"There is only Ramesh and his wife Lakshmi," Kit replied. "They insisted on coming with me. Though, after the cold spring we had, I wonder if they have regretted that decision."

"Indeed?" murmured the duchess in a thoughtful tone, tapping the tip of one finger against her pointed chin. Then she shook herself and tucked her lorgnette into her oversize reticule. "And now we must get to the business at hand."

Kit's hand hesitated on the handle of the teapot. "What business would that be, Your Grace?"

"Why, your future, my dear."

"My future?" Kit echoed. Still somewhat shaky from the incident on the ladder, she managed to pour a cup of the fragrant tea without splashing any onto the saucer, then handed it to her guest.

The elderly woman heaved a sigh. "Yes, your future. I shall speak plainly, child, since I know no other way to go about it. You cannot continue to live like this."

"Like what?"

The dowager paused to sip her tea. "Like… well, like a hermit."

"A hermit?" Kit's frown deepened. She was turning into a veritable parrot; one would think her incapable of uttering a single word of her own.

"A hermit," confirmed the duchess with a nod. "A recluse. Like those fellows you told me about on our voyage… the ones who wander off into the wilderness and deny themselves any form of pleasure at all. Oh, what do you call them-"

"Ascetics. And I am not one of them, I assure you."

"What would you call it, then?" demanded the older woman. "You have not gone out into society at all, not to the assemblies or the concerts, or even to take the waters at the Pump Room. You keep your nose so buried in those foreign texts of yours that it's a wonder you haven't wasted completely away."

Good heavens… How did the duchess know all of this? Kit looked askance at her guest. "If I did not know better, Your Grace," she said archly, "I'd swear you have been checking up on me."

"And what if I have? I am not naturally disposed to interfering in people's lives, my dear, but enough is enough. I will not let you waste any more of your youth shut up like a nun in a cloister."

Kit sat in stunned silence, her cup halfway to her slack mouth.

"When I first met you aboard the Daphne," Her Grace continued, "I thought you an impertinent hussy. But you were the only one who ventured to speak to me; the rest of that craven lot could not even conceive that an august personage such as myself might be lonely and desire some company. If not for you, my dear, I do not think I would have survived the voyage from Calcutta." Moisture gleamed at the corners of the dowager's dark eyes.

Kit shuddered at the thought of that horrific passage, of the storms that battered the Daphne as it passed through the Cape of Good Hope, of the dark, pitching sea, the howling wind, and the terrible creaking of the ship's timbers. She had nursed the elderly duchess through debilitating bouts of mal de mer when the lady's own servants had been too ill to tend her, and the ordeal had forged an enduring bond of friendship between them. As a result, Kit held the duchess as dear as her own grandmother, despite the lady's tendency to speak her mind and meddle in the affairs of others.

"You give me too much credit, Your Grace," she protested. "I did no less than anyone else would have done."

The dowager sat straight up and glared down her aquiline nose. "Nonsense. You are an exceptional creature, and I will not permit you to wither away into a disappointed old maid." Her lips twitched. "You cannot expect happiness to come to you; you must seize it."

When she was in this sort of mood, any attempt to resist the imperious old lady was like trying to row against the current. "What do you suggest?" Kit asked cautiously.

The older woman appeared to consider the question. "Well, first of all, we must have you fitted for a new wardrobe. You're a fetching thing, but your looks will be greatly improved once you cast off those dreary gowns you insist on wearing."

Kit fingered the dull brown material of her sleeve. "Given that I am still unpacking and cataloging the books I brought back with me, wearing paper-thin muslins and fashionable silks is not exactly practical. Besides, Your Grace, I would rather not spend my money on fancy dresses I will rarely wear."

"Balderdash." The duchess plucked a lemon tart from the tea tray, took a bite, and chewed with obvious relish. "It has been well over a year since your husband's death, and you look like you're still in mourning for him."

"But I am not," Kit protested. "These are practical gowns, and appropriate for my station. After those gaudy creations that George wanted me to wear, I am relieved to have something more somber."

"Somber? You're a widow, child-you're not dead. Goodness, what harm will a few new frocks do?"

"I do not wish to be seen as… well… fast," Kit insisted. "I will not make myself a target for any more impertinent remarks."

"Impertinent remarks?" repeated the duchess with a touch of outrage.

Kit opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. She could not tell tales out of school, nor would she impugn the elderly woman's family as they had hers. The tips of her ears grew hot with the memory. "I do not wish to discuss it."

"Well, I am a widow, and no one questions my sense of propriety." The duchess cocked her head, her black eyes flashing, looking for all the world like an inquisitive bird. "I cannot believe you are so put off by wagging tongues. Gracious, I have never known you to be so missish!"

Heat bloomed in Kit's cheeks. She grimaced, then counted to five and took a deep breath. "I know you mean well, Your Grace," she stated at length, "but I will not allow you-or anyone else, for that matter-to push me at something I do not want."

The duchess's thin, lampblackened brows rose toward her hairline. "Well, perhaps not so missish, after all. Come now, child. You cannot expect me to believe that you actually enjoy racketing around this house by yourself, swathed in those shapeless sacks. If you were as desolated by that idiot's death as you would have me believe, you would have committed suttee like a poor Hindu widow."

The thought of throwing herself onto a blazing funeral pyre made Kit shudder. "Don't be ridiculous."

The duchess harrumphed. "Quite so. The time has come to form a strategy, my dear. Unless, of course, you intend to remain closed up in this house for the rest of your life."

"I have not given the matter much thought," Kit replied. Another knot of tension began at the back of her neck, but she resisted the urge to rub at it.

"Well, you should," prodded the duchess. Her severe expression eased. "George Mallory may have been an insufferable popinjay, but I can see that he left you well provided for."

Kit blinked. "Yes-well enough. With all due respect, Your Grace, that is none of your business."

The dowager dusted crumbs from her fingertips and reached for a slice of Dundee cake. "I am making it my business, child. Such is the privilege of age and rank, especially for nosy old tabbies like myself who have little else to occupy their time. So… you mean to rest on your laurels? Fustian. You're too young to live like an… oh, what is that word again… an ascetic."

"I am five-and-twenty, Your Grace, once widowed, and possessed of only modest appearance, connections, and fortune. What would you have me do?" Kit shrugged and sipped her tea.

"Perhaps you need to take a lover," quipped the duchess over the rim of her teacup.

The young woman's gasp of shock sent a flood of liquid down her windpipe, and she began to cough. "Really, ma'am!" she sputtered. Her face a furious scarlet, she set her cup down with a clatter and fumbled for the kerchief she had tucked in her cuff.

The duchess gazed mildly back at her. "And why not? You are strikingly beautiful, despite your protests to the contrary. With a few alterations to your attire and your hair, I wager that handsome bucks would flock to your side by the score."