He met my stare for a heartbeat, then looked away and cleared his throat. “I made sure our family had a future. You’ll understand one day.”
“Until Mr. Sinclair asks for my hand, I shall continue to enjoy my stay in London,” I answered as evenly as I could.
Grandfather and I glared at each other as if preparing for battle. I straightened despite my quivering insides.
“No more jeopardizing this alliance with foolish stunts—bluestocking salons, two dances with the same man, all of it immortalized in this idiotic cartoon.” He all but snarled, his fists clenched at his sides.
I had never seen him so angry, and a chill swept through me.
I knew the rules. I simply didn’t care for them, especially the more I tasted of high society.
But arguing with him would prove futile. Instead, I swept out of the room with as much dignity as I could muster, all the while wishing I could send my mother a letter. Words swirled in my head, expressing every single thought and emotion that crossed my mind. Of course, I had no intention of sending all the notes sequestered in my bedroom. They contained my deepest longings and my hidden desires.
I made my way to the library filled with leather-bound books Grandfather hardly read and Aunt had no use for. I would be safe in this room. Alone at last.
After sinking into a leather chair, I spied my copy of Herschel’sOn the Construction of the Heavens, and opened it, hoping the words would somehow burrow into my soul and distract me from my troubles. I removed the ribbon bookmark and traced the paragraphs until I found a new section.
All human discoveries seem to be made only for the purpose of confirming more strongly the truths come from on high, and contained in the sacred writings.
I stared at the words until they blurred. Herschel’s writing suggested a divine Architect creating an ordered world. I set it aside, the knot in my chest tightening. There was too much order in my life, too many rules and expectations pressing down on me, none of them my own. Yet nothing felt right. Everything hung on the fragile threads of other people’s whims and approval.
A headache throbbed at the base of my skull as I considered how myactions must have appeared last night. Now I was the object of scorn, thanks to Mr. Scathmore’s ludicrous caricatures.
Frustrated, I rose and walked to the desk next to the window, where paper and a jar of ink waited. Within moments, I had poured out my heart to my mother, pausing only to blow on the ink to dry.
Dearest Mother,
I have truly bungled matters. If only I had a woman to guide me. Aunt is of no help, fainting at the slightest hint of alarm. I want to believe God has a purpose in all of this, but why does He feel so far away when I need Him most? This season feels unbearable, as though every choice I make only tightens the noose around my freedom.
Aunt has ensured my wardrobe is impeccable, but no silk gown or beaded slipper can help me belong among the other English ladies. They are so polished, so confident in their charms. I long to be chosen by someone for who I am, but even that seems a hopeless wish. Not even Mr. Sinclair could possibly care—not truly. This has all been arranged, and he is simply determined to see it through.
The dreadful cartoon ... It mocked everything about me: my appearance, my lack of manners, even my desperation. Grandfather insists I am scheming, but the truth is, I haven’t the heart for it. I am no coquette, nor do I wish to be. I only want something real, something like the love you and Father shared. Is it foolish to want to find you and dare hope to reclaim the family we once had?
I didn’t need to scheme, as Grandfather put it. I only needed our family drama to play out naturally, as it always had, and I would easily frighten any man within the next month or two.
Low voices echoed in the hallway as my quill scratched against the sheet.
“You will not tell him what you saw last night, will you, Mr. Sinclair?” Edward’s voice—low and desperate—filtered through the open door. “I saw you watching, but let’s not cause any unnecessary drama, shall we? The colonel is furious enough as it is. I’ve kept running tabs at the clubs for quite some time.”
Ah, so Edwardhadgambled at the faro tables.
“That is for you to tell, but I would advise against secrets,” Sebastian replied.
“Yet you settled my debts for me. Blasted Lord Ashcombe thought he could get the better of me. The man has had a vendetta ever since I won against him a month ago.”
I set down the quill and strained to hear Sebastian’s answer, which was too soft to make out from beyond the paneled library walls. The tension in their tones made my stomach twist.
“Good man. I can’t thank you enough,” Edward said, sounding much relieved.
The words rang hollow in my ears. How could Edward feel so readily at ease with Sebastian when I was anything but? Edward was my ally, not Sebastian’s.
Why was I thinking of that dreadful man by his Christian name?
My thoughts spiraled back to the caricature, the ink strokes etched like a brand in my memory.
Had Lord Chudley seen it?
I groaned loudly before I could stop it. Hoping no one heard, I burrowed into the chair, my heart pounding with shame. I grabbed the nearest book from the desk and hid behind it.
