Page 8 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

The man trundled to the opposite side of his long desk, returning with a small dictionary with a glossy new cover. “Yes, miss. I’m sorry it took so long to contact you. I found it misplaced on Mr. Tolliver’s personal desk while sorting through everything.”

It was the German dictionary they’d discussed first term—the same awful day she’d met Braithwaite. Gin had forgotten all about it, but Tolliver had not, and it made a lump rise in her throat. Gently, Gin drew the book across the desk. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your diligence.”

She tucked the dictionary under her arm and drifted through the halls toward what had become her usual spot in Duke Humfrey’s Library on quiet days. The high ceiling of painted panels always made Ginevra feel as though she had stepped inside a Parisian chocolate box, and today the room’s serenity helped focus her anxious mind on the translation due at the end of the week.

It took a great deal of mental effort to string the words together with fluency, rather like swiftly rotating a handful of puzzle pieces until they clicked into position. How to best express the idea in English required further rumination, for some meaning would always be lost, but Gin loved the inherent imperfection of the translating arts; the challenge kept her on her toes. She was knee-deep in a German passage, wading through tenses, when the chair beside her pulled away from the table. Ginevra jerked upright, her pencil skittering across the page, and frowned.

Donald Craddock lounged beside her, one foot pulled over the opposite knee. “Hello, Gin.”

“Donald.” Gin gritted her teeth, carefully erasing the jagged lightning bolt now marring her work. “Can I help you?”

“I want you to marry me.”

“You think the third time shall prove propitious?” Gin dusted away the rubber shavings. “You’re rather optimistic.”

Donald swept a hand through his blond hair, eyelids drooping with an aloof expression. “We’d make an excellent match, and I think you should reconsider. We’re old friends, aren’t we?”

That their families had been long acquainted was true enough, but friends was too strong a word. An unfortunate snog during the Queen Charlotte’s Ball of ’46 had resulted in his first marriage proposal, but a second kiss in the Chiseldon Park drawing room during said proposal had convinced Gin any fleeting chemistry was the result of too much champagne. Up close, he reminded her of the taxidermy mount of a meerkat in her father’s office.

Gin rewrote the missing word in her loopy scrawl. “Thank you, but no. If I wanted a loveless marriage, I would have accepted you years ago and spared myself the paternal wrath.”

Ever so slightly, Donald’s nostrils flared. “But I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” Gin said, “or you’d have stopped pestering me after I declined the first time and the second. We have very little in common beyond attending the same social functions year after year. I am very happy with my studies and not ready to form a new household. You, however, always seemed more interested in parties and gambling than applying yourself during your undergraduate years. I was rather surprised you returned for another degree.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve turned over a new leaf and worked hard to impress my tutors this year.” Donald picked at the mother-of-pearl inlay in his cufflinks and shrugged. “Besides, one must do something. And if it’s lounge about Oxford versus lounge about the estate office, I’d much rather be here.”

“You make a compelling case,” Gin said dryly. “Surely, however, I needn’t go on. We have few common interests—”

Donald scoffed. “You think our parents cared about such nonsense?”

“Of course not. Heaven knows why my mother married my father, but I saw firsthand how miserable she was despite trying to conceal it. I will not do the same.” Gin clasped her hands on the table and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Donald. I really am, for I’m sure the duke is hounding you to tie the knot as much as my father is hounding me. But I am not suitable for you. If you could kindly relay that to both fathers, I should greatly appreciate it—and I shall do my best to find you someone who is suitable.” She flashed a wan smile. “Someone with an interest in hosting parties for you, perhaps.”

Donald’s thin cheeks turned crimson, and he rose, snatching up his hat. “You’ve always thought you’re better than me, haven’t you? As kids, I found it amusing—silly little Gin, putting on airs.” His voice lowered with a sneer. “But your father’s debts have crept up for years trying to keep the Park afloat. Where do you think all that money came from, Ginevra?”

A cold, brittle rage filled Gin’s veins at the shocking implication, and she squeezed the pencil to keep from hurling it at Donald’s smug face. “I would kindly ask that you leave. One of us, at least, is concerned about exams.”

Donald jammed the hat back on his head and straightened, re-buttoning his gray suit jacket with the air of someone abandoning a distasteful job. “I’m not an imbecile, Ginevra. If you weren’t so damned prideful, you’d see that I’m not a terrible choice for a partner—but don’t expect another proposal to reject.”

He stormed down the aisle, and Gin exhaled in frustration. Trust Donald to ruin a productive revision session with marriage talk. If he only used the meager sense with which God had endowed him, he might have deduced it wasn’t going to work, especially after the first two failures. Was it possible to say no in more adamant terms? Short of a notice in The Times, she really didn’t think so.

Exasperated, Gin leaped up and stalked toward the Selden End. The way light filtered through the tall windows usually calmed her when she was overwrought from studying, and she loved to peruse the two stories of books and rest on the little benches before the shelves. Today, however, even the pleasant reading room couldn’t soothe her nerves while the conversation continued to sting at her. She knew Chiseldon Park needed repairs after the war, that it still needed updated plumbing in the east wing and new plaster in many rooms, and God knew what else. Her father must have taken a loan. But it had felt like an abstract sort of problem—a problem for the person in charge of the estate, which had been made clear was not her. Only Donald acted as though it was common knowledge that the viscount was pressed for ready cash.

Gin never discussed money with her father apart from his grumbling about her allowance. Her mother had left a bequest that paid for Oxford, and Gin would receive the majority when she turned twenty-five in three years. Her future was full of possibilities, and Gin wasn’t sure what she wanted to do—except absolutely not marry anyone at the moment. Her parents’ tepid marriage had certainly not inspired her to seek a partner, and Tweety’s parade of sweethearts was an exhausting spectacle. It was all quite enough to support the prudence of swearing off romance until Gin graduated Oxford.

No, for now, she was quite content to focus on her studies and daydream of a future beyond her father’s grasp. She had seen so little of the world, the years she might have spent traveling Europe with her mother upended by the war, and she had thrown herself into the debutante whirl to escape her grief. Oxford was the first real step Gin had taken toward something she wanted, even if she wasn’t quite yet sure what that might be. Her practical side knew she could seek steady translation work in London, but her romantic side thought following an eccentric, nomadic writer as an interpreter sounded a bit more exciting. Anything, however, would be better than remaining trapped under her father’s thumb.

With a sigh, Gin rolled her shoulders to ease the stiffness that had crept into them during Donald’s appeal and headed back to her seat. She still needed to finish her translation, and it was going to take a great deal of willpower to refocus her attention after such an interruption. The first step: banish from her mind any further thought of marriage.

The last thing she expected was to find Sidney Braithwaite lounging in Donald’s abandoned seat.

His tawny head whipped up, and he frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I would have thought you of all people would recognize my things.” Gin shoved a few books into her satchel to make a point. “Or are they invisible to you personally?”

His eyes narrowed. “I got a message to meet here.”

“I’m sure you did,” Gin said icily. “I must remember that excuse the next time I wish to banish someone from my preferred table.”