Her mother glanced up, wisps of brown hair threaded with silver creeping out from her turban. “Oh? And who do you wish me to invite?”
Perdita straightened herself. “My fiancé.”
The quill in her mother’s hand seemed to hover a moment in midair before it clattered flat on the writing desk, splattering ink on the corner of the list her mother had been writing.
“Your…”
“Fiancé. Yes.”
Her mother’s eyes were as large as saucers. “So you accepted Mr. Milburn, then?”
“Er…no. It is someone else.”
“What? But who?”
Perdita understood her mother’s shock. It had been two long years since her debut, and she had rejected all offers that first year. The second season she had not received any offers. Rather than become a spinster, she’d cultivated her reputation as a young lady of good character. D
