by Anna Bennett
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For Emma,
Who’s always had big dreams
and an even bigger heart.
The Debutante’s Revenge (Inaugural Edition)
Dear Debutantes,
Be forewarned: This column is not intended for the meek or retiring. It shall contain information of a direct and, sometimes, shocking nature. If you are likely to take offense at its provocative prose and intimate illustrations, pray, avert your eyes now.
For this space is hereby dedicated to the edification of the so-called gentler, fairer sex. It is reserved for the subjects you shan’t hear discussed in genteel drawing rooms, the lessons that your very proper headmistress failed to teach, and the frank conversations that would have your dear, sweet mama calling for her smelling salts.
This column is about the joys and perils of courting, which include flirtation, desire, intimacy, and, most of all … love.
If you would prefer to avoid such scandalous topics, you are advised to turn at once to the fashion pages, where the most controversial debate is likely whether the color of the season shall be jonquil or lavender. But if you are curious about matters of the heart, read on …
Chapter 1
“Read the forbidden books—the ones hidden at the back of the top shelf that will surely make you blush—for they are, undoubtedly, the most edifying.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
Miss Lily Hartley plucked a silk pillow off the settee in her sister’s drawing room and hugged it to her chest, carefully observing Fiona’s expression as she read the paragraphs Lily had drafted that morning for their wildly popular column in the London Hearsay. She wanted her sister’s opinion on this week’s installment before delivering it to the newspaper’s offices.
Noting Fiona’s widened eyes and arched brow, Lily braced herself.
“‘If she so wishes, every young woman on the marriage mart should experience a real kiss—the sort that starts with a brush of the lips but progresses to knee-melting pleasure,’” Fiona read, nodding as though she was impressed. She lifted her gaze from the paper and swept an auburn curl behind her ear. “Have you kissed someone?” she asked, a conspiratorial grin lighting her face. “Like that?”
Lily sighed, deflating. “Much to my chagrin, no.” She found it ironic—tragic, really—that the authoress of The Debutante’s Revenge, the column that had scandalized proper matrons and dutiful chaperones throughout London with its salacious advice and provocative drawings, had never been properly ravished.
“It’s only a matter of time,” Fiona sympathized. “You’ll find someone who makes your heart beat faster and who admires your generous, adventurous spirit.”
Lily had heard Fiona’s reassurances before. But if the dance floor were a metaphor for life, she was still lingering on the perimeter, squished between the potted palms and a wall of matchmaking mamas.
Over the last few months, Lily had watched wistfully as her older sister fell in love and married a handsome earl who adored her. Lily couldn’t have been happier for Fiona, but she missed having her at home. Everyone said Lily’s turn was coming, but so far, no prince had appeared. She’d had her share of suitors, but each one had been looking for a reserved, genteel wife. Someone to decorate his arm and nod in awe while he waxed on about horses or hunting. She wasn’t about to give up her spot among the potted palms for a man who thought women were mere ornaments.
Happily, however, she and her sister would be together for the next fortnight. Fiona’s husband, Gray, was traveling to Scotland to conduct some business, and Fi had invited Lily to stay with her while he was gone.
Lily walked to her sister’s desk and shuffled through the array of Fiona’s sketches strewn across the polished surface, each one dreamier than the next. A vignette of a broad-shouldered soldier bowing over a young woman’s gracefully extended hand. A man and woman seated on a park bench beneath a parasol, their heads intimately inclined toward one another. The silhouettes of a couple facing each other, their bodies only a breath apart—as though they were on the very brink of a kiss.
But the drawing that made Lily’s breath hitch was a rough, unfinished sketch on a scrap of paper no larger than her palm. It showed a man gazing at a woman with blatant admiration and awe. His expression said he was head over heels in love—and that the woman, shown only from the back, held his whole world in her hands.
If a gentleman ever looked at Lily in just that way, she’d probably swoon on the spot. And she’d know he was the love she’d been looking for.
Lily brought the little drawing to the settee where Fiona sat and showed it to her. “I didn’t think it possible, but you grow more talented with every sketch. This is so … poignant and lovely. May I keep it?”
“It’s just a rough drawing, but if you like it, it’s all yours,” Fiona said kindly.
Lily carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her bodice. “Thank you.”
Fiona frowned slightly. “May I ask you something—about the column?”
“Of course.”
“Do you ever worry that one of our readers will find herself in trouble because of our advice?”
Lily considered the question. “I suppose that if a reader was caught doing something improper, her reputation could suffer a bit. There are worse fates.”
Fiona nodded, thoughtful. “She could be forced to marry a man she doesn’t love.”
“You have a point,” Lily conceded. “But our readers know the column isn’t meant to be taken as gospel. The advice is on the daring side and a bit tongue-in-cheek. Still, truth lies at the heart of all we say. We should not shy away from that truth.”
Fiona pulled Lily into an unexpectedly fierce hug. “You’re absolutely right. Someone needs to champion all the shy debutantes and meek wallflowers out there, and I can think of no one better than you.” She pressed a kiss to Lily’s temple.
