It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(48)

“Yes, my lady!” Mercedes fled the room.

Clearing her throat to camouflage a sudden irrepressible laugh, Lillian glanced at Daisy, who was also struggling to contain her amusement at seeing their mother so handily dispatched.

“What an unpleasant noise,” the countess remarked, scowling at Lillian’s throat clearing. “Kindly refrain from producing it again.”

“Yes, my lady,” Lillian said with her best attempt at humility.

“You may approach me,” the countess commanded, looking from one to the other as they obeyed. “I watched you last evening, the both of you, and I witnessed a veritable catalogue of unseemly behavior. I am told that I must act as your sponsor for the season, which confirms my opinion that my son is determined to make my life as difficult as possible. Sponsoring a pair of maladroit American girls! I warn you, if you do not heed every word that I say, I will not rest until each of you is married to some sham continental aristocrat and sent to molder in the most godforsaken corners of Europe.”

Lillian was more than a little impressed. As far as threats went, it was a good one. Stealing a glance at Daisy, she saw that her sister had sobered considerably.

“Sit,” the countess spat.

They complied with all possible speed, occupying the chairs that she indicated with a wave of her glittering hand. Reaching to the small table beside the settee, the countess produced a piece of parchment liberally covered with notes written in cobalt ink. “I have made a list,” she informed them, using one hand to place a tiny pair of pince-nez spectacles on the abbreviated tip of her nose, “of the errors that were made by the two of you last evening. We will address it point by point.”

“How could the list be that long?” Daisy asked in dismay. “The dinner lasted only four hours—how many mistakes could we have possibly made in that length of time?”

Staring at them stonily over the top edge of the parchment, the countess let the list unfold. Accordionlike, it opened…and opened…and opened…until the bottom edge brushed the floor.

“Bloody hell,” Lillian muttered beneath her breath.

Overhearing the curse, the countess frowned until her brows formed an unbroken dark line. “If there were any room left on the parchment,” she informed Lillian, “I would add that bit of vulgarity to it.”

Repressing a long sigh, Lillian settled low in her chair.

“Sit up straight, if you please,” the countess said. “A lady never allows her spine to touch the back of her chair. Now, we will begin with introductions. You have both displayed a lamentable habit of shaking hands. It makes one appear distastefully eager to ingratiate oneself. The accepted rule is not to shake hands but merely to bow when being introduced, unless the introduction is being made between two young ladies. And as we’re on the subject of bowing, you must never bow to a gentleman to whom you have not been introduced, even if he is well-known to you by sight. Nor may you bow to a gentleman who has addressed a few remarks to you at the house of a mutual friend, or any gentleman with whom you have conversed with casually. A short verbal exchange does not constitute an acquaintanceship, and therefore must not be acknowledged with a bow.”

“What if the gentleman has done you some service?” Daisy asked. “Picking up a fallen glove, or something like that.”

“Express your thanks at the time, but do not bow to him in the future, as a true acquaintanceship has not been established.”

“That sounds rather ungrateful,” Daisy commented.

The countess ignored her. “Now, on to dinner. After your first glass of wine, you may not request another. When the host passes the wine decanter to his guests during dinner, it is for the benefit of the gentlemen, not the ladies.” She glowered at Lillian. “Last night I heard you ask for your wineglass to be refilled, Miss Bowman. Very bad form.”

“But Lord Westcliff refilled it without a word,” Lillian protested.

“Only to spare you from drawing yet more undesirable attention to yourself.”

“But why…” Lillian’s voice faded to silence as she saw the countess’s forbidding expression. She realized that if she was going to ask for explanations on every point of etiquette, it would be a long afternoon indeed.

The countess proceeded to explain dinner table conventions, including the proper way to cut an asparagus point, and the way to consume quail and pigeon. “…blancmange and pudding must be eaten with a fork, not a spoon,” she was saying, “and much to my dismay, I observed you both using knives on your rissoles.” She looked at them significantly, as though expecting them to wilt with shame.

“What are rissoles?” Lillian dared to ask.

Daisy answered cautiously, “I think they were the little brown patties with the green sauce on top.”

“I rather liked those,” Lillian mused.

Daisy regarded her with a sly smile. “Do you know what they were made of?”

“No, and I don’t want to!”

The countess ignored the exchange. “All rissoles, patties, and other molded foods must be eaten only with a fork, and never with the aid of a knife.” Pausing, she glanced over the list to find her place. Her birdlike eyes constricted to slits as she read the next item. “And now,” she said, staring meaningfully at Lillian, “as to the subject of calves’ heads…”