Miles. The name tasted right on her tongue.
Henrietta chuckled in the darkness. Of course it did! She had been uttering it in various tones of assertion, annoyance, and affection for the past eighteen years. Eighteen years. Henrietta let her chin sink back to her knees and thought about eighteen years of Miles. She thought about the way his cravat never stayed tied and his hair never stayed brushed, and the way his smiles always seemed too big for his face.
Millions of memories of Miles crowded one after the other in glorious chronological disorder. Miles letting her take the reins of his curricle and drive his beloved bays, breathing down her neck all the while — hmph, she had been nowhere near that tree. Miles popping out of her wardrobe as the Phantom Monk of Donwell Abbey, but ruining the effect by yanking the sheet off his head the minute she screamed. The scream had been one of indignation, rather than fear (she wasn't simpleminded; she'd seen the black shoes poking out under the edge of the habit), but it seemed a shame to inform Miles of that when he was so busy apologizing. There was the summer she was thirteen and had climbed too far up the old oak in the back of Uppington Hall. It had seemed a good idea at the time, a floating faerie tower in which to read and daydream, but less of a good idea once she was up there, perched precariously on a tree limb, book tucked into her sash, and the ground a long ways away. Henrietta was not a tree-climbing sort of girl. Richard had gone for a ladder, but Miles, grumbling all the way, had scaled the tree trunk and helped her down, branch by shaky branch.
There could be worse things than falling in love with one's oldest friend.
A slow smile began to spread across Henrietta's face. It lingered there while she slept, returned when she wokej and crept back at intervals throughout the morning.
Penelope yanked down the book Henrietta was holding in front of her face. "Do stop trying to hide. Why all the smiling?"
"It's Miles."
"What has the big oaf done now?"
"Miles isn't an oaf," Henrietta replied tolerantly. They had been through this before.
"No, he's a big oaf."
An unexpected chuckle rose from behind Charlotte's book. "Have you ever heard of a little oaf?"
Henrietta decided to intervene before they wandered irreversibly off on that fascinating tangent. "I have," she said, running her finger along the spine of the book, "developed a bit of a tendre for Miles."
"You've developed a what?" yelped Penelope.
"I think she said tendre" filled in Charlotte helpfully.
"Don't be ridiculous," argued Penelope. "It's Miles."
Henrietta assumed the sort of beatific expression more commonly associated with wings, halos, and Renaissance altar paintings. "Miles," she agreed.
Penelope stared at her closest friend in horrified disbelief. In desperation, Penelope flung out a hand to Charlotte. "You say something to her!"
Lowering her book, Charlotte shook her head, a small smile flitting about her lips. "I can't say I'm surprised. I had wondered…"
"Wondered what?" inquired Henrietta eagerly.
Charlotte lowered her voice confidingly. "Has it never struck you as odd that the minute you walk into a ballroom, the first person you gravitate towards is Miles?"
"She likes the lemonade?" suggested Penelope.
"I don't think it's the lemonade." Charlotte turned back to Henrietta. "It's always been you and Miles. It just took a long time for you to notice."
"How do you know that?" countered Penelope crossly. "This isn't one of your silly romantic novels. Just because Miles is always loafing about doesn't mean that he's… that they're… you know!"
Henrietta ignored her. "When you say it's always been me and Miles, do you mean it's always been me following along after Miles, or something else?"
Charlotte considered. "He does seek you out," she said after a pause that lasted several agonizing years. Henrietta felt her spine relax. Then Charlotte had to spoil it by adding, "I don't think there's anything romantic about it, though. At least, not yet."
"Blast." It was nothing Henrietta hadn't considered herself, but it still wasn't pleasant hearing it. "How do I get him to stop thinking of me as a little sister?"
"Never speak to him again?"
"Pen! I'm serious about this!"
Charlotte grimaced in comprehension. "The Marquise de Montval."
"The very one," said Henrietta.
"Oh, no," breathed Charlotte.
"I know," grimaced Henrietta. "It's hopeless, isn't it?"
"No," Charlotte hissed, flapping her hands in agitation. "It's not that. She's right there. To your left. Don't…"
Henrietta and Penelope both swiveled sharply to the left.
"… look," Charlotte finished weakly.
The marquise bent a casual glance on Henrietta and her companions, then continued on her way to the till, book in hand.
"Who knew she could read?" muttered Henrietta.
"S…" Charlotte cast an anxious glance back at the marquise, shepherding Henrietta and Penelope towards the back of the store, out of earshot.
"She all but propositioned Miles last night." Henrietta fumed, glowering around the bookshelves in the general direction of the marquise. "In front of me!"
"But did he accept?" asked Charlotte quietly.
"Maybe you should just leave him to her," broke in Penelope. "If he's the sort of man who'd succumb a woman like that, why would you want him?"
"What man wouldn't succumb to a woman like that?" returned Henrietta wryly. Even in profile, across the length of the store, the marquise's flawless complexion shone like the legendary beacon at Alexandria.
Usually, Henrietta was quite pleased with her own appearance. She knew she'd never set off a flotilla of ships, but she liked the oval face reflected in the mirror. She liked her thick brown hair with its reddish glints; she liked her high cheekbones and her small nose; and she was especially fond of the almond-shaped eyes that tilted at the corners in a way that Charlotte had fondly assured her lent her an exotic air.
Next to the marquise, Henrietta felt about as exotic as sticky toffee pudding.
As she watched, the marquise tucked her purchase into her reticule and swayed gracefully out of the shop.
"Even her walk is a poem," groaned Henrietta.
"I'm not sure Miles is quite as susceptible as you think," said Charlotte, running a finger along the spine of one of the novels on the table next to her. "He didn't seem eager to linger at her side."
"He didn't have to," Henrietta said reluctantly, refusing to allow herself the false comfort of Charlotte's words. "They're driving together today. The marquise was the one to suggest it," she added, before Charlotte could ask. "But Miles could have refused."
"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?" Penelope leaned forward, reticule swinging, amber eyes gleaming.
"What do you mean?" Henrietta asked warily.
"We could follow them. We'll lie in wait in Hyde Park and wait for them to drive by. If Miles is fending off her advances" — Penejbpe's tone suggested she thought that highly unlikely — "then you'll know he's worthy of your attention. If not…" Penelope shrugged.
"How perfectly romantic," breathed Charlotte. "Like the wife of the Green Knight testing Sir Gawain."
"It's a dreadful idea!" protested Henrietta. "And didn't Sir Gawain fail the test?"
Charlotte's cheeks turned a guilty pink.
"Ha!" Penelope pointed a finger at Hen. "You don't want to go along with it because you're afraid you'll see something you don't want to see."