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“She is our aunt, Florence. Mama’s twin.” Bronwyn let out a breath. “I’ve been visiting her in France for a spell.”
Her sister’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak, the marchioness herself appeared at the top of the stairs. Bronwyn braced herself for the outburst of wrath, but it didn’t come. Her mother was much too poised and put together for that, at least in front of the servants. However, the look she speared Bronwyn with, once she reached the bottom of the staircase, ran her straight through like a cold shaft of iron. Disappointment and betrayal were the least of it.
“You lied to me,” the marchioness said.
“I didn’t lie. I did go to Kettering at first.”Then I went to the United States and then on to France, but that’s neither here nor there.Thankfully, the last half of that stayed in her head.
“You expect me to believe you?” Her mother’s thin nostrils flared. “It’s that boy and his wanton wife. I’ve told you I don’t want you associating with them.”
“Courtland isn’t a boy, Mama. He’s duke. And he’s our family.”
“Not my family.”
Bronwyn’s mouth went tight. “Mine, then. His blood—Papa’s blood—runs in my veins and in the veins of all three of your children. And Courtland did not make my decisions for me. I’m perfectly capable of earning your everlasting disapproval on my own.”
“You are turning out to be a blight on the family name, just as he is.”
“Then I’m in excellent company, Mama. I’d prefer be like him than someone so small-minded they refused to grow or change. I would much rather stand for something, than sit on my hindquarters for nothing at all.”
Breathing hard, she attempted to control her temper, but her mother always had a way of pushing her to extremes with the slightest look or smallest word. Bronwyn had run correspondence for Wentworth, carried coded messages, charmed gentlemen for the sake of duty, and never had she felt as skewered by her mother’s judgment as she did right then. She bristled, though her eyes stung. She would not cry.
Her aunt cleared her throat. “Come now, Evelyn, don’t you think you’re being a little harsh on the girl? Surely a little trip to Paris isn’t cause for hysterics?”
“Esther,” her mother said in a frosty voice. “You look—”
“Happy?” her sister interrupted before some other offense was uttered. “Yes, I am. Much to your alarm, I know.”
The marchioness’s lip curled. “I was going to say ‘old.’”
Everyone froze, but her aunt burst into raucous laughter. “One of these days, sister dear, you will learn to insult me without insulting yourself at the same time. I’d rather be old and happy, than old and full of salt and vinegar.”
“Why are you here?” Bronwyn’s mother demanded.
Esther sniffed. “My darling niece invited me for a visit. Surely you won’t turn away your own blood.” Her mouth lifted into a smile. “Then again, the master of the house did offer his hospitality, so I suppose I don’t require your approval after all. You’re as much a guest here as I am, aren’t you, Sister?”
Bronwyn had to work to keep quiet at the astonishment on her mother’s face. A completely unperturbed Aunt Esther was deploying the big guns without fear of reprisal. The marchioness sputtered, but then clamped her lips together and turned on her heel, walking back the way she’d come with a rigid spine.
Esther smirked. “That went well! Florence, my dear, how about a tour and you can tell me if you have any handsome beaux.”
Twenty
Curse her luck!
And her overbearing, managing mother!
And sumptuous ball gowns that barely covered any skin at all!
Bronwyn would much rather be chased and shot at than ogled by men twice her age who saw her only as a dowry with lace-covered breasts. She hadn’t come back to England to be forced onto the marriage mart like some precious society darling as if she’d never left, but that was exactly what was happening.
Mere days after their arrival, her mother had announced that they were to attend a midseason ball at the residence of some peer Bronwyn barely knew. A bloody masquerade, no less! Apparently, the suitor in question—in line for a solvent marquessate—had expressed interest in Bronwyn’s hand, which was why her mother had gone into a frantic state and sent Stinson to Kettering to fetch her forthwith. Needless to say, a wrench had been thrown into the marchioness’s marital hopes and dreams for her daughter when said daughter was nowhere to be found. And now Lady Borne was making up for lost time.
“Mama, I don’t wish to go,” Bronwyn had protested to no effect. “I don’t even know Lord Whatever-His-Name-Is. And I loathe masquerades.”
She actually loved them, along with the diverting anonymity they provided, but when there was someone trying to kill her, a party with guests in disguise could include a death sentence with her name on it.
“Lord Herbert,” her mother had replied crossly. “I won’t hear any excuses.”
The only marginally good thing was that Sesily would be at the ball and had sent word that Wentworth wanted to meet. It was the one place where Bronwyn could facilitate a meeting without being followed by half a dozen people, and the disguises would offer another layer of secrecy. She was sure that between Ashvale and Thornbury, a number of the guests in attendance would be there for her protection…at least ones in possession of an invitation.
