“Please, I’m happy to take any advice you can give me.”
“I’ll do better than that,” Helena said. “If you’re free tomorrow, I’ll take you to my modiste, then my milliner.”
Caro smiled. “That’s a major compliment, Jane. Helena doesn’t hand out fashion advice willy-nilly.”
Helena cast her friend a dismissive glance. “As if you need my advice.”
“I’d take it if you gave it,” Caro retorted. “The way you dress always makes me green with envy.”
“Green’s not your color.”
“Ha ha,” Caro said with good-natured sarcasm. “If you were any sharper, you’d cut yourself.”
“They’re very fond of one another, Jane,” Fenella said gently. “Pay no attention to their bickering. It’s a sign they feel comfortable with you. Out in public, Caro and Helena behave themselves. Mostly.”
“We’re the best of friends,” Caro said, standing and drifting across to the fire.
Jane could see that. There was a bond between all three women that she could almost touch. She felt a surge of envy. She’d never had a close woman friend. Susan was too much older—and much as Jane hated to admit it, too self-centered. How odd to realize that the nearest she’d ever come to this sort of relationship was her marriage. Although given the complications of desire and Hugh’s love for Morwenna, she wouldn’t precisely call that a friendship either.
“Who made the dresses for your season?” Helena asked.
“I didn’t have a season,” Jane admitted.
“Why on earth not?” Caro flung one hand out, her delicate cup narrowly missing the edge of the marble mantelpiece. Perhaps Jane had her answer as to why tranquil Fenella presided over the tea tray. “Your sister did.”
“Yes, well, things were different for Susan.”
“Why?”
“Caro, Jane’s only just met us,” Fenella said in soft reproof. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to give us her life story.”
Caro made an unimpressed sound. “That’s how you find out about people. You ask questions.”
“Indeed, but people don’t have to answer.”
“I’m sure Jane can tell me that herself, if she feels that way.” She paused. “Anyway, I haven’t just met her. I went to her weddi
ng.”
Despite feeling uncomfortable at the interest in her life, Jane couldn’t contain a giggle when Helena rolled her eyes. “In that case, there should be no secrets between you.”
“There was a season planned for me,” Jane said, surprised that she didn’t mind talking about this with people she’d just met. “But my father fell ill, and I had to stay home to care for him. I’ve spent the last ten years buried in darkest Dorset. The local farmers don’t give a fig if my gowns are the dernier cri. They just want to talk to someone who knows how to run the estate.”
“Didn’t you long for London?” Caro asked. “When my first husband was alive, I was mired in the depths of the country, and I nearly went mad.”
“Needs must.” Jane set her cup on a side table. How unexpected to discover that this sparkling, sophisticated creature had been trapped, too. “Someone had to take the reins. In the early days, we hoped my father might recover, but it wasn’t to be.”
“Jane, I’m sorry,” Fenella said. “It sounds like you’ve had a sad time of it.”
She smothered a pang of grief for her father and the way he’d let himself fade away. After her mother’s death, his life had started to unravel, ending in a long, wasting illness. When she was a child, he’d been a vital, fulfilled man. “Managing the estate was interesting, and I was glad to be useful.”
“But it wasn’t much fun, I’ll wager,” Helena said.
“Fun? No, that’s not exactly how I’d describe it.”
“Now Garson has brought you to London, and you’ve fallen into our clutches,” Caro said with another reckless swoop of the teacup. “Nobody knows how to have fun better than a Dashing Widow.”
“A Dashing Widow?”