The Duchess War

“I see,” Minnie said slowly.

“You don’t,” Mr. Malheur threw in. “You’re thinking that Violet might make a reasonable princess. But she was exactly like this when she was a child—all prim and proper on the outside, but a hellion when no adults were looking. She only looks respectable. I don’t know how she did it, but Robert and I would return from our outings covered head to toe in mud, and Violet would look fresh as a spring day.”

“There is this lovely thing called water,” Violet put in. “Boys seem to be unaware of its existence.” She cast a look at Minnie over her knitting. “Hygiene is important.”

Miss Pursling smiled and looked down.

“Incidentally,” Mr. Malheur added, “for the sake of my dignity, Miss Pursling, I must inform you that when I played the role, it was called ‘prince.’ Not princess.”

“Called prince by you,” Robert put in. “The rest of us called you ‘princess.’ It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Dragons want to devour princesses. They don’t care about princes.”

“You have a great deal to learn about dragons. Think about it: We get more beef from steers than cows. It’s well known that the male of the species produces finer flesh.”

“I thought,” Miss Pursling said, “that we didn’t eat female cows because we preferred to save them for their milk.”

Not this argument. Down this road there could only lie doom. Robert hunkered back in his chair and waited for the inevitable time in which Sebastian would send Miss Pursling screaming.

Mr. Malheur winked at Miss Pursling. “Dragons like cheese.”

“But dragons cannot milk princesses,” Miss Pursling responded. “They do not have opposable thumbs.”

Mr. Malheur looked upward. “Very clever, and you’d almost be right. But dragons have minions. In any event, it’s quite clear that the female of the human species has inferior meat. They are saddled with those unfortunate fatty deposits round the front. Whereas flank of manflesh is lean, tender, and succulent.” He emphasized this by standing up and setting one hand against the seat of his trousers.

The countess rolled her eyes. “The least said about flank of manflesh, the happier we all will be. Besides, I thought you rather liked those unfortunate fatty deposits round the front. You spend enough time—”

Robert coughed loudly.

“My preferences are irrelevant,” Sebastian managed, with a great deal of haughty grandness. “I am not a dragon.”

“True,” Robert put in. “You’re a peacock—flaunting your feathers for the female of the species.”

“If it works…” Sebastian smiled, and then turned his head, peering at imaginary tail feathers on his behind. “And yes, that is one of my better features, thank you.”

The countess let out a loud, defeated sigh. “Are we talking about Sebastian’s bu**ocks again? Has he no other body parts?”

That was the point when Robert realized that Miss Pursling wasn’t staring at the floor and hadn’t been for some time. She had a small smile on her face, and she was looking between the two of them, her eyes round in fascination, her cheeks flushed pink.

Robert pointed a finger at Sebastian. “You see?” he said accusingly. “I knew you would do it. You baited me into that, you did. I will never believe a word you say again.”

“You’re welcome.” Sebastian bowed low and then sat once more. “All that unrequited awkwardness…” He gave a mock shiver. “I will collect my thanks later.”

“Gah. I hate you both.”

Normally he’d have loved passing time like this—listening to his friends bat the ball of conversation back and forth between them like deranged cats. But Miss Pursling was going to think he was insane, spending time with these two. Hell; he was related to Sebastian. First cousins. He might as well have announced that he had an entire branch of his family in Bedlam.

“Oh, dear,” Sebastian said. “Were we not supposed to have said any of that?”

“Of course we could,” said Violet. “We specifically mentioned that he never played princess. That makes him manly. You still think him manly, Miss Pursling, do you not?”

“I feel it important to make no comment.” Miss Pursling looked down, but her eyes sparkled.

“You know,” Sebastian said, “I must object to that line of reasoning. It takes supreme confidence in one’s manliness to play princess. Maybe we’ve only made him appear insecure.”

“Maybe,” Violet said all too loudly, “if we don’t mention that, she won’t notice.”

Miss Pursling smiled. “Don’t mind me,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I never notice a thing.”

“Well, then.” Violet was using her all’s-well-that-ends-well voice. “I don’t see what there is to be upset about. Robert, stop sulking.”

Robert shut his eyes in defeat.

When the train stopped, he waited until Sebastian gathered his things and left, until Violet followed after to see to her owl. Then, and only then, did he turn to Miss Pursling.

She was standing at the door of the car, wrapping a scarf around her neck.

He turned his hat in his hands. “Look,” he said. “About that conversation…” But what excuse was he to make?

They’re not usually like that.

That was a lie.

You have to understand. Sebastian’s jokes brought me through many a hard time. I love him more than I want to kill him.

But the truth was too much. He was struggling to find some way to apologize—and he wasn’t sure whether he should even be apologizing. But she adjusted her gloves, glancing down, before looking at him again.

“Your Grace.”

“Miss Pursling.”

Her eyes were gray, light and clear, and they seemed to see straight through his not-quite-apologetic hand-wringing.

“I always thought you could judge a man by the company he kept.”

“Ouch.” He winced. “Sebastian,” he finally said, “he’s always been excessive. He can be a little much to take in, all at once. But he’s a good man.” He was. Sort of.

Miss Pursling frowned. “What are you talking about? I like your friends.”

“I—you…” He sucked in a breath. “That almost sounds like you like me.”

She gave him a nod. “Logic,” she said, “is a lovely thing, Your Grace. That is precisely what I said. I only wish it weren’t true.” She turned the handle and stepped out the door.