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Emmeline rolled her eyes. “Lord Melrose was meant to marry last season, as well, and the season before that. The ton always thinks he’s steps away from stumbling into the parson’s mousetrap, but he hasn’t been caught yet.”

It didn’t appear to Emmeline that Lord Melrose was in any hurry to marry, but Lady Fosberry was never wrong about such things. If she said Lord Melrose would wed this season, the man was doomed to become betrothed before grouse season commenced.

“I think he’ll offer for Lady Philippa.”

Lady Fosberry attempted a careless shrug, but Emmeline didn’t miss the mischievous gleam in her ladyship’s eyes, and she hid a smile.

Her ladyship was forever trying to trip them into a matchmaking error, but she was rarely successful.

“Lord Melrose is meant to marry Lady Christine Dingley. His mother wished for the match, and he’s hardly going to go against his deceased mother’s wishes, is he? ”

“Besides, Lady Christine is the season’s belle,” Juliet added. “To the belle go the spoils.”

Emmeline thought the marriage mart was rather ridiculous, really, with its belle, and the Incomparable, and the Nonesuch. But then the ton was ridiculous.

Why would their approach to marriage be sensible?

“I can’t say I think Lord Melrose is the sort to defy expectations.” Phee tapped her lip, considering it. “Particularly in a matter of such consequence as choosing a wife.”

“He is very proper,” Helena agreed.

“Well, he’s had to be since that awful fever took his parents off. Dreadful business, that.” Lady Fosberry shuddered. “An ancient title, an enormous fortune, a dozen or more properties, and three younger sisters to look after knocked the boyish antics right out of poor Melrose.”

“But even his mistresses are proper.” Tilly snatched another teacake off the plate. “Let’s not forget his mistresses.”

“Tilly!” Emmeline scolded, shocked. “Hush, will you?”

“What, do you suppose I don’t know about mistresses? Well, I do. Lord Melrose has had a number of them, and each of them as proper as a governess.”

“Is there such a thing as a proper mistress?” Juliet turned a doubtful look on Lady Fosberry.

Lady Fosberry gave an airy wave of her hand. “Discreet widows are the thing.”

“Never mind his mistresses.” Emmeline shot Tilly a quelling look. “If past patterns are predictive of future behavior, and I submit they are ? — ”

“Predictive behavioral patterns.” Lady Fosberry snorted. “My dear girl, people are nothing if not un predictable. They rarely do what one expects them to. You’d do well to remember that.”

“—Lord Melrose will do precisely what’s expected of him, and marry Lady Christine,” Emmeline finished.

“He hasn’t yet. Indeed, he doesn’t appear to have the least inclination toward Lady Christine, and the season is nearly half finished. The ton begins to whisper she won’t bring him up to scratch.” Lady Fosberry lowered her voice, as if Lady Christine’s failure were shocking, indeed.

“That is curious.” That Lord Melrose hadn’t yet succumbed to Lady Christine’s dubious charms rather improved him in Emmeline’s estimation, but she predicted his rebellion would be short-lived.

“Still, there must be something to your theories,” Lady Fosberry admitted grudgingly. “You did predict Lord Eaton would marry Miss Yates last season, though it was her third season and the ton had given her up as a spinster.”

“One needn’t have a comprehensive knowledge of mathematics to put Lord Eaton and Miss Yates together. He’s wanted her since her first season, and was only waiting for his father to die before offering for her.”

Still, Emmeline couldn’t deny she and her sisters had been remarkably accurate, for all that their matchmaking had begun as a game. It was meant to be a harmless way for them to amuse themselves, but they’d honed their skills over the long, quiet winters in Buckinghamshire.

“As for Lord Melrose, you forget, my dears, that I’ve known him since he was in short pants. I tell you, he’s just the gentleman to surprise us all.”

“I’ll allow it’s statistically possible —” Phee began.

“As are many things that will never happen,” Emmeline interrupted.

“—but given Lord Melrose’s behavioral patterns, I don’t think it likely. I predict Lady Christine will become the Countess of Melrose before the final ball of the season.”

