“I will not abide you sneaking behind my back.”
I opened my mouth, only to snap it shut at his livid expression. Better not rile him further. I loosened the fingers of my gloves one at a time.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady.”
I tugged my glove back onto my hand and raised my gaze. I didn’t look directly at him but embedded my gaze over his shoulder instead. I pressed my lips together to quell the quiver in my chin at his bladelike tone of voice.
“I believe, when it comes to your opinion, I have been lenient.”
His harsh words made me cringe. What, really, could I say to that? I’d escaped five Seasons so far without being thrown to an intolerant suitor.
As though to punctuate the thought, he added, “For five years, I’ve listened patiently to your dismissal of every suitor I’ve brought forth, and now you’ve become attached to someone unsuitable?”
“I haven’t—”
He cut me off with a rough chop of his hand. “You must marry, Francine.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what is done.”
I bit my tongue. His livid gaze induced trembles. I hadn’t meant for the plea to slip out.
“If you want a young man who will someday inherit, I can arrange that. If you want an old man you’ll soon be rid of, I can arrange that, too. But you must choose, young lady.”
“Not right away,” Mother said. She stepped forward with her hands half raised in placation. “I know you’re wary. I dragged my heels when it came to my marriage, too.”
Papa glanced at Mother in alarm. I bit the inside of my cheek. Do not laugh.
Stepping in front of her as though doing so would end the cycle of her words, Papa blocked her from my sight. “You have until the end of the Season.”
My stomach dropped like a stone through icy water. “But that’s less than ten days away!”
Invisible vines clamped around my chest. I couldn’t breathe.
Papa frowned. The lines in his short, wide forehead deepened. His dark eyebrows, matching what little hair still ringed his pate, hooked together in a stern expression. “If you didn’t spend so much time avoiding your mother, you might have discovered she has already worked diligently to line up a few options for you. Some”—he shot a glare in her direction—“clearly fall short, but others you and I might agree are suitable.”
Mother didn’t seem to notice the slight. She mumbled something indecipherable under her breath as she counted on her fingertips. I’d stake that she dreamed of adventuring somewhere in the Amazons with more plant species than she could name.
Finding no help there, I beseeched Papa with my gaze. “But…what if I can’t choose by then?”
His expression petrified. “If you will not choose, I’ll choose for you. I’ll marry you to God.”
If I hadn’t been sitting, I would have sunk to the floor. My legs felt viscid, like sap. “A convent?” My mouth barely formed around the word. I didn’t want to be a nun. “But Papa, you wouldn’t…”
“I would—and I will.”
I quivered at the finality in his voice and the determination in his unwavering gaze. If I didn’t choose a husband, he would remove the choice from me. For life.
“You can go,” he said, turning away from me.
Apparently, he’d forgotten about the injury to my ankle. His dismissal turned me all but invisible. He faced Mother, pausing to rub his thick hands over his eyes. His hairy knuckles obscured his expression. I hobbled out of the room.
Outside, I collapsed against Henry where he waited to one side of the door. I thanked my luck he hadn’t taken himself off to bed. Black shadows of my painful steps eroded all thought. They ebbed only marginally when Henry lifted me. His quick footsteps pounded in time to my throbbing ankle.
“Miss Francine,” he said. He weeded me from my stupor by shifting my position. No doubt this was the second or third attempt to gain my attention. We reached the bottom of the staircase. My ears buzzed.
“Forgive me, Henry. Did you say something?”
He hesitated on the first step. “You seem in pain, miss. Should I recommend we call for a physician?”
I nearly swooned. “Best not to bother Papa again tonight, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps I’ll mention it in the morning if I haven’t healed.”
Not that a swarm of magical fairies would swoop down to remove my ailment while I slept. Still, I rather hoped the pain would lessen the longer I kept off my leg. I doubted Papa would consider me exempt from dancing, not when it was so integral a part of courtship.
