Desdemona seated herself more comfortably in the deeply cushioned chair.  “So tell me, Breda , what has Evan been doing lately?  I haven’t seen him in positively weeks!”  She smiled appreciatively as Breda served her a cup of delicately scented tea.

“I really don’t know what he has been doing.  He rarely tells me anything important.  He and Trevor spend a fair portion of their time in the library, but for all I know they are playing billiards or napping.  I long for the day when he settles down and provides me with a few grandchildren, but lately it seems as if that day may never come. He used to be so intent on making his way in the world- I suppose that is a result of his father dying when he was so young and leaving us in such straitened circumstances, but,“ she shrugged delicately, “well, it’s hardly an issue any longer. Now, though, he spends all of his time doing things I’m sure I wish to know nothing about.

“Would you like some more scones?  I just baked them this morning.”  Breda knew her friend was appalled that she cooked for herself, as was her son, but what neither of them seemed to understand was that she found cooking soothing.  It didn’t matter to her that now Evan was wealthy enough to hire far more servants than she could possibly need, the rituals of the kitchen- the rhythmic kneading of bread dough, the beauty of a perfectly prepared roast, the fun of tasting the dough when baking cookies- these all had a calming effect on her soul. Of course, she wasn’t a fool- she graciously allowed Evan to hire several biddable young girls to handle the less pleasant aspects of the kitchen. Breda firmly believed that she had wrung enough chicken necks and shed enough tears over sliced onions already to last her the rest of her life. She found no sorrow in turning over the cleaning of the kitchen to the staff, either.

Demona might not have understood a wealthy woman who did her own cooking, but she wasn’t about to turn down Breda’s scones. Light, airy, melt-in-your-mouth pastry that far surpassed anything her resident French chef was capable of producing. “Of course, dear, you know I adore your scones. Trevor certainly never tells me anything. I only know he is with Evan because he makes sure to let Graves know where he will be in case Melinda gets into trouble again, the little ingrate. How I managed to birth such a child I will never know. She is so high-spirited that I feel quite unequal to the task of restraining her. She needs to be married soon, and to a strong man- one capable of handling her little fits and starts.” She started to reach for the proffered plate of scones, but stopped mid-motion. “Why, that’s it! The answer to both of our problems. What if...” she trailed off, looking excitedly at Breda.

“What if,” Breda continued, “we married them off to each other. It’s a brilliant idea. Evan needs a wife, and he is definitely has a strong enough character to keep Melinda under control. But how would we go about it? What about a house party? We could all do with a pleasant journey out of town, don’t you think? It has been so muggy lately, and we have only visited that lovely country house twice since Evan purchased it a year ago.”

“Do you suppose Evan would be willing to host a house party? How many people would we need to invite to hide our true intent? We will need to make the numbers up with some of the younger crowd. Perhaps I could enlist Melinda’s aid in creating a suitable guest list,” Demona offered, her mind dancing with the thought of her daughter marrying such a wealthy young man. “Confidentially, she has been sweet on Evan since Trevor first brought him home during school holidays years ago. She used to trail after the pair of them like a little puppy. It was quite adorable, to be honest.”

“I do wish I could have been here to see that. I’m sure it was a sight. But,” Breda sighed, “my dear mother, gods rest her soul, needed me near in her final days.” Her eyes dimmed for a moment as she remembered her mother’s long illness.

“Yes, I’m sure. Oh, look at the time!” Desdemona exclaimed when the hall clock started chiming. “Thank you for the lovely afternoon, and I’ll be in touch about the house party. The scones were delicious.”

Breda escorted her to the door. Desdemona rolled her eyes at the informality. She had only seen two servants in the entire house, and she had taken as long as she dared to snoop while claiming to visit the powder room.

As she climbed into her carriage for the short ride home, her thoughts were already turning to the many details that needed arranging. At the top of her mental list was the house party. She needed to be sure Melinda understood the importance of this event. She only hoped her daughter wouldn’t embarrass the entire bloodline in some horrific manner, which seemed to happen quite often, actually. By the time she arrived home, her plans were already taking form.

“Graves, fetch Miss Melinda at once.” Demona swept into the hall, skirts swishing violently around her ankles. She pulled the pin from her feather-bedecked monstrosity of a hat and thrust both into the hands of the nearest footman. She ignored his flinch and exclamation of pain as the jeweled pin stabbed through his glove and into his flesh. “Have some tea and scones brought to my parlor, as well.”

Melinda sidled into the parlor just as her mother was sitting down. Her fearful expression showed her terror of Demona’s wrath. “Yes, Mother?”

“Come now, hurry up and sit down. We have much to discuss. Melinda! Stop fidgeting, ‘tis not becoming of a lady who is about to be betrothed to one of the wealthiest young men in town.”

Melinda’s eyes lit up. “You talked her into it?”

“I thought Breda would never come around to the idea. In the end, though, I got her to suggest it herself. We are planning a house party in two weeks time. Now, we must find you a suitable dress. Find anything that will fetch a good price at market. And do try to eat less of that chocolate you seem so fond of. We don’t want you breaking out in spots at an inopportune time, do we.”

Melinda froze, a piece of fudge halfway to her mouth. Realizing her mother was not looking at her, she shoved the fudge defiantly into her mouth.

“I saw that, Melinda Summers. Obviously, you care more about food than marrying Evan. I’ve put a lot of time and effort into this for your sake. I’ve wasted positively hours, if not days, making nice with that woman. She is so common. More money than the gods, and she insists on doing her own cooking. It’s appalling!” Demona paused a moment, reflecting. “Although I must admit, she does make some fine pastries. Which is why I am unable to draw my laces together now.”

“Don’t worry, Mother dear. Once I am wed, I shall make Evan buy you a house in the center of town. You won’t have to waste any more of your time cozying up to her. And I shall have dresses made of silk, and maids, and footmen, and then the women of this town will look at me with envy.”