“I can never decide which I like better, the plum tarts or the strawberry ones,” Aunt Dottie said into the silence that followed. “Of course the marmalade ones are very nice, but I always think red jam is such a happy flavor, don’t you agree?”

The tense atmosphere eased.

Aunt Agatha set down her teacup with a clatter. “Pshaw! If that’s your attitude, I wash my hands of you.”

“But the red jam is the sweetest, Aggie dear. There’s no need to get upset about it,” Aunt Dottie said. She winked at George.

“I’m not talking about the jam, as you very well know, Dorothea. Marriage is the only option for a gel of our order.” She trained her lorgnette on her sister. “We’ve already got one failure in the family, we don’t need another.”

“Aunt Dottie is not a failure—” Emm and George began at the same time.

Aunt Dottie chuckled. “Don’t worry, my dears, Aggie always takes a swipe at someone when she’s thwarted or put out in any way. It doesn’t bother me in the least.” She offered her sister the plate of tarts. “Try one of these, Aggie; they really are very good. They might even sweeten your tongue.”

Aunt Agatha waved them away. “You eat too many of those things. No wonder you’re so fat!”

“She’s not fat,” George said hotly. Aunt Dottie was plump and cuddly and George couldn’t imagine her any other way. Wouldn’t want her any other way.

“See?” Aunt Dottie twinkled at George. “She’s annoyed, so she takes it out on the nearest person, usually me. Just like a wasp, poor thing. It’s been like that ever since we were children in the nursery. I take no notice of her crotchets and you shouldn’t either.” She pored over a small dish of sweetmeats and selected one carefully. “Life is to be enjoyed, Aggie, and I enjoy every bit of mine. Do you?” She popped the sweet in her mouth and placidly resumed knitting.

There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of teaspoons clinking against teacups and the sound of crunching from behind the sofa. Emm raised her brow at George, who shook her head and looked at Cal, who tried to look innocent.

Avoiding his wife’s eye, he said, “Well, Aunt Agatha, don’t keep us in suspense—how did the duke respond to your proposal?”

George swallowed, feeling suddenly hollow. He couldn’t possibly have agreed to it—could he? She hadn’t given any thought to the duke’s reaction—she was only thinking of her aunt’s interference.

“He refused, of course, in no uncertain terms. No gentleman,” she added with thinly disguised satisfaction, “would want an ill-trained, boyish, impertinent hoyden for a wife.”

“Did he say that?” George flashed indignantly. “In so many words?”