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“I wish you would not give up on love so easily. You must have more faith.” Papa sighed. “Love works in mysterious ways, my dear.”
She bit her lip to keep herself from speaking out. In this, her father’s mind would not be changed. Helen vividly remembered the night her father had escorted her to her first London ball. Inside the carriage, he had expressed a desire for her to make a love match even if it meant waiting an entire lifetime.
She’d dreamed of finding a man just like her father. But as the Seasons passed, Helen had come to learn that unfortunately, that man did not exist. At this point in her life, so long as her potential future husband allowed her to read what she wished, she would be happy. Odysseus would always be a welcomed friend over any of the latest gothic novels.
Helen thought back to each of her last four London Seasons. All of them had ended without a proposal in sight.
This time will be different. I will not waste the opportunity Papa has put before me. I can’t let him down again. This Season will be different.
Two
Chapter 2
Three weeks later, a footman handed Helen down from the Davenport carriage. Her legs wobbled, unsteady and stiff from sitting for three hours. Moving her feet brought the blood back to her limbs, easing the ache.
She studied the identical white bricked townhouses lining the street. Tightly packed together, the only distinguishing feature of the homes was the numbers on the front of each door.
Adjusting her bonnet, she followed her father up the front entry steps of her aunt and uncle’s home. Papa rapped on the black door to number twelve Curzon Street.
A moment later, it swung open. “Hello, Watson, is your master at home?” her father asked.
As Watson opened his mouth to reply, a deep male voice bellowed from the drawing room, “Hugh, about time you arrived.”
Papa tilted his head to the side. “Ever the impatient man, William is.”
The wizened butler remained stone faced as he showed them inside. “I shall see to the unpacking of your luggage.” He bowed to them. “Mr. Davenport, Miss Davenport welcome to London.”
“Thank you, Watson.”
They showed themselves into the familiar circular room adorned in scarlet-and-brown-toned wallpaper. The room had not changed in more than five years.
A portly man dressed in cream-colored wool breeches, a blue waistcoat, a white cravat, and an olive tailcoat stood from his seat on the scarlet chaise lounge. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Davenport? You’ve grown old, man.”
“William, you’re one to speak,” Papa retorted. “I prefer to view the process of aging as becoming more distinguished with time, like a fine vintage wine.” Lord William Rankin, the Earl of Greenly, clapped her father on the back.
“Ah, there is my lovely niece. Let me have a look at you.” Uncle William signaled for Helen to come closer.
She hastily removed her bonnet, smoothed her hair, and curtsied. “Uncle William.”
“None of this. Formalities don’t exist in the Rankin household,” he laughed.
Helen straightened herself and hugged him tightly, breathing in the scent of whisky and tobacco smoke.
“You, my sweet girl, have grown even more beautiful than the last time I laid eyes on you. I dare say I shall have to direct Watson to restrict the number of callers you’re likely to receive over the coming weeks.”
Helen’s cheeks burned. Uncle William’s words flattered her. Rarely was she ever referred to as attractive. Those words were reserved normally for the young debutantes who came from families of wealth and could afford the highest-quality clothing, jewelry, and French maids to style their hair.
“She takes after her mother,” Papa said in a muted tone. “A rare and classic beauty.”
“Of course she does,” Aunt Sarah replied, entering the room.
Lady Sarah Rankin was a woman of short stature with blonde hair and emerald-green eyes. What she lacked in height, she made up for with a personality as large as that of her husband. In her early forties, she had birthed two sons, both of whom had married, with families of their own. From the gleam in her eye, Helen had little doubt of Aunt Sarah’s plans for herself.
“Aunt Sarah.” Helen hugged her tightly.
“Let me have a look at you.” Helen spun in a circle.
“Time has passed too quickly. You are a woman grown,” Aunt Sarah lamented.
