The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(27)

“Make her sit on the floor,” Seline, the fourth of the fivesome, suggested from the opposite bench of the carriage, waving a fan wildly. “Late to coach, snug as a roach, no?”

Sera laughed at the echo of their father’s rule for their childhood travel. It was improbable that five children and two parents ever made for comfortable passage, but they’d done it. “There are two problems with that line of thinking. First, we are considerably larger than we once were when someone could reasonably fit on the floor. And—”

“And Sesily’s bottom is considerably larger than it once was?” Seleste chimed in.

Everyone laughed as Sesily winked and said, “I rarely hear complaints about the size of my bottom.”

That much, Sera believed. Sesily was far and away the most voluptuous of the five Talbot sisters, and far and away the most coveted. But Sesily embraced scandal even more than the rest of the sisters, did and said whatever she liked and remained unmatched because of it—despite routinely having men slavering after her.

“No doubt the male half of London is afraid of being sat upon. Sit over there,” Seleste replied, pointing to Sophie and Seline.

“No. Sophie needs space. She’s increasing.”

“I knew I chose well,” Seline bragged from her seat.

“She’s not increasing in the next two hours!” Seleste protested, even as she pushed in, pressing Sera closer to the door.

“We don’t know that!”

Sera inhaled deeply, attempting to make herself smaller, but even as she did, she could not find discomfort in the moment. If there were anything in the wide world that could keep her from thinking of the next six weeks of her life, it was the whirling dervish of her four slightly mad, entirely maddening, utterly wonderful sisters.

With a final push, eliciting a frustrated groan from Seleste, “Close the door, William!” Sesily called out to the footman beyond. “Quickly, before we explode from here and cause a scene!”

“Oh, yes,” Seline said, dry as sand. “No one would expect that of us.”

Once that was done, everyone in the carriage released a long breath and Seleste said, “Is it possible to be crushed to death in two hours?”

“Oh, please. You’re about as wide as a twig,” Sesily said. “It’s impossible to squash you. Push over.”

“There. Is. No. Room!” Seleste protested.

Sesily sighed. “Need I remind you what happens when I am not comfortable in a carriage?”

A collective groan rose from the rest of the occupants, and Sera laughed. “That was the second reason why she couldn’t sit on the floor.”

“If you vomit upon me . . .” Seleste warned.

“I’m simply saying that you would do well to remember that your kindness could mean the difference in trajectory. And with Sophie with child . . . one never knows what might sympathetically follow my own unfortunate projection.”

Seline wrinkled her nose and looked to Sophie. “Don’t you dare.”

Sophie shrugged, a twinkle in her eyes, her fan flying through the air. “One does never know.”

Seleste groaned. “Remind me again why we are all in this carriage when we all have husbands and carriages of our own?”

When Sophie, Seline, and Sesily spoke, it was in unison. “For Sera.”

Seleste nodded and sighed. “The things we do for sisters.”

Sera looked to the window, unable to speak for the knot that formed in her throat at the words. She had been gone for three years. She’d left without a word, without stopping to tell her family—whom she had always loved beyond reason—what had happened. She’d dashed a note through her tears on the Bristol docks, telling them only, She did not live. I’m for America.

And once in Boston, she had not written, too afraid of what setting pen to paper might release. Sorrow. Grief. Regret. She’d stayed away, and they’d lived their lives. But when she’d returned, they had not hesitated. They’d resumed their loyal devotion, as though she’d never left.

Even though she’d missed so much. Two marriages. Four children. Birthdays and balls and scandals and so much that seemed at once less important and infinitely more. Her chest tight with emotion, Sera inhaled sharply in the silent carriage, nothing but the clattering wheels on the cobblestones to cover the sound.

Sophie leaned forward, reaching across to place her hand on Sera’s skirts. “Sera.”

Sera shook her head, unable to find words.

“You needn’t say anything,” she said. “We are beside you.”

Sera looked to her sister, the one she remembered holding as a baby. Dear Sophie, who had always been the quiet one. The unassuming one. Out of place. Except never unassuming. When it came time to show loyalty, it was Sophie who was always willing to fight.

It had been Sophie who had pushed Haven directly onto his ass in a fishpond when they’d happened upon him at a garden party with another woman. Believing Sera had betrayed him. Believing she had lied, and not only in omission.

It had been Sophie who defended her, even as she had not defended herself.

The actions had ruined Sophie’s reputation summarily. One did not strike a duke without repercussions—not even a duke to whom you were related. And still, her sister had not hesitated.

And truthfully, the image of Haven waist-deep in a fishpond was not unwelcome on Sera’s darkest nights.