I hated hiding who I was, hated pretending that I was not intelligent to make others feel more comfortable. Ansel and his friends didn’t know how lucky they had it to be unapologetically who they were. I wanted to be seen. Heard.Respected.
And more than anything, I wanted to leave my mark on the world, like Newton, or any of the intrepid female scholarsI idolized, like Émilie du Châtelet, Caroline Herschel, Wang Zhenyi, and Sophie Germain to name a few.
But the more I thought about it, the only reason I was able to pass muster at Cambridge in the first place was because my parents—mymother—had always encouraged learning. Was this one ofhercreative ways of subverting the patriarchy? Maintaining a well-stocked library of books with subjects girls weren’t usually expected to study? In hindsight, she had never prevented me from reading whatever I loved, so in a roundabout way, I owed her for getting me here, for the foundations I had already…for making me who Iwas.
Thus, I forced myself to let go of my frustration and smiled at my mother in the mirror, taking in the similarities of our heart-shaped faces, fine noses, and depthless dark eyes. Her hair—much thicker than my pin-straight inky locks—held luscious curls in her carefully styled coiffure. Her silk gown was also striking, and though the blue-and-cream hand-painted pattern was less obvious than mine, it was no less stunning.
“You’re right, Mama. I’ll try to work harder to make a suitable match.”
Something like regret chased over her features but was quickly gone before she gave voice to it. “You look beautiful, my dear,” she said instead, and handed me a pair of pale dyed gloves, which I donned. I stared at myself in the mirror. The whole effect wasn’tbad.I certainly did not resemble my alter ego, Roz, but the bright color complemented my complexion and made the waterfall of raven-black hair falling over my shoulders seem extra glossy.
“Thank you, Mama.”
I still felt like a pretty pineapple, but one of my mother’s skills was fashion, and if she deemed the gown a standout, then I would concede. Her sense of style was legendary and admired by every woman in theton.Every time the Duchess of Delmont wore a new piece, some version of it would be copied within weeks. As a result, I had no doubt that my entire set would want to embody pineapples come next month.
I swallowed a resigned chuckle as we descended to the waiting carriage.
It was just us attending the ball, as Papa was traveling once more to the Far East on an urgent diplomatic visit. It was a rare thing to see my father at home, and even those times were in passing. He was a stickler for duty and took his ducal obligations very seriously, which was probably why he was now questioning how his daughter remained an unwed spinster after three seasons. Securing my future was also his responsibility, after all.
The ride to the Duchess of Harbridge’s residence was quick, considering we lived only a few streets apart in the very desirable Mayfair district of London. Exhaling, I closed my eyes and settled into my recognizable Lady Rosalin persona—the endearingly sweet, marriage-obsessed, and delightful version of myself everyone in our circles knew.
Being viewed as the girl who desperately wanted a husband had a twofold advantage: one, it made some gentlemen avoid me like the plague—huzzah!—and two, no one questioned why I was so picky if I appeared to covet them all.
I reconciled myself to the prospect of joining the latest crop of wallflowers lingering on the periphery and counting theminutes until Mama decided it was time to return home. She would expect me to take a turn about the ballroom and be seen, so I couldn’t hide the entire time, but I was quite adept at being invisible when I wanted to be.
Perhaps Blake would be in attendance. He was typically a dependable diversion, though he didn’t always show up to these events.
I wished that I’d broughtOpticks,though the brick of a thing would not fit inside my reticule. Suddenly, a brilliant thought occurred to me:Might His Grace have a copy in his library?I knew from Zia that her father was very well read and prided himself on the quality of his collection. I could slip away easily by way of the retiring room. I brightened at that idea, the prospect of the evening suddenly seeming less tedious.
We were announced by the majordomo and greeted by the Duke and Duchess of Harbridge. On the way down the staircase, I could see Ela and Keston dancing a set, and I waved as Mama and I made our way through the crowd. Dutifully, I nodded, smiled, and curtseyed when other introductions were made, attempting to be at my most charming so my mother would not find fault and keep an even closer eye on me.
Half the battle was appearing as though I were thrilled to be here—a willing tribute up for offer on the marriage mart with a dowry that made most gentlemen salivate. Though as I caught sight of the infantile Duke of Renton sticking his entire index finger up his nose and then studying the contents therein with great fascination, bile climbed into my throat. He lifted said finger to his mouth, and I spun around with a revolted gasp.
Gag times infinity.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to smile so much that my cheeks ached and even sportingly penciled in a handful of dances on my dance card, which pleased my mother to no end. Zia used to make up names on hers, but Mama would see right through that ploy. She kneweveryone.While she was preoccupied with greeting a countess, I took the chance to make my escape to a quiet corner of the ballroom.
When the handsome redheaded rogue Lord Blake Castleton strolled into the room and veered toward me with a smile from ear to ear, the first genuine grin of the evening touched my face. “Lord Blake,” I greeted him. “I’m delighted to see you here.”
He took my gloved hand and bowed over it. “Lady Rosalin, you are a vision in…er…tangerine.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s yellow, and the fruit you’re thinking of is a pineapple. Don’t worry, I’m distressingly aware of the catastrophic resemblance.”
“Well, a girl as beautiful as you would make a burlap sack look like Parisian fashion,” he said loyally, and I warmed at the compliment. He was a dear friend, and one I was very thankful for. “Did you save me a dance?” he asked.
“You’re welcome to the rest of my dratted dances,” I muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from my tongue.
His lip quirked. “That bad?”
“You know I loathe the season with a passion. I’d rather be at home reading about mathematics and calculating planetary trajectories than waiting for an invitation to dance and simpering up at some dimwitted fellow who is only interested in whethermy coffers are plentiful and if my hips are suitable for childbirth.”
Blake laughed. “What kind of eccentric loves mathematics over a ball? You’re a strange girl.”
“You act like this is news.” I let out an amused huff.
Blake was one of the very few people who knew the real me, and I suspected that I was one of the few who ever got to see the real him. He was silly and jovial with everyone else, but yet, we could have intense conversations about philosophers like Immanuel Kant and the impact of moral law for hours on end. In hindsight, perhaps I had been unfair in opining that only girls had unrealistic expectations to bear. Much like me, Blake was a walking contradiction.
Grinning, he held out a hand as the introductory strains of music for a quadrille started, and he sketched a bow. “Come on, then, my lady. Dance and simper with me, and let’s make everyone green with envy, shall we?”
