chair.
Layla sighed, and sat down.
“I am practically married. Kinross is here, and I simply cannot wear one of these dreary gowns.” She didn’t know how to put it differently, but if she didn’t see desire in his eyes, she might break off the betrothal out of pure embarrassment. She couldn’t stop feeling that perhaps he had offered his hand due to her silence.
“Darling, you’re a willow compared to me,” Layla objected. “It’s not that I don’t understand, because, truly, I do. Your coloring has never been flattered by soft tints. Still, we don’t have time to miraculously remake one of my dresses.”
“We are the same height. I may be a little slimmer in the hip area, but our bosoms are the same.”
“My bosom is as unfashionably large as my hips.”
“You can call your bosom unfashionable if you wish, but I like mine. And it is nearly the same size. Any gown will work,” Edie insisted. “Don’t you see, Layla? Kinross has never really seen me, though I appreciate the fact that he chose a wife on the basis of rational analysis. I truly do. I approve.”
Layla rolled her eyes. “Rational analysis is an absurd reason for marriage. Your father once told me that after your mother died he made a six-point list of attributes for his next countess, and I met five of them. Look how well that’s turned out.”
“What was the sixth one?”
Layla got up again and went over to the pile of dresses. “Fertility, of course,” she said, turning over the gowns. “The ability to turn out baby earls by the yard, if not by the dozen. What about this green one? It’s not as bland as the white ones.”
“You and Father love each other,” Edie said, ignoring the fact that Layla was trying to rearrange the neckline of her green gown into something sensual that it could never be. “You just don’t—”
“ Like each other,” Layla said, completing the sentence. With a quick jerk, she ripped out the lace trim around the gown’s neck.
“I don’t believe that. I believe you do like each other. I just think you need to talk more. But never mind your lamentable marriage for the moment. I’m trying to ensure that mine works out happily. I don’t want Kinross to think that I’m some sort of insipid lily.”
“He’s unlikely to think that after reading your letter,” Layla observed. “Thank goodness your father had that book of Shakespeare quotes. Do you suppose Kinross imagines you a bluestocking who’s actually read all those plays?”
“He’ll soon find out differently,” Edie said. “You’re destroying that dress, Layla!”
Her stepmother held up the green dress, now relieved of its white lace. “If you pulled down the sleeves to bare your shoulders, this one could be very appealing.”
“I don’t want to be ‘appealing.’ I want to be the sort of woman who tosses about bawdy jokes.”
“That woman would definitely love this dress. Perhaps I shall run away from your father and open my own dress shop.”
Edie went over and picked up the gown. “I can’t wear this: look, you’ve torn the shoulder seam. I just don’t want to play the part of a virginal swan.”
“You are a virgin,” Layla said, sighing. “Think of it as an unavoidable stage of life, like getting old and toothless and having to drink soup. Unfortunately, men seem to think that women are like new wine, good only before being uncorked.”
Edie tried, and failed, to work that one out.
“Thus the fact that women well into their thirties—and married—still wear nothing but white. I view ladies mired in that delusion as nothing short of pitiable.” Anyone could guess at that scorn by measuring the distance between a white gown and Layla’s daring—and colorful—concoctions.
“I’m not denying my virginity,” Edie said, returning to the stool before her dressing table. “I just don’t want to play the demurely chaste Lady Edith, the way I did when I was ill—indeed, as I’ve done all my
Layla sighed, and sat down.
“I am practically married. Kinross is here, and I simply cannot wear one of these dreary gowns.” She didn’t know how to put it differently, but if she didn’t see desire in his eyes, she might break off the betrothal out of pure embarrassment. She couldn’t stop feeling that perhaps he had offered his hand due to her silence.
“Darling, you’re a willow compared to me,” Layla objected. “It’s not that I don’t understand, because, truly, I do. Your coloring has never been flattered by soft tints. Still, we don’t have time to miraculously remake one of my dresses.”
“We are the same height. I may be a little slimmer in the hip area, but our bosoms are the same.”
“My bosom is as unfashionably large as my hips.”
“You can call your bosom unfashionable if you wish, but I like mine. And it is nearly the same size. Any gown will work,” Edie insisted. “Don’t you see, Layla? Kinross has never really seen me, though I appreciate the fact that he chose a wife on the basis of rational analysis. I truly do. I approve.”
Layla rolled her eyes. “Rational analysis is an absurd reason for marriage. Your father once told me that after your mother died he made a six-point list of attributes for his next countess, and I met five of them. Look how well that’s turned out.”
“What was the sixth one?”
Layla got up again and went over to the pile of dresses. “Fertility, of course,” she said, turning over the gowns. “The ability to turn out baby earls by the yard, if not by the dozen. What about this green one? It’s not as bland as the white ones.”
“You and Father love each other,” Edie said, ignoring the fact that Layla was trying to rearrange the neckline of her green gown into something sensual that it could never be. “You just don’t—”
“ Like each other,” Layla said, completing the sentence. With a quick jerk, she ripped out the lace trim around the gown’s neck.
“I don’t believe that. I believe you do like each other. I just think you need to talk more. But never mind your lamentable marriage for the moment. I’m trying to ensure that mine works out happily. I don’t want Kinross to think that I’m some sort of insipid lily.”
“He’s unlikely to think that after reading your letter,” Layla observed. “Thank goodness your father had that book of Shakespeare quotes. Do you suppose Kinross imagines you a bluestocking who’s actually read all those plays?”
“He’ll soon find out differently,” Edie said. “You’re destroying that dress, Layla!”
Her stepmother held up the green dress, now relieved of its white lace. “If you pulled down the sleeves to bare your shoulders, this one could be very appealing.”
“I don’t want to be ‘appealing.’ I want to be the sort of woman who tosses about bawdy jokes.”
“That woman would definitely love this dress. Perhaps I shall run away from your father and open my own dress shop.”
Edie went over and picked up the gown. “I can’t wear this: look, you’ve torn the shoulder seam. I just don’t want to play the part of a virginal swan.”
“You are a virgin,” Layla said, sighing. “Think of it as an unavoidable stage of life, like getting old and toothless and having to drink soup. Unfortunately, men seem to think that women are like new wine, good only before being uncorked.”
Edie tried, and failed, to work that one out.
“Thus the fact that women well into their thirties—and married—still wear nothing but white. I view ladies mired in that delusion as nothing short of pitiable.” Anyone could guess at that scorn by measuring the distance between a white gown and Layla’s daring—and colorful—concoctions.
“I’m not denying my virginity,” Edie said, returning to the stool before her dressing table. “I just don’t want to play the demurely chaste Lady Edith, the way I did when I was ill—indeed, as I’ve done all my
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