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RICHMOND MANOR,
England 1740
“WHY SHOULD I be condemned to wearing a spinster’s sack just because Amelia isn’t married?” Victoria argued, plucking at the grey moiré Anglaise of her skirts in dismay. “A blind man wouldn’t ask me to dance in this, Papa. Everyone will think me in mourning!”
“We’ve been over this, daughter,” replied her father. “You may remain at home if you don’t wish to keep your part of the agreement.”
She bit off the remainder of her tirade. He meant it. And nothing would be worse than being left behind—even if it meant she had to wear this shroud. Turning, she regarded the dowdy image frowning back at her from the mirror.
Her beautiful curls were scraped back and stuffed into a burse. She’d been forbidden to wear maquillage. Her panniers were miniscule and her décolletage concealed by a fichu that covered her to the collarbone.
Worst of all were the pearls. Papa had presented her with yet another strand this morning—pale pink ones this time—along with the admonition to “be like their creators and cultivate patience.” Plain and boring, the little millstones were the only jewelry he would allow her.
I look like a dried-up old spinster aunt.
Her sister Amelia, however, was resplendent in an almost indecently décolleté mantua of teal brocade trimmed in silver and aquamarines. Victoria stared longingly at the yards of fabric stretched across panniers so wide they required their wearer to turn sideways in order to navigate a doorway. To top it off, a small, sparkling fortune graced Amelia’s wrists, ears, and neck.
And none of it was bloody pearls.
Her frown deepened as the favorite’s smug face appeared in the reflection behind her. Her tall, blond sibling preened for a moment before prancing off to kiss their father’s cheek, earning an indulgent smile.
He came to stand behind her. “Our efforts must be focused on seeing your sister settled,” he told her. “Be patient, poppet. It’ll be your turn soon enough.”
She turned to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “Yes, Papa. I know. It’s just that it’s my third Season. Most girls my age are already married or at least engaged. I’ll be ancient before it’s my turn!” It was a deliberate poke at Amelia, for this was her fifth Season on the shelf. Glancing over her father’s shoulder, she marked her sibling’s reddening cheeks with satisfaction.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “Your mother was twenty when we were married and still as lovely as any girl of sixteen. Now, let us depart. We are late already.”
“Spoiled child!” Amelia mouthed at her as they followed him out.
“Old harpy!” Victoria mouthed back. Why did Papa have to be so stubborn and old-fashioned? If Amelia wanted to die an old maid, why couldn’t he just let her? She kept her thoughts behind her teeth and grabbed her fan.
Despair gnawed at her. Mama would never have let it come to this. Had their mother lived, she was certain she and her sister would be married by now. But thanks to Papa’s influence, Amelia—once the soul of kindness and gentle manners—had turned into a complete virago.
It was a shame, really, for her sister was a great beauty. She’d inherited Mama’s honey hair, bright blue eyes, and willowy figure. But her tongue was a cat-o’-nine-tails to flay the pride right off a man—a sport at which she excelled and seemed to enjoy immensely.
She spoke as little as possible during their journey. Her temper was her worst enemy when it came to Amelia. Better to be silent than to be goaded into a foolish fit of pique and get sent back home.
Looking out at the enormous Palladian mansion, she couldn’t help but be impressed. Richmond Manor was no mean hovel, but it was dwarfed by Devonshire House. The sheer number of carriages clogging the drive meant there would be plenty of opportunities here tonight. Her spirits lifted in anticipation of the hunt.
Immediately after being announced, Papa ushered them straight into the crush.
Victoria trailed behind, feeling like an embarrassing afterthought as he paraded Amelia about, introduced her to the eligibles, and made much of her.
After having to clear her throat three times before receiving an introduction to the Earl of Sandwich, she decided enough was enough. So intent was her father on showing off his prize filly that he barely acknowledged her when she announced she was leaving to visit the powder room. With as much haste as dignity permitted, she took her leave.
I should have stayed home. She passed a knot of snickering debutantes and caught sight of Lorraine Van Heusen. Her heart sank at the pitying expression on the girl’s face.
“Poor thing,” she heard Lorraine say as she turned away. “She’ll end as a spinster, that one. Already looks as if she belongs in a convent. Her sister is ever so much more fashionable—even if ’tis said a man can ice skate on her heart.” The others in her group agreed with much laughter.
