“Ugh, no. I know mother would love me to become ‘Her Grace,’ but I can’t imagine marrying anyone except my darling Simeon.”

Georgie suppressed a groan. Juliet had been besotted with Simeon Pettigrew, the vicar’s son from Little Gidding, the Lincolnshire village closest to their family home, for years. Mother had hoped that Juliet’s first London season would make her forget all about him, but nothing—not even the undivided attention of the unmarried male half of the ton—had done the trick. Worse, Georgie had promised Juliet that if she still wanted silly Simeon after a whole season, then she would lend her support to the union.

Juliet sniffed. “Don’t look like that, Georgie. It’s not my fault. I never meant to fall in love with a mere mister.” She crossed her gloved hands over her perfectly proportioned bosom and sighed dramatically. “The heart has no discernment. Besides, Upton’s awful. A lord with whom to be bored, as Simeon would say.” She snorted at her own joke.

Georgie winced. Simeon’s poetry was unaccountably bad. Byron, Shelly, and Keats could rest easy in their beds. Simeon had a habit of trying to make everything rhyme, with no regard for sense or meter, but that hadn’t deterred Juliet, who thought him wonderfully romantic.

“I do wish Mother would relent. I miss him, Georgie.” Her lower lip pushed out in a hint of a pout. “It’s all right for you. You’re safe from her matchmaking. Even when you married a criminal and she barely batted an eyelid.”

“That’s because she’d given up hope of me ever choosing a husband. And I wouldn’t exactly say she ‘didn’t bat an eyelid,’” Georgie muttered. “She called me a headstrong, impetuous hellion far too much like Father.”

“She meant it affectionately. You know how much she loved Papa. And she’s secretly proud of the fact that you’ve inherited his talent for business, even if she dislikes you to show it in public.”

So unladylike, Georgiana. No man wants a wife who dabbles in trade.

Georgie sighed. Maybe she should take a lover? She was twenty-five, for heaven’s sake. Most girls had been married off at sixteen or seventeen. She’d missed out on seven years of knowing what physical pleasure could be had between a man and a woman. Such an arrangement might lack the steady friendship and loving support that her parents had found in their marriage, but at least it would be something.

She cast her gaze over the assorted crowd and tried to muster some enthusiasm for one of the titled fops who milled around. If she were to avoid a scandal, she needed a rake. A discreet rake. There were a few potential candidates in attendance. But Turnbull was too loud. Coster was too sweaty. Elton was too short. Woodford was too old. Wingate was attractive, but irredeemably stupid.