Page 112 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Now she found herself in a strange season of life. Her two elder sisters were happily married—love matches, both—and her two younger sisters lived with the eldest, splitting time between the marquess’s London townhome, the Duke of Devonshire’s London estate, and various country houses.

Dahlia was aware that their upbringing was unique—very few young ladies had experienced so much protection and luxury. Sometimes she worried that her younger sisters would forget how cold an attic garrett was in winter. Sometimes she was frightened that they would make foolhardy choices that would put them back in that garrett once more.

But not Dahlia. She was never going back.

Even if that meant remaining unmarried. Even if that meant marrying for security instead of love.

Of course she wanted to marry for love. Anyone who said differently was a liar, or perhaps they loved themselves too well to want to involve anyone else in the process.

Dahlia had gone into her first Season as wide-eyed and hopeful as any young lady. And she was a rare beauty—golden hair, large blue eyes surrounded by a thick fringe of dark eyelashes. Her cheekbones were high, her nose finely formed, her teeth white and straight.

Apparently her figure had a positive effect on the male set, too. Dahlia thought her best asset were her clavicles—very fine, those clavicles, and she endeavored to show them off whenever possible. But she suspected it wasn’t just her clavicles that had the men very nearly throwing themselves at her feet.

A Frenchman had once wept while they were waltzing when she’d turned down his offer of marriage. Not that she could be blamed for it—she could barely understand the fellow and had thought he was joking. It was their first dance, for heaven’s sake—they’d only just been introduced.

With her two eldest sisters off the marriage mart within the first months, Dahlia had emerged as the premier young lady to court.

And court they had. Dahlia had never met so many young men; never received so many smiles, or presents. She’d taken up one of her blank sketchbooks and made a list of all the gentlemen—a grid, actually, with spaces for her to fill in with pertinent information.

Attractiveness. Kindness. Intelligence. Title.

And wealth.

She distinctly remembered the day she’d crossed the first man off her list. It was only three weeks into that first Season, and a disturbing rumor reached her ears about one Lord Simon. Up until that point, the young lord had been the forerunner of the pack. Young, handsome, charming, witty, and kind. A title that was well-esteemed. A good family, with parents who’d still make voluntary eye contact with one another.

Yes, Lord Simon had her eye.

But then she found out that he favored the gambling dens. And whisky. A heady combination, to be sure, and one that had gotten the young lord into trouble. He’d lost his favorite horse in a card game. He’d loved that horse. She was a beautiful grey spotted mare, lovely and gentle. Lord Simon had extolled her features in the park only several days earlier, while he and Dahlia rode together.

He’d loved that horse, but it hadn’t stopped him from gambling her away. There was no possible way Dahlia would trust such a man with her future, with her security.

Dahlia had admired the mare, so right after she scratched Lord Simon’s name out in her book, she jotted a quick note to the owner of the gambling hall, found out who’d won the horse, and made an offer.

Lord Simon’s eyes grew round the next week when she rode Lady Grey through the park and refused to acknowledge him.

Dahlia remembered the cold, the hunger, the fear. She wouldn’t forget now, not when she was finally in a position to stay warm and comfortable and secure.

Not even for all of Lord Simon’s winning smiles.

One by one, the others had been crossed off, as well. The misers would never approve of her ghastly expensive wardrobe habit—they were out. The young ones had too short of a track record for her to judge. She wouldn’t marry just for money, either. Lord Fettiwig had offered, and he was wealthy, but she didn’t fancy spending the next four years spooning soft foods into an aged, spluttering mouth.

The French were out; so were the Italians. She didn’t understand foreign banking systems—their economies might collapse, and then where would she be?

Back in the garrett. And she knew that every attic garrett was the same, more or less. Cold, drafty, and full of beady-eyed rats.

In her first Season, she scratched out a dozen names. She went through ten options her second Season. Eleven in Season number three. Now it was her fourth, and she wondered whether she’d bother to make a grid at all.

By this time, more rumors were swirling—rumors about her.

She was frigid, some men claimed. A gold digger—though that was easily disproved, as she’d turned down several wealthy men. One denied suitor had gone so far as to claim that she was touched in the head and should be relegated to Bedlam.

That particular rumor stung a bit, though Dahlia supposed she couldn’t blame the man for his ire. She’d told him that she’d rather be trampled to death by horses than be his wife. But what else was she to do? She’d already answered him quite firmly three times, and in plain language, too.

Dahlia had always been grateful for the interest the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had shown to her family, but she possibly had never been more grateful than when the duke took four of his largest footmen to Lord Pastial’s house and quelled that rumor at the source.

She was staring down the barrel of her fourth Season, and the whirl of balls and theater attendances and dinners would have grown tiresome at best, if it weren’t for one thing.

The Clothing.