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Chapter One
“Polly, darling, I’m afraid you are failing to see reason-”
“Reason has not escaped me, Francis,” Mother said tersely, fanning her bosom. The spring afternoon had turned uncomfortably warm. She waved for a servant. “Please, bring some refreshments. The girls are wilting.”
Uncle Francis, annoyed by the distraction, leaned forward from his chair, impassioned, “Polly-”
“-and how many times have I asked you not to call me that childish nickname?”
Frustrated, Uncle stood quickly and started pacing the room, much to the exasperation of Lydia and her sisters, who exchanged eye rolls.
Lydia had claimed the settee first. She lay with arms stretched over her head. Trinity took the couch by the window, looking remorsefully out to the London streets below. Lucretia and Marcia were amusing themselves with cards at a table across the room, while Johanna was dutifully working on a sampler near their mother.
They had chosen their seats by age, too tired for their usual bickering. While the warmth had taken the fight from them, the unexpected arrival of their uncle had put everyone in an irritated mood.
Martha continued her defense, “Francis, I must insist you put aside these fantasies of yours. How many times must I tell you? I am not interested in marrying again. I’m quite busy ensuring my daughters all make appropriate matches.”
“Full time job, that is,” he muttered.
“Uncle!” Lydia cried in protest. “Just last night Trinity danced two full sets with the viscount. He’s properly smitten.”
“Her only two sets of the Season!” he argued.
Lydia opened her mouth to speak again, but he ignored her, turning back to Martha.
“Martha, I know your financial situation has become increasingly dire. Paying for the dresses and carriages and whatever else is deemed necessary to see your girls married – you have almost no other option. You must marry.”
“The Season is not yet over,” Martha insisted. “We have at least a month yet. You’ve only just arrived, Francis, you have no idea what prospects we have been cultivating all season long.”
Francis stroked his mustache, unconvinced by her sincere face.
Lydia always considered her uncle an unremarkable man. In her memory, her father had been dashing. He had been tall, broad, strong, friendly, and amenable. Uncle Francis was always in his shadow, glowering in the corner, casting a dull pallor on company whenever he visited.
Her mother, by comparison, was poised and graceful. In her Season, she had been the belle of society, easily winning the attention of the man that became her husband – The Viscount of Rackliff. Still elegant, even with five daughters out in society, Martha held her own against any formidable man or woman.
“Tell me Martha, without a daughter wed, how long can you survive?”
“It’s not that simple,” she argued. “Yes, the purse is growing smaller and smaller, but once the girls are wed, I will have a comfortable living from my dowry.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Francis said. “How much longer can you survive on the funds you have?”
“We have the manor, after all,” she responded, avoiding the question as she gestured to the room around them.
“Ah!” Francis cried, lifting a finger in the air before pointing it straight at Martha, who did not even flinch. “You forget, my dear. With no heir, your dear, late husband is no longer viscount. That title belongs to me.”
“What are you implying?”
Standing as tall as he could, as though trying to intimidate her, he said, “I am offering you my hand, as your husband, so that I can take care of you and your girls. Yet, you scorn me, at every turn, with so little care that you laugh at the suggestion.”
“I do not laugh at you, dear Francis,” she argued in a tired voice. “I cannot help that I still mourn the love of my life – your brother, I might remind you!”
Practically seething, Francis took several steps forward. Drawing himself to his full height, he took a deep breath.
“Bloody hell listen to me! I’m telling you, if you will not have me as your husband, Martha, you shall be out of this house by the end of the season.”
Quiet shock settled over the parlor. Lydia straightened up on the settee while Trinity swung her legs from the couch to the floor. Lucretia and Marcia held their cards in their hands, their jaws dropping open in surprise. Only little Johanna seemed unphased.
“If you will not marry me, I will ask you to seek other accommodations by the end of the Season,” Francis reiterated, when Martha did not reply. “So, unless you think you will be so blessed with a son-in-law that will allow you to reside with him, then I suggest you reconsider your stance.”
