If Wishes Were Earls by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

spent the entire house party last summer going on and on about her incomparable education at Mrs. Plumley’s and using her lofty and expensive education to compare herself to the other ladies in the company.
    Miss Murray turned to Tabitha. “Your Grace, I don’t recall seeing you about Bath. Which establishment did you attend? Miss Emery’s, perhaps?”
    The Duke of Preston snorted and looked about to double over at the suggestion that his wife was the product of a Bath education.
    Nothing could be further from the truth.
    “I was educated at home,” Tabitha replied.
    “How remarkable!” Miss Murray declared, as if anyone of any consequence could have married a duke without the requisite pedigree of a Bath education.
    Harriet noted that the girl didn’t bother to ask her or Daphne where they went to school. She probably assumed there was no need to bother.
    Their answer was self-evident and unimpressive.
    “Lord Roxley,” Miss Murray said, having edged herself over to the earl’s side, as if that was her rightful place. “I cannot believe this is your Aunt Essex. You described her so differently and yet here she is, and so utterly delightful.” The girl smiled as if her words both were both a scold and a compliment.
    “Indeed,” Lady Essex remarked with a bit of a sniff. “How odd that he hasn’t mentioned you. Not a single word.”
    There was no mistaking that her words were a scold.
    “I am certain, in the future, Lord Roxley will be mentioning Miss Murray most often,” Lady Kipps said, smiling at her dear friend.
    “How long have you known the earl, Miss Murray?” Harriet asked, trying to sound sincere.
    “Oh, my, what is it now? A fortnight,” she said, blushing slightly. “Why, I feel as if I have known dear Roxley forever.”
    Of all the smug and presumptuous statements. Harriet’s hands fisted at her sides, that is until she spied Tabitha giving her a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.
    Not here. Not now.
    Bother, Tabitha! But she was right. Harriet did her best to paste a smile on her face, but it probably looked more like a snarl.
    Which it was.
    “Only a fortnight, and already . . . Well, we’ll leave that for another time,” Lady Kipps cooed. “And how long is it that you’ve known the earl, Miss Hathaway? Ages, isn’t it? Aren’t you old acquaintances?”
    To Harriet’s surprise, it was Roxley who answered. “Miss Hathaway and I have known each other since we were children—her and her brothers,” he replied, his eyes never straying over toward Harriet.
    Look at me , she wanted to demand. Look at me and tell me that you could marry her after a fortnight and abandon . . . everything we . . .
    Harriet couldn’t even bring herself to finish the thought.
    “So long?” Miss Murray replied. “You don’t truly look that old, Miss Hathaway.”
    Her hands fisted once again, and Harriet did not dare look at Tabitha. Or Daphne. Or Lady Essex.
    But the old girl had her own way of helping. “Ah, yes,” she said, her lips twitching, “I remember well when Roxley and Miss Hathaway first met. So very memorable.”
    And because everyone else knew the story, they laughed.
    Save Miss Murray. And Roxley. And most of all, Harriet.
    “Oh, you must tell!” Miss Murray declared. “I know so little of my—” She stopped herself as if she had said too much.
    “Yes, do tell,” Lady Kipps urged. The woman had the instincts of a shark. The story hinted at a bloodletting and she certainly wanted to have her portion of all the gory details.
    “Yes, do tell, Roxley,” Lady Essex urged, closing her fan and smiling at her nephew.
    “I don’t really remember—” he demurred. “It was long ago and is not worth repeating.”
    Harriet was going to rush to agree, for she hardly needed her childhood transgressions being repeated in front of the likes of Lady Kipps.
    But it wasn’t Lady Essex who dove in. No, to Harriet’s horror, her brother Chaunce paved the way. He’d come up upon