Lucinda Danforth announced as she flopped into the chair in her father’s bookroom, a place Papa avoided at all costs. She knew better than to flutter about with die-away airs for her cousin from the quieter Bledsoe side of the family tree. “Not at all well.” “Nonsense, Lucy,” Miles Bledsoe said, after he blew gently on the drying ink. “You cause half of your own problems by bludgeoning about in your graceless fashion. How in the world are you going to convince some hapless rich man with a title to marry you someday?” She slumped lower in the chair. “Don’t remind me that I am coming out in a few months. I call that monumentally unkind.” She folded her arms and glared at the disgustingly calm man seated behind her father’s desk. And what did he do but laugh at her? She bore it with what she considered remarkable grace by grimacing at him, rather than sticking out her tongue. He took out his timepiece and stared at it. “Another fifteen seconds and your face will freeze like that permanently,”
