Charlotte would make it happen.

She looked across the room, at Piers. He could make it happen. They needn’t marry straightaway. He would likely even pay for the journey, arrange for them to stay with his diplomatic acquaintances overseas. A chance for their daughters to socialize with princesses and archdukes? Sir Vernon and Lady Parkhurst—and Mama—couldn’t refuse that, no matter how protective they were.

Charlotte dared to believe she could convince him. He was a man who understood loyalty. He knew the importance of keeping a promise.

But she would need to speak with him first, and for the past half hour he’d stubbornly kept his nose in a newspaper.

Look up, she willed. Look at me.

He turned a page of The Times instead. It must have been a particularly riveting issue.

Delia set aside her sketchbook. “Do let’s ask them now. If they refuse, so be it. I just can’t bear any further suspense.”

Charlotte put out her hand. “No, wait.”

“Vegetables.” Lady Parkhurst laid aside her pince-nez and looked up from her lists of recipes. “I can’t decide on vegetables for our supper at the ball.”

Hallelujah. Saved by vegetables. All lessons on nourishment aside, Charlotte had never expected to think those words.

“I was hoping for something in the French style,” Lady Parkhurst went on, “and my egg-plant in the conservatory has produced some lovely aubergines.”

“Aubergines?” Sir Vernon asked. “What the deuce are those?”

Charlotte gripped Delia’s arm, hard. She couldn’t dare look at her. If she did, they would both burst out laughing.

“If you ever took an interest in my plants, you would know. It’s the latest variety from the Continent. Produces a long, purplish fruit like so.” She drew the shape with her hands. “Why, some of them must be seven or eight inches long.”

Charlotte stared hard at the carpet and breathed through her nose. Beside her, Delia began to quietly wheeze.

“A purple vegetable?” Sir Vernon snorted. “What do you do with the things?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I haven’t any recipes. Though I hear the French do wondrous things with their aubergines.”

Piers looked up from his paper, casting a worried glance in Charlotte’s direction. Evidently he’d been paying some attention to her after all. He was probably wondering if he needed to call a doctor to diagnose her convulsions.

“Lord Granville, you’ve spent time on the Continent,” Lady Parkhurst said earnestly. “How do you like your aubergine?”

There was no holding it back then. A shriek of laughter escaped Delia, and Charlotte tried—with only modest success—to covers hers with a coughing fit.

Mama closed her magazine. “Girls, really. Whatever is so amusing?”

“Nothing, Mama. I was just showing Delia a humorous passage in my novel.”

“What sort of novel?” Frances asked, setting aside her needlework.

Delia tried her best to help with the subterfuge, pointing at the book. “You see, there’s a girl, and she meets with a . . . a . . .”

“A pigeon,” Charlotte supplied.

“A pigeon?” Frances asked.

A pigeon? Delia mouthed.

Charlotte gave her friend a yes-I-know-but-I-panicked look. “It wasn’t an ordinary pigeon. It was a malicious, bloodthirsty pigeon,” she went on. “A whole flock of them.”

Frances blinked. “I’ve never heard anything so absurd.”

“Precisely!” Delia declared. “So you can see why we found it so hilarious.”

Charlotte had finally managed to contain her laughter. Then she made the mistake of looking at Delia, and they giggled all over again.

“I sometimes wonder if the two of you aren’t spending too much time together.” Sir Vernon studied them over his glass of port. “I won’t have it said that I raised a foolish daughter.”

Once everyone had settled back into reading or needlework, Delia whispered, “I suppose this isn’t the time to ask about our Grand Tour after all.”

“No,” Charlotte agreed, and though she would never say it aloud, she mentally added: Thank heaven. “We may as well go up to our beds.”