“You are severe,” Emily observed, crumbling a roll in her hands. Lucien noticed that she had hardly tasted her vegetable pie. “Louise writes extremely humorous prose,” she said, turning to Lucien.

“It’s just that everyone thinks I’m serious!” said the obviously irrepressible Louise.

“I’m quite certain that your prose are…are impeccable,” Lucien said lamely. He didn’t dare look at Emily again. Every time he did so he found her frowning at him as if he were a thief, come to steal their silver. Or her virtue. Lucien shifted uneasily in his seat. He hadn’t felt so attracted to a woman in years. In fact, since his wife’s death. And why was that? This skinny, fierce Emily was nothing like his sweetly plump wife. He pulled himself together with a start.

Louise had pulled a stack of foolscap off the sideboard and was regaling Emily and Phoebe with her newest column, bound for Mr. Etherege’s magazine.

“Fashion, tasteful yet fantastic, merciless yet idolized, seats herself in the weathercock throne on the dome of elevated Pleasure,” she announced in a stately, imposing tone, waving her right hand in the air.

“She dictates her unappealable injunctions to the votaries of the enchantress within, the goddess who governs our lives and our waistcoats, the divinity who dictates the drape of our neckcloths, the idol who—”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Louise!”

“Don’t stop me now, Emily,” Louise implored. “I’m just getting started. I have some lovely bits coming up, about how the Spirit of Fashion distinguishes the design of one neckcloth from another. Wait!” She shuffled her papers.

Emily sighed. “I’m afraid you will have to excuse me, Mr. Boch, Phoebe. I have quite a lot of work to complete this afternoon.”

“Oh, no, Mama, you shall miss the custard. I beat the eggs, five of them, all by myself!” Phoebe exclaimed.

“I am not very hungry, child.” Emily bent and gave Phoebe a kiss. “I will hear your lessons later, shall I?”

Then, with a final brief smile, she left.

Lucien gave himself yet another silent lecture. It was not up to him to run after Emily Ewing and kiss her until the strain disappeared from those beautiful blue-gray eyes.

The maid brought in a plate with a sagging custard.

“Drat,” Louise said gloomily. “There’s Emily gone off without eating a thing, and the custard has not been cooked long enough.”

Phoebe was already eating the portion slopped on her plate. “I think the custard is lovely,” she said.

“Well, the eggs were perfectly beaten, I can tell that with a glance,” Louise said, ruffling Phoebe’s hair.

“If I may,” Lucien asked, “is your sister under a time constraint? She appears to be very pressed.”