Lily wriggled away from her sister’s embrace. “I’m eager to deliver the column and sketch to the Hearsay’s offices.” She peered at the elegant clock on the mantel. “It’s only an hour until they close—I must leave soon. When I return, I’ll arrange to have some clothes sent from home. Just think, we’ll have two whole weeks together. We shall stay up late chatting, raid the kitchen for midnight snacks, and then lounge about all day.”
“It will be lovely,” Fiona agreed. “Like old times.”
Lily nodded. “Just like it used to be.” Except that now Fi had a doting husband and a home of her own. For all Lily knew, Fi was expecting a babe already. The gulf between them seemed to widen daily. “I’m going to change. Is my disguise still in the trunk?”
“Yes.” Fiona smirked. “Unless one of the maids mistook the items for dust rags.”
“Heaven forfend,” Lily said, grinning. The outfit was one of her favorite parts of the job.
She, Fiona, and their dear friend Sophie had agreed that no one must discover they were the creative forces behind The Debutante’s Revenge. Though the column was all the rage, it also had plenty of detractors—aristocrats who found the advice too scandalous, too shocking, and too true. Which was why no one could know about the three friends’ involvement.
One whisper of their connection to the column would destroy their reputations. They had no wish to be cast out of polite society or to bring shame upon their families—not before Lily and Sophie had made matches. And especially not before they’d had sufficient opportunity to convey all they wished to say to the young, female population of London.
So, each week, Lily took the precaution of donning her disguise prior to delivering the latest column to the newspaper’s offices. The editor assumed she was merely a scrawny messenger boy rather than the controversial column’s author.
Lily hurried to the guest bedchamber where she slept whenever she visited her sister and brother-in-law’s house, closed the door, and opened the trunk at the foot of the bed. Buried deep in a corner were an old pair of boy’s breeches, a dingy white shirt, and a jacket with patched elbows, along with socks, shoes, and a cap.
She unlaced her gown and let the deep green silk slide off her shoulders before removing all of her undergarments and tightly binding her breasts with a long swath of linen. She wriggled her hips into the breeches, which were vexingly snug across her bottom—but that couldn’t be helped. She remembered to slip the little sketch Fiona had given her into her pocket—for good luck. And a few minutes later, she stood before the full-length mirror, carefully tucking the last long strand of dark hair under her cap.
Her transformation was complete. A lad of fourteen or so stared back at her, smooth-faced and slight of build. As long as she kept her head down and her stride sure, no one would suspect she was a woman, much less the authoress of The Debutante’s Revenge.
And they definitely would not suspect she was Miss Lily Hartley, sister of the Countess of Ravenport and an heiress in her own right.
Enjoying the familiar ease and freedom of her breeches, Lily slung the strap of her leather bag across her body and hurried downstairs into the drawing room. “I’m ready to go,” she announced, expecting only Fiona.
But it was Gray who greeted her, albeit cautiously, as she entered. “Lily?” Her brother-in-law backed away slowly and tilted his head to see her face beneath the brim of her cap.
“It is I.” She pointed her toe, made a theatrical bow, then grinned up at him. “Nice to see you, Gray.”
The earl chuckled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Good to know the Hartley sisters are up to their usual tricks. Though I didn’t realize you were planning on staying here till Fiona mentioned it just now.”
“Oh, is it a problem?” Fiona and Gray had never treated her as a guest in the past, making it clear she was welcome to drop in whenever she chose.
“Not at all,” he assured her, but Lily sensed something was amiss.
Fiona wrung her hands. “Gray just informed me that he’d hoped to surprise me with a little trip. He wants me to accompany him to Scotland … but I’ve already told him it’s out of the question. You and I intended to have a couple of weeks of sisterly bonding, and so we shall.”
Lily pasted on a smile so bright that no one would dream she felt a twinge of disappointment. “A romantic holiday in Scotland! Fi, what’s this nonsense about not going? You absolutely must. I insist that you march upstairs and pack this instant. I know you want to go, and I want you to go as well.”
“But we were so looking forward to our time together, and there was a particular matter I wished to discuss.”
Lily waved a dismissive hand. “We shall schedule a visit for another time.” She paused and searched her sister’s face. “Unless the matter is urgent?”
“No.” Fiona worried her lip. “You’re certain you don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” Lily said. She had The Debutante’s Revenge to occupy her, after all. In the months since she’d started the column, it had become much more than a pet project. It was a way to explore who she was and what she believed, as intertwined with her identity as her name or her family or her home. She was never truly alone when she was writing.
Besides, Lily intended to take advantage of her sister’s trip to surprise her with a new studio. She’d been conspiring with Gray, who loved the idea and had given Lily free rein to renovate the library whenever she was able. Now she’d have the perfect opportunity.