Emmeline thought it rather a pity, really, as she didn’t think Lord Melrose and Lady Christine a good match, but then everyone paid a price for the gifts bestowed upon them by fate, and Lord Melrose appeared destined to be cursed with a silly, disagreeable wife.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Lady Fosberry snatched up the copy of The Morning Gazette she’d brought with her this afternoon. “There’s the most delectable bit of gossip here about Lady Philippa nearly coming to blows with Lady Christine over a length of lavender silk at Madame Toussaint’s shop.”

Emmeline couldn’t imagine an existence where a length of lavender silk was one’s greatest concern. “Who won the prize? Lady Christine, or Lady Philippa?”

“Lady Christine.” Lady Fosberry’s brow furrowed. “I can’t make out how she did it, as she’s a dainty little thing, but then a lady is known to find great reserves of strength when it comes to a pretty piece of silk.”

“If Lady Christine has chosen lavender,” Tilly observed, “It must be all the rage this season.”

“Indeed, my dears, there’s not a single scrap of lavender silk to be had in all of London.”

“ Lavender , of all absurd colors.” Juliet began on another teacake. “It doesn’t flatter any but the fairest ladies, but then I suppose that’s why Lady Christine chose it.”

“Lady Christine’s machinations will serve her well this season.” Helena nibbled daintily around the edges of her own teacake, a thoughtful expression on her face. “The marriage mart is rather like the animal kingdom, isn’t it? The most aggressive members of the herd flourish, while?—”

“ Herd? ” Lady Fosberry gasped. “I’m going to act as if I didn’t hear that, Helena Templeton.”

“The difference is, animals act by instinct alone, whereas the ton is motivated by cultural prejudices, social pressure, and economic gain. It’s perfectly logical in a civilized society to approach marriage thus, of course, but?—”

“Love isn’t logical, Emmeline!” Lady Fosberry gave an offended sniff. “Neither is the heart a civilized organ, nor should it be!”

“Are we talking about love?” Helena asked innocently. “I thought we were discussing marriage .”

“My dear child, one hopes they’re one and the same.”

“You misunderstand me, my lady. I mean to say the ton would do better to approach marriage with an eye to complementary characteristics, rather than fortune and pedigree, but they limit themselves by choosing spouses only from their own exalted ranks. I don’t have anything to say against love.

” Emmeline had nothing to say in favor of it, either, but she thought it prudent to keep that opinion to herself.

“Humph. Well, I’m pleased to hear you say so, as cynicism is not an attractive quality in a young lady.”

Was she cynical? Emmeline didn’t think so, though perhaps her own disastrous season had jaded her somewhat. Above all, though, she was a scientist . “When one considers the matter scientifically, matchmaking isn’t so very different from botany.”

“Not botany again!” Tilly buried her face in her hands with a groan.

Emmeline ignored her. “A mindful botanist doesn’t just cobble together any two roses that happen to grow in the same garden and expect a perfect bloom.

They research a plant’s characteristics, study their growth patterns, then choose two that are ideally matched, plant them in fertile soil, and nurture them until the desired outcome is achieved. ”

“Well then, girls.” Lady Fosberry looked between them, a calculating gleam in her eyes. “Since you’re all such accomplished matchmakers, who would you all choose for Lord Melrose? Who is his ideal match?”

“A lady from this season’s offerings, you mean?” Emmeline asked.

“No, I mean any lady, ton or not, and regardless of her family or fortune.”

“I’d choose a lady who is fond of the country, but equally at home in London,” Phee said.

“A lady who delights in society, but who values family above all else. A lady of beauty, wit, and spirit. A lady of charm and vivacity, with some experience of grief to lend depth to her character, but who hasn’t been irretrievably damaged by it. ”

Lady Fosberry arched a brow. “My goodness, Euphemia, you seem to have given Lord Melrose’s marriage prospects a great deal of thought. Who, may I inquire, is this paragon of womanhood?”

“A lady very much like…” Phee paused dramatically. “Miss Juliet Templeton.”

There was a brief, stunned silence, and then the room exploded in excited chatter.

“Juliet! Well, she is the prettiest lady I know. Much prettier than Lady Mariana,” Tilly declared, with a fond glance at Juliet.

“Certainly, she’s the only one of us with any pretensions to being a beauty.” Helena studied Juliet for a moment, then gave a decisive nod. “Yes, I think you’d do very well as the Countess of Melrose.”

Juliet and Lord Melrose ? Emmeline cocked her head, considering it.

