Emma shook her head, feigning disappointment. “You have been warned.”
“I do thank you for your concern,” Ellie said, “but I will need your mother’s help if I am going to find a suitor this Season.”
“What a remarkably astute young woman you are,” Harriet declared. “We shall have suitors lining up to court you.”
“That is my greatest wish.”
Lord Bideford huffed as he reached for his glass. “It will all be but a waste of time,” he declared.
“Why do you say that?” Ellie asked.
“You have no dowry,” he said frankly.
“That may be true—”
He spoke over her as he placed his glass down. “I contend you should just become a companion and be done with it.”
Not cowed by his dismissive tone, she replied, “I would like to try to have a Season first.”
“But why do you wish to waste everyone’s time?”
Harriet interjected, “You are being rather rude to our guest.” She shot him an annoyed look from across the table, indicating that he should behave.
“My apologies,” Lord Bideford said in a tone that was anything but apologetic, “but I do not believe we should give Miss Bentley false hope.”
“I believe hope to be very important,” Ellie responded. “It allows me to believe that perhaps tomorrow will be better, and I only have to endure this hardship for a little longer.”
“That is nonsense,” Lord Bideford remarked. “The sooner you recognize your lowly status, the faster you will come to terms with your new path.”
“How do you know what my future holds, my lord?” she asked defiantly.
Lord Bideford met her gaze unflinchingly. “Because I used to have hope like you, and it was for naught.”
“I am sorry to hear that, but I am not ready to give up without a fight.”
Shoving back his chair, Lord Bideford declared, “Then I’m afraid I am just wasting my time speaking to you.”
Ellie watched his retreating figure as he stormed out of the room. “I don’t believe Lord Bideford likes me,” she remarked ruefully.
Emma grinned. “I wouldn’t give him much heed,” she said. “He doesn’t like anyone.”
“It’s true,” Charles agreed. “He barely tolerates any of us.”
Reaching across the table, Harriet placed her hand over Ellie’s. “Do not let Roswell’s words get you down,” she encouraged. “Stay your course and you will be fine.”
“Thank you,” Ellie murmured, giving her a timid smile.
A footman stepped into the room with a tray of meat and placed it in the center of the table. Charles rose. “Allow me to serve you lovely ladies,” he offered.
With a drink in front of him, Roswell sat at a table in the corner of White’s. He was not in a mood to converse with anyone. He never was; he preferred his solitude—craved it, actually. He gripped his glass tighter as his mind began to wander unbidden to that fateful night in his past. His future had been determined the moment he killed that man.
He took a sip of his drink and noticed his brother approaching him with a solemn look on his face. “I assumed you would be here,” Charles said.
“Go away,” Roswell muttered.
Charles pulled out a chair and sat down. “I see that you are in your usual pleasant mood,” he said. “Lucky me.”
“What do you want?” Roswell asked.
