Page 5 of A Siren for the Duke

“Ferdinand, that’s enough!” Lady Upton scolded her son, then she sighed, her tone softened by a hint of sympathy.

"Love, my dear, is a fickle companion. It often dissipates with the passing of time. Without support – financial, societal, familial – what else is there? You must learn to put your own desires aside for the greater good of your family. You have seen the ugly side of love, now, have you not?"

“Indeed. When was the last time you even heard from Lieutenant Hunt?” Ferdinand asked in a mocking voice.

Jemima’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and had they not been in a public place, she would have flown at him and walloped him.

“It has been a while,” Jemima admitted, her teeth still gritted. “I’m sure it is difficult to receive mail whilst aboard a ship.”

“For two years?” Ferdinand asked. “There are special ships that deliver correspondence. And the Irish Sea is not so wide. On a clear day, you can practically see Cork from Truro.”

When Jemima looked as if she might cry upon hearing her brother’s words, Lady Upton touched Ferdinand’s hand with her fan and shot daggers at him with her eyes.

“My dear,” her mother said, “I think what your brother is trying – and failing – to say is that we all have our part to play in this grand dance of society. Our duty is not always easy or fair, but it is what is expected of us. The Marquess of Kingsbury will provide for you, protect you, and ensure the family's prosperity. You must think beyond your own desires. You want your sister to have excellent matches, do you not?"

Jemima's heart sank as she listened to her mother and brother, their words like an iron cage slowly closing around her. Unfortunately, they were right. She had permanently stained the Upton reputation. Even if the scandal had broken two years ago, no amount of scrubbing or cleaning could completely erase it. People would always whisper. Poor Sophia did not deserve that. And neither did her mother, image-conscious as she was.

Jemima did not have a chance to reply, as the modiste approached at that moment.

"Lady Jemima, it is time for your final fitting. Let us see the gown in its full glory."

Lady Upton beamed and clapped her hands.

With a heavy sigh, Jemima approached the mannequin, her fingers tracing the delicate lace that adorned the bodice. The gown shimmered under the soft glow of the salon's chandeliers, its intricate details capturing the light and casting a mesmerizing spell. Jemima followed the modiste and two of the seamstresses behind the screen, where they helped her out of her light pink muslin day gown and into the confection that was her wedding gown.

As the modiste and her assistants worked to fit the gown to Jemima's form, the weight of her predicament settled deeper within her. Each delicate pin prick was a painful reminder of the life she was being forced to embrace. As they laced up her stays, Jemima could only think that this was some way of sealing her fate – of tying her into something she wanted no part of.

When the gown was on, the modiste led her back out into the parlor, where Lady Upton let out a cry of happiness, and Ferdinand nodded approvingly. With the veil and the small jeweled headpiece, she looked like a princess – all the prettiness with none of the power.

“Oh, Madame LaBleu, you have outdone yourself!” Lady Upton exclaimed.

“She will be the most beautiful bride of the season,” one of the seamstresses beamed.

“You look very fine indeed,” Ferdinand said, nodding in approval.

Even other young ladies and their mothers in the modiste shop chirped and showered her with compliments. Weddings were fairly common at the end of every Season, but it was still thrilling to see a young woman in her bridal gown outside of the church – it was like a beacon of hope for other young ladies. The girls eyed Jemima with awe and wonder, and she had a feeling they were thinking that if she could find a husband, so could they.

And then Jemima caught her mother’s eye. A warning flashed behind it – not another outburst about true love, she seemed to say.

So Jemima swallowed back the tears and the biting comments as Madame LeBleu fussed over the details of the gown. She drowned out any words about the wedding, having heard enough of that for the past few months. When the party needed to view the dress from another angle, she turned dutifully. There were little side conversations going on amongst the other shoppers, the usual gossip, discussion of lace versus silk, nothing that really piqued Jemima’s interest. Honestly, it all sort of blurred together in a dull hum, akin to a swarm of bees inside a hive. That was fine with Jemima, for it allowed her to brood. Ferdinand was right, unfortunately. Lionel had ignored her letters for the past two years. At first, she thought her worst fear had come true – that his ship had been attacked by pirates and he’d been killed. But at dinner parties and balls, she’d heard his mother speak of correspondence they’d recently received from their swashbuckling son, and she knew then that he was avoiding her.

As much as she wanted him to swoop in and rescue her at the last minute, preferably before she arrived at the altar, she knew such a thought was foolish. Besides that, she was angry at him. He’d abandoned her when she needed him most, and it had taken months for her to heal. She still did not feel fully healed, he wound just less raw than before. Marriage to the Marquess of Kingsbury threatened to reopen that wound, and Jemima did not think she could handle that feeling again.

As she contemplated throwing herself in the harbor or falling out a window to avoid marriage, her ears focused on a whispered conversation between two ladies’ maids nearby, entirely by accident.

“Aye, the ship just docked last night, so it did. He won’t be here for too long,” Jemima heard a lilting Irish accent say.

“Is he looking fer work?” a different female voice asked, sounding strongly of Cornwall.

“Aye. There’s nothin’ here but the Navy, unfortunately. Seems he’ll have to go back to Ireland at this rate.”

“Oh dear, that do be a shame.”

“If he doesn’t find somethin’ in three days, he’ll board the Navy ship back to Dublin an’ then find another to take him to the Caribbean.”

A ship? Heading to Ireland and then possibly the Caribbean? Well. That was just what she needed. Her aunt Eliza lived in Ireland, led an eccentric life, and was the black sheep of the Upton family. If anyone could understand Jemima’s situation, surely it would be Aunt Eliza.

As Madame LeBleu and her mother fussed around her, Jemima began to plot her escape.