Victoria quickened her pace, blinking back tears. Damn them all—especially Papa! How can he do this to me? Just as she was about to exit the ballroom, another snippet of conversation caught her attention.
“I don’t know, Withy,” rumbled a deep male voice. “I’d much rather have a wife who speaks her mind honestly than one who says one thing and thinks—or worse, does—another.”
Lord Julius Cavendish, second son of the Duke of Devonshire, Victoria noted as she continued her progress around the corner. Once there, however, she stopped.
The man he’d been speaking with—Robert Montagu, Marquess Withington—had broken into laughter. “And just when did you begin admiring virtuous females? I thought your most cherished pastime involved Frenchwomen lacking in propriety?”
“Yes, well, I’m thirty now, not eighteen,” replied Cavendish. “It’s high time I settled down, and while I may not be the precious heir, there are still certain standards of propriety to which I must adhere. The woman I marry must be impeccable, fit to be a duchess.”
“I thought you had no ambitions,” teased the other man.
“I don’t. But unfortunately, m
y brother William is a bit more reckless than he ought to be. In truth, I want nothing more than peace, quiet, and good earth.”
“You sound as though you’re selecting a burial plot,” said the other man sourly.
“No. Just a wife—almost as bad,” replied Cavendish with a laugh.
Withington sighed. “I suppose if you intend to wed, then I should, as well. Solidarity and all that rubbish, eh? No sense in only one of us putting on the leg irons. If we’re both chained, we can at least bemoan our matrimonial enslavement together. So then, this year’s hunt is for the paw?”
“Indeed,” affirmed Cavendish. “Might as well get it over with. My days as a happy bachelor are numbered anyway, you know. Being a mere second son, if I don’t bank on my good looks and charm soon, I’ll be too wrinkled and grey to catch the eye of anything even remotely innocent.”
“You’re a bloody Cavendish,” his friend scoffed. “You’ve but to crook a finger and your selection will likely hike her skirts and sprint down the aisle—no doubt kicking her heels at her peers the whole way.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Nonsense,” said Withington. “Come, let us peruse the wares on display tonight and see if there is anything worth further investigation, shall we? I imagine there must be someone here that fits your, ah, rather unique requirements.”
The men moved on, leaving Victoria to contemplate the conversation. Tall and broad of shoulder, Cavendish had deep auburn hair and a handsomely arranged face. His nose was straight, his chin strong, and his smile pleasant. All in all, a very decent-looking fellow. Very.
A brilliant idea struck her.
He would be an excellent match for Amelia! Not only were they closer in age, but he would actually approve of the enthusiasm with which she shared her opinions. He’d said he wanted a woman who was honest—well, one certainly didn’t get any more honest about her likes and dislikes than her sister.
Too bad he wasn’t Devonshire’s heir. But the fact that he was a spare wouldn’t really matter. Papa would be far more interested in the political influence he would gain through such a connection. The Cavendishes were one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in England. Even a “mere second son” would be better settled than many a titled man, most of whom were up to their ears in debt, anyway.
Her spirits lifted as she considered it. Papa would practically drag Amelia down the aisle bound and gagged before he let her refuse him.
She had to make Amelia notice Cavendish—and she knew just how. Her sister had made it her singular goal in life to steal away the heart of any man who paid her baby sister the least bit of attention. The problem was what happened a few days after her larceny. Amelia had sent every last one of her stolen swains packing.
It would be her task to ensure the second half of that pattern failed.
Looking down at her drab garb, she made a noise of disgust. She would never attract a former admirer of brazen Frenchwomen looking like this. Resuming her progress to the powder room, she claimed a mirror near the back and began to work.
The first thing to go was the fichu. She removed it and then surreptitiously reached beneath her bodice to pull up her breasts a bit. A glance in the mirror told her it was better, but still not enough.
Something had to be done about her hair.
Blessing—for once—the fact that she’d inherited Papa’s unruly locks, she attacked her severe bun and teased out several wisps to frame her face. She smiled as they sprang back to life. Then she removed the burse and stripped the loathsome pearls from around her neck.