Henry mounted the stairs. I sighed in relief as the door to my bedchamber drifted ever closer. Never before had I been so happy to be home. Given the chance, I might lie dormant for half a decade. My head pounded with worry. What was I going to do?
Shouldering the door open, Henry eased me through the doorframe. I thanked him as he deposited me on the lush four-poster bed. I stretched out along its length, taking comfort in its familiarity.
Pauline puttered in bearing a tray of tea, jam, and two biscuits. I embedded a weary smile onto my face as she ushered the footman out of the room. What would I tell her? My eyelids threatened to sink closed, though I felt too worn to sleep.
Pauline shut the door with a nudge of her hip and crossed the room to set the tray on the bedstand. Only a spattering of candles lit the room. Even with these and the open window, my dress clung to my back with sweat. Candlelight danced over the walls and the canopy shrouding my four-poster bed.
Despite the almost unbearable heat, I eagerly accepted the steaming cup of tea. Pauline had already added just enough sugar to make it heavenly. As I sipped, I tucked my legs to one side to make room for Pauline on the bed. She fussed with arranging the nightgown I would wear tonight before grabbing a brush and settling down behind me.
Her deft fingers removed the pins from my hair and massaged my aching scalp. Fronds of my riotous curls clung to the sides of my cheeks. I brushed them away with the back of my free hand, in vain.
After she removed the last of the pins and I polished off my tea, Pauline asked, “Would you care to explain what happened this evening?”
I hefted a heartfelt, gusty sigh. My head throbbed. I didn’t want to ruminate on it, let alone render the bramble of my emotions into words.
“Was it so terrible?” With firm strokes, Pauline thinned the knots tangling my hair. The steady movement of her hand eroded some of the tension in my neck.
“Worse.”
“How so?”
Tears glimmered in my eyes, blurring the room. In a small, barely audible voice, I said, “Papa will send me to a convent.”
Her hand froze in mid-stroke. “Surely you jest. Not Lord Valentia. He loves you.”
“Not enough, it seems.” I shook my head. The movement yanked the brush against my locks. I winced. “If I don’t marry by the end of the Season, he says he will marry me to God.”
“He’s bluffing.”
I wished I shared her optimism, but she hadn’t seen the glint in Papa’s eye, one of determination and resolve. I feared he meant every word he’d said.
“I doubt it,” I muttered. The concept of living in a convent petrified me. Sequestered away from not only Society and the few friends I had, but also forbidden the very things I envied Rose for experiencing. Full dance cards, stolen kisses, the chance to be the center of one person’s universe, the way I witnessed day after day with Rose and her husband. A girlish fantasy I’d tried to deny, but it surged now with renewed persistence. Even if I hadn’t met anyone I wanted to share those things with, the possibility of someday lingered. In ten days, I wouldn’t have that dream as consolation.
“Then marry,” Pauline said.
I groaned. I wished it was so simple. Although in some ways I hoped for romance, in reality I much preferred to be unattached. “Tonight I twisted my ankle dancing with an old friend. I’ve had no other dance offers.” Let alone from a man worthy of my admiration.
Without a word, the young woman set down the brush and swiftly tied my hair into a braid to keep it from tangling overnight. She whisked the discarded pins and brush to the nearby vanity and returned to hold up my nightgown with a questioning look in her eye.
I grimaced at the thought of standing, but with her help managed to teeter upright for long enough to doff the night’s dress. I sank back onto the bed in my shift as Pauline muttered over the rip in the hem. Shaking her head, she balled the garment and set it aside for later mending. At her instruction, I managed to stand once more to don my nightdress.
Only once she’d tightened the ties securing the shapeless white cotton to me did she look me in the eye. “Rest tonight,” she murmured. “Come tomorrow, I’m sure you can charm all of London.”
Although she meant well, her words only diminished my mood further. After all, Rose had been touting the same for the past five years. My charms had snared no hearts yet. But I bid my maid and friend good night with as much cheerfulness as I could muster and climbed into bed.