If there’d been another lady to rival Juliet among the ranks of the ton , Emmeline would have despaired of her sister having any chance at all with Lord Melrose, but his options this season were disappointingly few. The young ladies on offer were very much in the style of Lady Christine.

Lord Melrose didn’t strike Emmeline as the sort of gentleman to surprise them, no matter what Lady Fosberry said. Still, if he were willing to choose a bride from outside the aristocracy, he’d likely gravitate toward a lady like Juliet, for all the reasons Phee had mentioned.

That was a significant if , however.

While an animal would naturally choose their best mate when presented with them, gentlemen, alas, weren’t as clever as animals.

Lord Melrose might be predisposed to choose a mate with Juliet’s characteristics, but first he’d have to abandon all the criteria by which aristocratic gentlemen chose their spouses.

Emmeline had yet to see that happen.

Juliet seemed to agree, because she was gaping at her sisters as if they’d all gone mad.

“The Countess of Melrose! I have as much chance of becoming a countess as I do a turnip. I don’t even know Lord Melrose, and short of his having a carriage accident outside Hambleden Manor, I daresay I never will. ”

Helena deflated. “That is a bit of a stumbling block, isn’t it?”

“Oh, but there isn’t any reason you can’t meet him.” Lady Fosberry made a great show of smoothing her skirts. “Unless, of course, you’re not as certain of your matchmaking schemes as you profess to be.”

Emmeline frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s quite simple, really. If you’re as confident as you say you are, then you won’t object to testing your theories, will you? Isn’t that what scientists do?”

Emmeline exchanged a glance with Phee. “Yes, but how are we meant to test such a thing? Present Juliet to Lord Melrose on a silver platter as if she was a teacake, and inform him she’s his future countess?”

Lady Fosberry snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far. No, I’m merely suggesting a tiny wager, that’s all.”

Emmeline didn’t like the sound of that, nor did she trust the shrewd glint in Lady Fosberry’s eyes. “What sort of wager?”

“Why, only this, dearest. You’ll come to London with me when I return tomorrow, and apply your matchmaking schemes to the marriage mart.”

Emmeline’s eyes went wide.

No, surely not. Surely, she couldn’t be serious ? —

“I’ll go!” Tilly cried, bouncing on her chair with excitement. “Please, may I go, Phee?”

Phee was staring at Lady Fosberry, all the color gone from her cheeks.

“Phee? Mayn’t I?—”

“ No , Tilly.” Phee’s tone was harsher than usual. “You’re far too young for a London season.”

“Emmeline and Juliet, then.” But Lady Fosberry’s gaze was fixed on Emmeline. “If your theories prove accurate, and Juliet receives an offer from Lord Melrose, I’ll take Euphemia to the Continent with me this winter, and give Tilly a season when the time comes.”

Emmeline’s mouth dropped open. “But that’s… no , my lady. You’re very generous, but we can’t possibly do such a thing.”

It was one thing for them to speculate about ton matches amongst themselves, and quite another to engage in callous, unfeeling wagers about the lives of real people.

Even callous, unfeeling people.

“Well, that is disappointing,” Lady Fosberry said with a sigh. “Is there nothing I can say to persuade you?”

“No.” Emmeline shook her head. “Not a single thing. I’m afraid it’s out of the question, my lady.”

“Pity.” Lady Fosberry plucked a bit of lint from her sleeve. “Did I mention, Emmeline, that my rose garden flourishes? No? I daresay I forgot to tell you that your dear papa gifted me with ever so many cuttings from his rare hybrid roses.”

Emmeline stared at her, speechless.

Why, Lady Fosberry might have been Eve herself, but in place of an apple, she was holding the promise of a deep, red rose in her hand.

Dear God, the woman was positively diabolical.

Lady Fosberry knew how badly Emmeline wanted to save her father’s beloved roses, particularly the “Hambleden Glory,” a truly exceptional specimen he’d named to honor the home he’d loved so well.

She had plans for that rose, plans she hadn’t shared with anyone.

But a season in London? The very idea was appalling.

Emmeline opened her mouth to refuse again, but before she could utter a word, Juliet stunned them all by rising to her feet and declaring, in a tone that discouraged any argument, “I accept your wager, Lady Fosberry. When do we leave for London?”