Page 92 of Ordered Home for the Holidays
How to Lose a Rake in Twelve Days
A Holiday Novella
By Misty Urban
Chapter One
Day 1: December 25, 1791
“That it should come to this.” Madame Moisenay heaved a dramatic sigh, lifting the back of a pale, ladylike hand to her pale, powdered forehead. “That my daughter, at the advanced age of twenty-two, should have no offers for her hand! Not one suitor who has come up to the mark, in three years of my most concerted efforts.”
Madelina Moisenay, the object of this reproof, continued with her Yuletide decorations, tucking tiny pinecones and mistletoe berries among the boughs that twined the marble mantelpiece. She had heard this lament many times before—twice already this day, in fact—and was accustomed to being a disappointment to her parent.
“I am only twenty-one, Maman. So there may yet be time,” she said mildly.
Maman had born Modestine Millford of Woughton on the Green, but in marrying a French émigré had affected many French ways, like how she instructed her children to address her.
“I confess I am eager to catch sight of the new Lord Warin,” said Madelina’s aunt, who had been bred from birth with all the French graces that Madame Moisenay strove to mimic. “They say he makes quite an impression.”
Madame frowned. “Victoire, he is a complete and qualifiedroué. You cannot imagine the trouble Agnes has had with him. He would be a handful for the most dashing of women, which you must admit our Madelina is not.”
Madelina felt the eyes of the others—her mother, her two aunts, and her younger sister—resting on her in evaluation. It stung, though she would not let this show.
“I am too plain to interest a connoisseur,” she agreed, keeping her voice even. “Hair: brown.” Though she quite liked her shade, the color of black walnuts, and her locks were moreover thick and glossy without the help of Aunt Hermione’s oils. “Eyes, a blue-gray that cannot make up its mind,” she went on. “Complexion: prone to pink in the sun. Manner…” She paused.
Maman raised her finely arched eyebrows. “Insolent?”
“Independent.” Tante Victoire shook her head.
“I think Lina is quite handsome,” her younger sister, Georgette, said loyally.
“But that posture.” Aunt Hermione sniffed. “Youcertainly were looking to Warin house, sister, when you came on the market all those years ago.”
“I was only a handful of years older than Bartholomew.” Maman nodded without shame. “He would have benefited from my guiding hand. And had I married an English peer, I’ve no doubt you would have put on more airs than I did, Hermionie.”
“Sister, no one puts on more airs than you,” Aunt Hermione said. “Two more pinecones on the far end, child, to be symmetrical. I do adore that scent.”
“I am glad you didn’t marry Barty. Saved me having to challenge him to a duel to steal you away. What a scandal that would have been,non?”
Madelina’s papa, Étienne de Moisenay, the Vicomte Vallon, strode into the parlor in his Christmas finery, a splendidsatin waistcoat embroidered in silver and a black ribbon in the queue of his small white wig. He crossed the room to drop a kiss on his wife’s upturned cheek. “Better that your families remained friends, I think?”
“Yes, so she could marry a French vicomteandstill order Barty’s life,” Hermione remarked.
“You are not still thinking he would have marriedyou, Hermione,” Maman scoffed. “Men are beguiled by grace and beauty. I suppose that is why Madelina cannot seem to interest anyone.”
With a sour look, Aunt Hermione set her ear trumpet beside her, indication she intended to ignore the conversation for the nonce. Madelina paused to let the barb fall from her, then continued with her task.
“You did invite him to our dinner, my love?” Madame de Moisenay implored her husband. “The new Lord Warin, I mean. Of course he is in mourning, but it is only our little party, and he will wish to be welcomed home after so much time on the Continent.” She cast a meaningful glance at her elder daughter.
“Best to begin airing the local maidens on a small scale.” Madelina nodded. “Before his lordship stumbles into the full force of the Season and becomes overwhelmed.”
She was surprised how much it would hurt to speak blithely of Garrick courting, or marrying, another. She sat and busied herself twisting ivy about the kissing bough.
“That lad oughtn’t be allowed near maidens, from what I’ve heard,” Papa said. “Must I read you the lecture,louloutte?”
“No need, Papa. I have done well enough frightening off suitors these past three years, I believe I can be trusted to drive away one impudent rogue.”
Maman threw her hands into the air. “You see how she plagues me! I must have the patience of a saint.”
