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CHAPTERONE
Lady Matilda Crosbyglared at her mother out of the side of her gaze.
They stood outside of their Derbyshire home as the crisp fall air swirled around them, awaiting the arrival of several house guests.
A side-eyed glare was a difficult move to execute, but Tillie was doing so successfully. Granted, her mother had yet to notice, so perhaps she wasn’t quite so successful as she’d hoped. Still, she wanted her dissatisfaction known. Repeatedly.
“I do believe that’s Viscount Burke’s carriage,” her mother gushed. “What a house party this will be.”
Tillie harrumphed.
A sound that did catch the attention of both her mother and her mother’s friend, Baroness Greenburg, who stood on Tillie’s other side.
The two matrons had concocted this party as a method for seeing Tillie engaged before Christmas. They’d even picked the gentleman whom they most like for her to match with, though they’d yet to disclose his identity. Tillie had other plans entirely.
Most namely, avoiding their schemes. Tillie, a bluestocking, and a scientist, had been considering remaining a spinster in order to devote herself to biological research. An idea which held a great deal of appeal.
She’d be able to pursue her academic disciplines without the interruption of society or family. And she’d be able to avoid marriage, an institution that frightened her a bit. She didn’t always understand people or their motives particularly when it came to matters of the heart.
But her newly married younger sister, Millie, had pointed out very recently that Tillie was far too strong to avoid getting married based on fear. And Millie was right.
Though, she had to confess, with her sister no longer living with her, she’d felt less courageous and more uncertain than ever. Oh, how she missed Millie and her steadfast nature. But her sister’s advice always carried her through.
Which was also why, even if she did choose to marry, she’d do so on her own terms and not because her mother had forced her into a match. She needed a say in the matter.
Period.
But her usual strength had been failing her on that front. She was trying to keep her façade of defiance, but of late, she’d been feeling decidedly insecure and second-guessing herself at every turn.
Her mother huffed back. “Yes, Tillie. Everyone knows you don’t want to be at this party.”
“I don’t like to be misunderstood,” she countered, folding her arms.
Her mother turned to look at her. “Did the baker need to understand? The modiste? The blacksmith?”
All right, perhaps she had gone a bit overboard in her protests. Overcompensation had that effect.
But really, she would have stopped if anyone had actually listened.
No one had.
Well, Millie had, but she was one of the sweetest people Tillie knew. And her best friend Juliet had, but Juliet had her own reasons for supporting Tillie. Juliet was already a spinster and wished for Tillie to join her.
Her friend already purchased a cottage by the sea and was set to move there. She only waited for a companion, and she’d been trying to convince Tillie to join her in her research project.
“No one misunderstands you, dear,” Lady Greenburg said with a kindly pat to Tillie’s hand.
Her mother made a noise a bit like a snort, most unusual considering her status as a marchioness. “Why don’t you paint a sign and wear it about your neck? That’s the only way you could be more obvious.”
“The idea has merit,” she replied, tilting her chin higher as the Viscount Burke’s carriage moved closer and another pulled onto the long, tree-lined drive, currently ablaze with autumn color.
“Matilda,” her mother rebuked with a sharp edge to her voice. “Don’t you dare.”
Lady Greenburg kept patting. “I think it’s important that you just relax and have fun. Enjoy yourself. See what happens.”
Tillie stared at Lady Greenburg’s profile, her own brows rising. She’d been participating in society for the better part of three years. She’d started at the age of nineteen and now, at two and twenty, she’d been “having fun” for quite some time.
Her mother was right about one thing, it was time for Tillie to find her future.