The gray light of dawn teased the edges of the curtain-drawn window before exhaustion overtook me.
Chapter Four
“Why aren’t you in the hothouse?”
I jumped and turned away from the bookshelf I’d been perusing. My ankle pulsed with renewed vigor. Wincing, I groped blindly for the bookshelf and leaned against it for support. The wood groaned in protest, but it held me steady.
Mary pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping to eradicate the image, but when I opened them, Mary stood with her hands on her hips, clad in men’s clothes. The waistcoat, jacket, shirt, and breeches fit her snugly. An intricate cravat was tied around her neck, and she wore her hair in a neat braid down her back. Whatever she had planned for today, I doubted I would approve. Neither would her sponsor if she caught wind.
Because Mary’s mother was dead, her godmother, the esteemed Countess of Gladstone, had taken it upon herself to unleash Mary upon Society, a decision I suspected she regretted, given the sort of controversy Mary cultivated at every turn. Unfortunately for the men of the ton, it would take a lot more than gossip to prompt Lady Gladstone to remove her support. For all her moaning over the trouble Mary caused, she loved her goddaughter greatly.
“You scared the daylights out of me.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why? I wasn’t being particularly quiet.”
I decided not to inform her of the dense worries consuming my thoughts. After clearing my throat, I changed the subject. “You look…dashing today.”
She smirked. That didn’t bode well for the fate of my morning.
“Yes, that brings me to my point. Don some men’s clothes. We’re going out.”
“Mary, I have no men’s clothes. And in any case, I can’t accompany you.”
“Why not?” She lifted one eyebrow in a way that uncomfortably reminded me of Julian.
My heart pounded three times too fast as I grappled for an answer. “Because…I can’t walk.” Finally, the injury turned to my advantage! “I twisted my ankle.”
Mary’s sharp gaze staked the appendage in question. “I noticed you limp. I thought you were pretending, like Rose often does.”
I stifled a laugh. I could only imagine the kind of schemes Mary tried to convince Rose to participate in.
Mary shouldered her way beneath my arm and bore the brunt of my weight as I hobbled to one of the armchairs in front of the library’s unlit hearth. For a scrubby woman, she was strong. I perched on the arm, reluctant to sink into the plush cushions. If I did, I might never resurface without aid.
I might be injured, but I was far from an invalid.
Mary rooted herself squarely in front of me, arms crossed. “When did this happen?”
Good thing I wasn’t lying. She’d sniff it out in a second.
“Last night during a dance.”
Instead of sympathy, Mary’s expression evolved to one of condescension. “Tell me you didn’t succumb to Rose’s chosen suitor.”
I shook my head. “I danced with an old friend.”
She still didn’t seem convinced. “So he didn’t ask to dance to objectify you.”
The Lord only knew what she qualified as “objectification.” Nevertheless, I answered, “Hardly. He likened me to his sister.”
She brightened. “Good.”
When she wasn’t scowling while brooding over men’s intentions, she was actually quite pretty. Certainly prettier than me, as evidenced by the fact gentlemen asked her to dance much more often, despite the sting of her tongue. The poor sods of the ton must like the abuse, or they hosted an ongoing wager as to which of them could entice her into pairing with them.
I’d stake my money on the latter.
She waved her hand in the air in a gesture of dismissal. “In any case, you won’t be walking much. We’ll ride. Astride, like men.”
My stomach lurched, threatening to reject my breakfast. I was deathly afraid of horses. “We’ll ride in a carriage,” I said firmly.
She beamed, knowing she’d trapped me.
“Very well,” she said with a falsely gracious incline of her head, as though making some kind of compromise. “We’ll ride in a carriage, but you will need to don men’s clothing.”
I shook my head. “I’ve already told you I don’t own any.”
“Find some. You’re not likely to get into the Society without any.”
Against my better judgment, curiosity sprouted. “The Society?”
