Castle Ale?

Twill Brewhouse?

None of the alternatives she’d dreamed up so far were inspiring.

Phoebe spoke up. “Since Lord Rafe is out, I was thinking that we ought to use this morning for the eighteenth item on my list.”

“Eighteenth item? Even including the ice sculptures, I thought there were only seventeen.”

“We need to discuss the wedding night.”

All around the table, forks, spoons, and teacups paused in midair.

Clio swallowed her mouthful of chocolate with difficulty. “What, dear?”

“Item number eighteen on the list of wedding preparations. Education in your marital duties.”

Clio exchanged a desperate glance with Daphne, who showed no indication of having known of this beforehand. “Don’t look at me,” she mouthed.

“Our mother is dead,” Phoebe said, in the same tone she would have used to explain simple arithmetic. “By rights, she would have been the one to give Clio this talk. Since she is unable, the duty must fall to us, her sisters.” From beneath the table, she produced a few curled slips of paper. “I took the liberty of doing some reading. I have notes.”

Oh, dear.

“Phoebe, darling. That’s so kind of you, but I’m sure it isn’t necessary.”

Daphne quickly agreed. “If Clio has any questions, she can come to me. I am a married lady now.”

“Yes, but you are married to an Englishman. And as Mr. Montague reminded us in the gardens, Lord Granville has been living on the Continent for some years. If she is going to keep her husband satisfied, Clio will need to be well versed in the ways of Continental women, too. I was able to locate a few books in French. They were illustrated.”

Bad manners or no, Clio put her elbow on the table. Then she buried her laughter in her palm. “Truly.”

“Yes, but they weren’t very helpful. And the words they use are ridiculous. All this talk of folds and rods and buttons. Are we copulating or sewing draperies?”

At that, Clio was glad for an excuse to laugh aloud.

“In the end, I had to cross-reference my flora and fauna compendiums.”

“Oh, kitten. You didn’t,” Daphne said. “Clio, whatever will we do with this sister of ours?”

Her face blank, Phoebe turned from Clio to Daphne and back again. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Clio assured her. “You are frighteningly brilliant and adorably well-intentioned, and I hope you will never change in either respect.”

Each of her sisters could be absurd at times, and irritating at others. But Clio was protective of even their foibles and faults. Perhaps Daphne and Phoebe weren’t always perfect sisters. But they were her sisters, and that was much better.

“I don’t see what’s frightening or adorable about it.” Her youngest sister sat a bit taller and sifted through the papers in hand. “But I should hate for all this work to be for nothing. I’ve made a thorough survey of the mechanics and prepared some diagrams. Such as I could define them, I created a taxonomy of terms such as ‘lust,’ ‘desire,’ ‘arousal,’ ‘climax.’ For the emotions and sensations attached, we shall have to rely on Daphne’s reports.”

Clio’s brother-in-law had been chewing the same bite of toast for several moments now. And with Phoebe’s last comment, he choked on it.

“Oh.” Phoebe looked at him. “I didn’t mean to exclude you, Teddy. Did you wish to contribute something helpful from the male point of view?”

A red-faced Teddy promptly pushed back from his place and stood, abandoning a full plate of food. “I have a pressing letter to write. Upstairs.” He swallowed. “Just remembered it. If you’ll excuse me.”

After a curt bow, the poor man was gone from the room so quickly, Clio could have sworn she heard a whooshing sound.

“That’s for the best,” Phoebe said. “Better if it’s only females.”

Daphne, who had buried her face in both hands for much of the conversation thus far, finally lifted her head. “We’re not going to have this conversation, kitten. Clio’s husband will be the best person to instruct her on the . . . er . . .”

“Mechanics?” Clio suggested.

“Yes. And as for the sensations . . . There’s really no use in describing them. What feels nice to one person might leave another cold. It’s best if she makes the discoveries herself. With the assistance of her husband, of course.”

In truth, Clio had made a few discoveries without the assistance of any husband. She was twenty-five years old, and she had been in the possession of a mature body for some eight or nine of those years. She understood her body’s responses to touch, and . . .

“Good morning.” The deep voice rang through the breakfast room.

. . . and thanks to the man filling the doorway, she was now well acquainted with the meaning of desire.

“Why, Lord Rafe,” Clio said. Because it seemed something must be said, and he’d left her at a loss. “You’ve returned.”

“I’ve returned.”

“Yes. You are. I mean, you have.” Stupid, stupid. As Clio rose from the table, she glared at Phoebe, sending a silent big-sister message.

Stash those papers away. Now.

Rafe must have noticed the three of them looking guiltily from one to the other. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Clio said, much too hastily. “No, you didn’t interrupt anything important. We were just discussing . . .” She felt her face go pink. “ . . . draperies.”