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l with my tongue—”
“No. What she says is true,” her mother said through bloodless lips. “It is painful to acknowledge, but William does not need to honor his father’s wishes.”
“He most assuredly does. We are—”
“I have been married to his father for years, and you have tried to be a good sister to him, but we have never truly belonged.”
Livvie clasped her hands, hating to acknowledge the truth of her mother’s words. Her stomach dipped at the idea of their future becoming so uncertain again, but she would ensure they weathered this as a family. “Father is mending, our worries are for naught,” she said, hating the doubt snaking through her.
Her mother’s eyes were dark with sorrow. “And if he does not?”
It was such an unbearable thought, but she had to be strong for her mother. “Then we will mourn as a family, and then do what is needed. I am most content to retire to Derbyshire with you and Ophelia. I am fluent in three languages, and as you know, I paint rather well. I will seek jobs—”
“Hush, Livvie! There shall be no talk of you working. You are a gentleman’s daughter, a lady, and I will hear no talk of you acting beneath your station. We will find you a husband.”
“Mamma, I am truly not averse to working.”
Her mother’s golden eyes flashed with determination. “I will hear no word of you working. You are the daughter of a baron, and you shall act like it until the day you die. Your sister will need to form a suitable connection.”
Exasperation rushed through Livvie. “Ophelia is eight, Mamma.”
“Be that as it may, we will need to lay the groundwork for her, and that will not be done by living in a cottage with a widow’s portion of five hundred pounds yearly,” she said, strolling toward the side doors leading to the gardens.
“We must make our own future and not rely on the goodwill of others. In Derbyshire we—”
“I will not consent for us to live in such squalor, Livvie. You need a husband.”
“I do not need a man to live comfortably,” she snapped, then regretted her harsh tone. “Forgive me, Mamma, but if I marry a man and he passes, then we will be right back where we started.”
“No, if you marry a rich and titled gentleman, when he dies you will be left with a good widow’s portion that will see us comfortable.”
“Mother…”
“It is your duty to this family to marry, and marry well. I will hear no more talk of being independent. It is just not done. Now, let’s say a prayer for your father together and then prepare for dinner.”
When her mother spoke in that tone, there was no point in arguing with her. But Livvie had to find a way to make her mother and stepfather understand. She could not relinquish her freedom to any man and then be made to suffer how her mother had suffered when Papa had left them. The lines of grief and worry now lining her mother’s features indicated how much she had fretted about the death of her second husband and facing the harsh reality of genteel poverty once more. Livvie would much prefer to concentrate on building a comfortable life without depending on the wealth and security of being any gentleman’s wife.
She gritted her teeth and said nothing more. She would not come of age until her twenty-fifth birthday. By then she will have been married off, if her parents had their wish.
How was she to escape this mess?
Several hours later, Livvie was snuggled beneath the warm coverlets, reading the latest volume of Theodore Aikens’s novel of espionage. His stories were powerful, evocative, and usually scintillating. For the past four years, society had clamored to discover the identity of Aikens. Some had speculated that Theodore Aikens was a pseudonym for Lord Byron because of the dark passionate flair he wrote with. The poet, however, had said much to his regret that he could not claim the credit.
Aikens’s hero, Wrotham, bordered on the brink of disreputable indecency with his lewd cutting tongue, and his dangerous patriotic services for the crown made him dashing and admirable. Livvie’s mother had scolded her several times for reading the scandalous books, but she was too enthralled by the stories to pay her any heed.
There was a sharp rap on her door, and before she answered, the handle turned and in walked her brother. Alarm had her closing the small leather volume, dropping it on the sheets, and stumbling from the bed. “Is it Father?” she demanded, tugging her robe from the peg and slipping it on. “Has he taken a worse turn?”
William frowned, then gently closed the door. “No, he is recovering well.”
She rested a palm against her heart, taking even breaths to still its furious pounding. “Then why are you in my chamber?”
“I’ve come to discuss your future.”
Of course, his wife had made her ultimatums, but Livvie did not desire to hear it tonight. She wanted the ability to have a proper night’s rest before facing the uncertainties of tomorrow.
“Can this wait until in the morning, William? It is a bit…unsettling having you in my chamber.” Her brother had never visited her in her sanctuary before. His rooms were, in fact, on the opposite side of the manor.
He lifted the candle high, and for a moment the shadows painted his face in a sinister mold. Her heart lurched, and she silently scolded her imagination for running wild.