“What about The Debutante’s Revenge?” Fiona asked, her brow furrowed. “We’ll need columns for the next two weeks, and Sophie is staying in Brighton with her aunt. She won’t be able to help with the editing.”
“Leave it all to me.” Lily strode to the desk, collected a couple of Fiona’s sketches, and carefully placed them in her bag. “You’ve already drawn beautiful illustrations, and I have two columns ready to go. I’ll simply deliver columns for this week’s and next week’s editions at the same time tonight. It shan’t be a problem.”
“You see,” Gray said, pressing his lips to the back of Fiona’s hand. “Everything is settled. If we leave now, we can make it to a charming little inn before nightfall.”
Fiona’s gaze flicked from Gray to Lily, and she nibbled her lip, clearly torn.
Lily rolled her eyes and smiled widely. “Go,” she said encouragingly.
“Very well.” Fiona threw up her hands. “I confess, I can’t resist the idea of a romantic trip to Scotland.”
“No happy bride would,” Lily said, waving the couple away with the back of her hand. “Off with you now.”
“Will you explain to Mama and Papa where we’ve gone?”
Blast. Until that very moment, Lily had forgotten that her father and stepmother planned to leave for Bath the next morning. Mama insisted taking the waters would do wonders for Papa’s weak heart, even though he’d never looked healthier to Lily. She was supposed to inform her sister that their parents would return in two weeks. “Actually, they’ve decided to—”
“Pardon the interruption.” Gray’s butler swept into the room and cleared his throat. “The coach is out front, my lord, whenever you and the countess are ready.”
“Thank you, Burns.”
“What was it you were saying about Mama and Papa?” Fiona asked.
Lily hesitated. If she told Fiona about their parents’ excursion to Bath, she’d cancel her own trip in a heartbeat—just so Lily wouldn’t be stuck in town alone. “I’ll be sure to let them know where you two lovebirds are headed.”
Fiona wrapped her in a grateful embrace. “I’ll make this up to you,” she vowed.
“I know you will,” Lily said cheerfully.
“Can I be honest with you about something?” Fiona asked.
“Always.”
Grinning, Fiona tweaked the brim of Lily’s hat. “I feel like I’m hugging a chimney sweep.”
“Interesting,” Lily mused. “Perhaps next week’s column shall be devoted to the subject of dressing as the opposite sex.”
Gray groaned, but the hint of a smile played around his mouth. “I beg you to exercise restraint.”
“Restraint has never been Lily’s forte,” Fiona said proudly. “It’s one of the many reasons I adore her.”
Lily laughed. But Fiona’s assessment hit the mark. Ever since they’d attended Miss Haywinkle’s School for Girls, Lily had been known as the pupil most likely to stretch rules. To push the limits. Fortunately, her well-meaning but ever-vigilant family kept her wilder side in check.
But the next two weeks afforded a rare opportunity. While her father and stepmother stayed in Bath and her sister and brother-in-law toured Scotland, Lily would be left to her own devices in town. Each side of the family assumed she’d be looked after by the other, and Lily would be free.
Free to venture to places where proper young misses dared not go.
Free to mingle with people from other walks of life.
And, best of all, free to experience the passion she’d only written about.
Perhaps she wouldn’t rush directly home after visiting the Hearsay’s offices. She had the unique chance to see London through the eyes of a lad—and she’d sooner eat a toad than squander it.
* * *
Eric Nash, Duke of Stonebridge, wasn’t in the habit of driving his curricle through the storm-soaked streets of London after dark, but he’d been cloistered in his town house so damned long, he was pacing his study like it was a Newgate cell. He needed the biting wind and stinging rain on his face. He needed some assurance that the world outside his house—however cruel and imperfect it might be—continued to exist.
As he strode toward the stable and harnessed the horses, a footman fretfully pointed out the late hour and the torrential rain—as if Nash were incapable of seeing lightning streak across the sky with his own bloody eyes. As if he couldn’t feel the cold droplets seeping under his collar and trickling down his spine.
The problem was, if he didn’t leave the house immediately, he’d go mad.
As mad as most people already assumed he was.
Nash waved the footman away. “Go to bed and tell the others to do the same. I’ll be home late.”
In truth, Nash had no plan at all beyond escaping the house for a while. Earlier that night, he’d fought with his younger sister, Delilah. Again. It wasn’t enough for her that after spending the last five years at their country estate, he’d recently agreed to return to London. Now that they were in town, she wanted to attend endless balls, host soirees, and plunge headlong into the social whirl.
He’d known that Delilah would crave such entertainments, and, deep down, he knew she deserved to experience them.
But he needed to protect her, somehow. And it was damned hard to let go.
He didn’t blame Delilah for hating him. Most days, he hated himself.
Ignoring the ever-louder rumbling of thunder, he clambered onto the seat of his vehicle and grabbed the reins. He’d find a dark pub with sloping floors and ancient walls where he could sit at a corner table and enjoy a glass of ale in complete anonymity. Or maybe he’d just drive for hours and remember what his life had been like before.