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He blathered and blustered on and on about himself, and all she had to do was supply fresh subjects for his soliloquies, such as the bloodlines of his stables, his legendary prowess at sports and hunting, and his castle in Herefordshire.
His increasingly warm manner and attentions made it plain that if she played her cards right, she might very well have a chance at the unfathomable honor of becoming the Countess of Mayhew.
It would be one avenue away from her dear, well-meaning, overbearingly smothering mother.
No, it wouldn’t. Not really.
As Lady Mayhew, she’d be expected to entertain,to fulfill her role as a society doyen, to turn a blind eye to her husband’s indiscretions while maintaining a blameless reputation.
A whole new set of rules and expectations and social obligations would descend on her like a plague of locusts, eating away at her spirit and her dreams.
She’d seen it happen to girls who made advantageous marriages against their wishes. She’d seen the desperation in their eyes, the curtailment of any freedoms, the dulling of conversation and stilting of movements. She’d witnessed her own parents’ marriage.
A marriage of social convenience where her mother gave up all of her own needs and desires in order to service her demanding and dismissive husband.
All Mayhew cared about was himself—all he wanted was the use of her more than generous dowry, and a meek, docile pool in which to view, like Narcissus, his own reflection.
After the dance, Mayhew delivered her back to her mother. “Lady Beatrice, I hope you will do me the honor of standing up with me again later in the evening?”
“I’d be most honored, my lord,” replied Beatrice, with a pretty curtsy that made her mother smile brighter than the flickering candles.
Beatrice was swept into the arms of another eligible gentleman, and her mother gathered with her friends to gossip about the evening’s developments.
Toward the end of the evening, Lady Millicent Granger, Beatrice’s sworn enemy, arrived by herside as she stood for a moment, catching her breath after all the dancing.
“A few new feathers do not a swan make,” said Lady Millicent in an undertone, maintaining a beatific expression on her lovely face. “You’ll always be—”
“Beastly,” said Beatrice, cutting her off. “So you’ve maintained all of these years since finishing school. One does wonder why, over the years, you couldn’t think of more varied ways to insult me. I could suggest a plethora of more inventive invectives, should you be interested in expanding your vocabulary.”
“As outlandish as ever, I see.” Lady Millicent got to the point. “Mayhew is mine. Don’t think that you can entice him with your dowry and your new French gowns.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger.” Beatrice didn’t mind if Lady Millicent believed her pretense, though she had no intention of stealing her prize earl.
Her mother swooped in to rescue her from Lady Millicent, and they left the ball shortly thereafter.
“You were remarkably successful tonight, after our little chat, but it’s better not to push our luck.” Her mother hurried her into the carriage. “We’ll keep your appearances brief. We’ll leave them wanting more. I knew this was your year, Beatrice. I felt it. What did Lady Millicent want?”
“To warn me away from Mayhew.”
Her mother settled into the carriage and wrapped her fur-trimmed cloak around her shoulders. “I was beginning to doubt you had the fortitude for this battle, and here you are becoming a triumph before my very eyes.”
“I will try, Mama.”
She had the fortitude. She’d do whatever it took to keep the shop and transform it into a clubhouse. Her aunt’s legacy, and the wonderful collection of books that could be kept as a library for the use of club members, would be put to a worthy purpose. She wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way of this dream. Not her mother, and certainly not predatory Mr. Foxton.
This time, the wallflowers were going to win.
Chapter Nine
“Do you ever think about it, Griff?” Ford didn’t have to say whatitwas. His old navy friend Griffith knew. He’d been there.
“Course I do.” Griffith continued coiling rope. They were on the deck of his fishing vessel, theAngela. Griff, as his friends knew him, was a grizzled old salt with deep lines grooved into his cheeks, a shock of untamed white hair, and an even wilder look in his piercing blue eyes. He’d retired from the navy a year ago and now fished for a living.
“Sometimes I can’t sleep thinking about it,” Ford said.
“That’s when you find company to take your mind off things. If your body’s too tired from bed sport, your mind can’t betray you.”
Ford stopped sanding the deck boards. “Haven’t had much company lately.”
