Eliza swallowed through a too-dry throat. “I was afraid that might be the case.”
“You’ve stated you do not wish Cassandra to be forced into a union with Harbury. But what of your own ambitions? To save your sister, would you be willing to sacrifice yourself on the marital altar?”
“Not indiscriminately,” Eliza carefully replied. “However, if I could find a man unlike my father, Harbury, and their ilk in every way, a man who was also willing to make an arrangement with me, I would consider marriage an acceptable solution.”
The image of the Marquess of Redver danced in front of her eyes. She shuttered that thought. Harbury’s friend was the last man on earth she would agree to marry.
The Black Widow inclined her head. “I have been known to facilitate such matches. In in every case, I’ve found exactly the type of man the lady preferred. I assume you’ve given the matter more thought than your father?”
She hadn’t.
Cassandra, Lenora, and Annette had always been the ones nattering on about choosing their perfect beau. She and Millicent had been more likely to be found trailing the gamekeeper than sitting inside, quietly playing “lady of the house.”
Only, after kissing Redver, she had to admit that men were able to provide at least one useful service. Her back touched the chair at the point Redver’s hand had touched her waist. Instinctively her own hand rose to her throat, mimicking the brush of his lips against her nape.
No.
That had been…cavorting, not marriage.
What was marriage?
An intermittent, restless presence in a crumbling country manor. A malicious troll that—at random times—appeared, took command, and then reordered everything to his liking, even down to relegating his own children to the nursery because what good were girls anyway?
All she knew of marriage was that it made a sad house into an intolerable, chaotic one.
Or that’s what Eliza had seen of the only marriage she’d had a chance to study at length.
She stared directly at the veil. “If I must marry, I’d only accept a man I can influence. I man who would take not only my needs, but my opinions, into account. I don’t intend to be an easy wife.”
“I never expected that you would.” The widow sounded as if she were smiling. “I’m certain, I could find you such a man. There is, however, the matter of payment.”
“Payment,” Eliza repeated.
She glanced down at the ruby cluster passed down to her by her grandmother.
At the last minute—and forgetting about her buckles, which were far more likely to be missed anyway—she’d grabbed the ring from her box.
If relinquishing the gift meant happiness for her sisters, her grandmother would approve. After all, without telling her son, she’d given her most valuable pieces to her five granddaughters while she still lived.
Eliza tugged off the ring. “I don’t know how valuable it is, but it must be very much so.” She laid it carefully on the table. “It’s two centuries old. There are twelve rubies in total.”
“I will have Mr. Gold appraise it.”
The widow rang a bell. A servant immediately appeared. She wrote a quick note, waved the paper in the air to dry theink, and handed the servant the paper and Eliza’s most prized possession.
Again, they were alone.
“Don your veil,” the widow instructed. “While we’re waiting, we will visit the ladies’ viewing gallery, which overlooks the main gaming floor. We’ll have a brief look at the gentlemen in attendance this evening and then continue our conversation.”
Eliza refastened her fichu. Then, by Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s side, she strode through a ladies gaming room.
Behind the veil, she was no longer the hoyden twin. No longer one of five orphaned girls. Behind the mask she was a mystery lady.
A woman here by choice, ready to seize her fate. A woman who was going to demand exactly what she wanted, whether that be marriage to a man who would defer to her or a blindfolded kiss from an arrogant marquess.
As they came to the balcony, the widow directed Eliza’s attention to the gaming floor. “Start there, at the far table.”
She pointed out an elegantly attired, sharp-featured man.
