Greenhouse knocked and quietly opened the drawing room door at her summons.
Marissa turned to the doorway, heart beating about in her chest, expecting to see Haddon, but was only greeted by a sullen-faced feminine replica. She’d forgotten how much Jordana looked like him. The same quicksilver eyes. Matching cheekbones. The dark hair.
It was unsettling, to say the least.
“Jordana, how lovely to see you.” Marissa came forward, peering into the empty hallway beyond, searching for any sign of Haddon.
“Good afternoon, Lady Cupps-Foster. A pleasure to see you again. Thank you for assisting me during my time in London.” The words had the sound of a practiced speech. Noting the direction of Marissa’s gaze, she said, “Father couldn’t come. He sends his regrets. A previous engagement which he must attend to.” Jordana gave a stiff, painful looking curtsey in Marissa’s direction before flouncing over to the velvet-trimmed sofa to sit without being asked.
Marissa tried not to allow her annoyance show that Haddon had merely dropped off his troublesome daughter on her doorstep without so much as a note to her. After all, it wasn’t Jordana’s fault. She cast a look at her guest who was regarding Marissa’s drawing room with interest.
“I see. Nevertheless,” she smiled brightly at Haddon’s daughter, determined Jordana not feel unwelcome, “we will enjoy our tea.” Marissa gestured toward a servant who entered bearing a tray laden with tea and an assortment of small sandwiches and biscuits, setting it down on the low table in front of the sofa.
“That will be all,” Marissa said to the maid, settling herself next to Jordana as the door clicked shut. “I suppose your father had a business appointment.”
“He had to take Lady Christina Sykes for a ride in the park with Lady Stanton.” Jordana made a face. She reached for a biscuit before waiting to be served, not bothering to place a plate on her lap or even take a napkin.
“Jordana,” Marissa said firmly. “Please cease to act as if a lemon has found its way into your mouth at the mention of Lady Christina Sykes. She’s a lovely girl and will be important for you to know.”
A snort came from the other side of the sofa.
“And you will use a plate,” Marissa stared pointedly at the biscuit clutched in Jordana’s fingers, “and wait until I’ve poured tea. You should also wait to be asked if you’d like a biscuit and then I will place it onto your plate.” She poured out two cups of tea. “I realize manners might be a bit lax in the country, but in London, sometimes manners are all one has to recommend them.”
Jordana’s chin took on a mulish slant, one which Marissa ignored.
“Would you care for a biscuit, Jordana?” Marissa handed her a plate, unsurprised to see Jordana chewing the already filched biscuit, her cheeks puffing out like a small squirrel.
The girl was immensely stubborn, as witnessed by her earlier behavior at Pendleton’s house party, but she couldn’t be any worse than Arabella.
Marissa had vast experience in dealing with difficult young ladies.
Shifting her feet, the plate pitching about in her lap, Jordana seemed uncertain how to position her legs correctly, slouching and then straightening her spine in an abrupt manner.
Terribly awkward, poor little duckling. Marissa’s heart immediately went out to her. Jordana was difficult, but only because she was lacking proper guidance. Marissa was acquainted with the tales of Haddon’s daughters. He’d overindulged all of them, likely because he was outnumbered.
“Cream or sugar?”
Jordana watched Marissa’s fluid, sure movements.
“Sugar,” she mumbled. “Two, please.”
Marissa purposefully dropped one into the steaming cup. “A young lady watching her figure should have only one.”
“But . . .” Jordana stuttered. “I’m not watching my figure. Nor is anyone else.” Her chin tipped dangerously again, her eyes, so like Haddon’s, darkening to the color of old silver.
“And they won’t,” Marissa assured her, picking up her own cup, “should you persist in developing a sweet tooth.”
Jordana glared at her but stayed silent.
“Tell me how your visit to London is progressing, Jordana. Has your father taken you shopping? Or perhaps to the museum?”
“I hate it here.” Jordana’s eyes gleamed as she plucked a sandwich from the tray, then catching Marissa’s eye, placed it carefully on her plate.
“Hate is a strong word, dear, one usually reserved for an overcooked piece of fish or a gown a too brilliant yellow.”
“I like yellow.”
“Not with your coloring, dear. You’d resemble a hostile daffodil.”
Jordana’s lips twitched. Her shoulders softened, relaxing just an inch. “The only good thing is the park,” she said. “I want to go home, Lady Cupps-Foster. I don’t belong here. Can we just tell my father that you tried to,” she looked toward the ceiling as if attempting to find the right words, “mold me, and I am unmoldable?”
“That isn’t a word, dear. Nor is it true.” Marissa sipped at her tea. “Your father has asked me to help you until your aunt—”
“Why?” Jordana said bluntly. “Why did he ask you?”
“I don’t know,” Marissa replied, making a mental note to curb Jordana’s frank way of speaking. It was off-putting. “I suppose because I am well-versed in the ways of society, and”—she paused deliberately— “I have vast experience with challenging situations.”
Jordana stopped chewing her sandwich. “Challenging?”
“Dear, please don’t speak with your mouth full. Yes, challenging. You can’t possibly be more difficult than my niece, Lady Malden, who I chaperoned for many years. She is legendary in the ton. Your obstinance doesn’t frighten me.” Marissa leaned forward. “If your plan is to be so completely lacking in manners, which I know for a fact you have,” she gave Jordana a pointed look, “or if you seek to outsmart me, thinking I am just another pampered matron of the ton, you should reconsider. You’ll find me a formidable opponent.”
Jordana’s eyes widened.
Good. Marissa had her attention. “Now, let me tell you how my niece behaved at Lady Ralston’s ball after she came out. It is a perfect example of
