She sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English.
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