“The Royal Botanic Society of London. A guest lecturer has arrived from the Americas to talk about flora native to the deserts of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. He’ll only be speaking at midday today.” Mary raised her eyebrows in silent challenge. “I assumed you would want to attend.”
I released a sigh of longing. “I do, but they don’t allow women.”
“Precisely why you will locate some men’s clothes. We’ll masquerade as boys.”
When she said it so steadfast and confidently, I almost believed her. Unfortunately, sneaking into men’s abodes posed more of a problem than she thought. Otherwise, why didn’t women do it all the time?
“We look nothing like men.”
“Nonsense.” She pulled a cap from her pocket and tucked her hair carefully beneath it as she donned it. She grinned broadly, eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. “See? I’ve already bound my breasts flat. Once you do the same, I imagine we’ll prove passable men. The doormen don’t examine too closely once you’ve paid the entrance fee.”
She spoke as though she’d done this dozens of times. I was afraid to ask if she had. The lure to attend was almost too strong to ignore. However, my father’s ultimatum filled my thoughts. If anyone recognized me in men’s clothing, what little chance I had of marrying would evaporate. My options were thin enough as it was.
I pushed myself to my feet and limped past her into the hall. I shook my head. “Mary, I don’t think—”
“What is wrong with you?”
Her cutting words stopped me short. I turned to face her. Her incredulous expression was framed by the sunlight streaming through the library’s open windows. It spilled out into the corridor, over my feet. The ache in my ankle mounted the longer I settled weight on it.
“I just told you. My ankle—”
“Would not stop the Francine I know from attending a lecture that might, even remotely, pertain to botany.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So tell me. What ails you?”
I knew Mary wouldn’t react positively to news of the ultimatum. I hesitated. For too long, it seemed. Doubt crept into Mary’s gaze, blossoming into hurt. I squared my shoulders. She would find out eventually, anyway.
“Papa has informed me that I must marry. If I do not, he’s threatened to send me to a convent at the end of the Season.”
Her expression darkened, turning thunderous. I feared what she might do. Knowing her, she might confront my father. Mary was fearless, and her ire made hi
s pale like dappled shadows.
I grabbed her by the hand. “There might be some of my father’s old clothing in the attic.”
Her hand tightened around mine. “Then you’ll come?”
“I’ll come,” I said. I had to distract her somehow. I climbed the stairs, using the wall for support as I towed Mary behind me. We followed the staircase to the top, the third floor and attic.
At this time of day the servants each attended their duties. No one lingered in the twin rooms with the low, slanted ceilings, housing the cots on which they slept. I led Mary to the farthest corner, where a closed door led to a storage space crammed with old crates. I used to hide in here as a child when Papa tried to take away my botany books. It had been a good deal cleaner then.
Dust frosted the floor and sprinkled the crates. I coughed as my shuffling footsteps roused the particles from their slumber. Mary vanished from the doorway. She returned moments later with the wavering light of a lit candle. Sometimes I wondered at her. Give her a few moments and she could ferret out anything. In this case, at least, the talent proved helpful.
The light blossomed over the old crates. No markings distinguished one from another, but the crates had been placed in here in the order accumulated. The oldest artifacts would be in the back. If I wanted to find Papa’s old clothing, I would start looking there.
Mary followed in my footsteps as we navigated the crammed chests, old paintings, and forgotten furniture. Here and there, she paused out of curiosity, but I continued with single-minded intent to the very back of the room. The roof sloped steeply, to the point where I had to stoop and then kneel as I approached the boxes presumably from the right year. I tested the lid from one of the crates. It creaked but proved immovable.
“Mary, help me.”
She set the candle down carefully and crawled to my side. Together, we dug our fingernails beneath the wooden lid and heaved. The lid shifted, but not enough to come loose.
“It must have been nailed shut,” Mary said. “Wait a second.”
She scampered into the labyrinth of boxes, returning moments later with a tarnished candlestick holder. “Let’s use this.”
How to Ruin Your Reputation in 10 Days (Ladies of Passion) Page 4