Page 42 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“And so my point is made,” Glory said with a wave. The baroness’s neckline was noticeably lower than her own—and her bosom swelled above her bodice—which was the point, after all.
“It’s not the same,” Keswick answered.
“It is entirely the same!”
“How wise you were to bring a seat along,” Lady Tresham told Glory. “Now, what are you two bickering about? You sound like school children.”
“We were just discussing necklines and local traditions,” Glory answered.
“Necklines?” The baroness waved a hand before her own. “You should lower yours, my dear, and then perhaps you would not be sitting here alone.”
“She is not alone,” Keswick said curtly.
“Not now,” the woman agreed.
“And I’ve had enough talk of fashion,” he grumped.
“Traditions it is!” Glory agreed. “Do you have any personal favorites, Lady Tresham?”
“I do enjoy a nice brandy before dinner.” She cast a sultry glance at Keswick. “And I am a great proponent of exercise before sleep.”
It took a valiant effort, but Glory did not roll her eyes. “We were speaking more of family and holiday traditions.”
The baroness wrinkled her nose. “It’s not my sort of interest.”
“Not interested? In Maypoles or harvest fairs or Christmas puddings?”
“No. I daresay Lord Keswick is not, either.”
“I don’t know,” he hedged. “I have enjoyed the sight of young ladies dancing around the Maypole, in my younger days.”
“And no one can object to birthdays,” Glory declared. “Surely birthday celebrations are counted as family traditions.”
“I do enjoy presents.” Lady Tresham glanced up, making sure Keswick was listening. “But I do not care to restrict them to a single day of the year.”
“Everyone likes presents.” Glory raised a brow. “What has been your favorite birthday present thus far, my lady?”
Her hand caressed her throat. “A necklace of diamonds and rubies. My late husband gave it to me, on my first birthday after we were married.”
“It sounds lovely.” Glory looked at the viscount. “Poppy was a birthday present, did you know? Hope gifted her to me.”
“She could not have chosen better,” he said gruffly.
“No, and I doubt she’ll ever surpass the perfection of that particular gift.” She sighed. “But come, we’ve shared. What has been your favorite birthday present, sir?”
“I can scarcely recall.”
“An Indian rubber ball, perhaps?” she asked with a twist of a grin.
He grunted in acknowledgement of her hit. “Very likely. And as it was one of the last I received, I’ll call it my favorite, as well.”
Her heart pinched. “Do I mistake you? That was your last birthday gift? How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“And not a birthday present since?”
“My mother died before I turned eight. My father does not remark upon such things.”
