“Or at least be more discreet,” Mrs. Eastburn added. “One cannot consider his activities even an open secret when the man sends gilded invitations. Whatever happened to discretion in such matters?”
Bryony rolled her eyes heavenward. The Duke of Lambley didn’t give a button what some baroness thought of his lifestyle. He had a large enough extended family that he could stay a bachelor the rest of his life if he wished without endangering the title. Lambley was free to live as he chose.
She quite envied him the privilege.
In the meantime, all she had to be grateful for was her quiet position out of view. Bryony had no wish to join Mother’s conversation with her friend. The whispers her ears could pick up were teeth-gnashing enough.
“The Duke of Courteland,” Mother was saying, “is too new in his role for me to form strong opinions about him as a man, but perhaps that would make him the perfect husband for Bryony. Her father and I could mold them both into perfect pillars of Society.”
“You are correct in all things,” Mrs. Eastburn agreed. “Now that I see where your gaze rests, I understand your concern. Being a wife is a challenge and a duty. One cannot be a duchess and a virtuoso.”
Bryony stabbed her needle back through the fabric.
She had no intention to be a virtuoso, not that anyone had bothered to inquire about her feelings on the matter. She had less interest in being a Society wife and even less interest in being a duchess molded into her parents’ image.
And yet, she had no desire to be a disappointment to her family.
That was why she was sitting here in the drawing room, was it not? It was why she performed at musicales, why she danced every set at dinner parties no matter how badly her feet hurt or how dull her partner, why she was doing her best to learn how to create some semblance of order out of tangled colored threads instead of out exploring London. She hated being the child her parents could not be proud of.
Although her methods could be maddening, Mother truly wanted the best for all her children. She honestly believed even someone like Bryony held a prayer of snagging a duke. She expected her daughter to be the best she could be.
Even if it meant being someone else entirely.
“Do tell,” Mrs. Eastburn began, once the tea had been served on their side of the room. They seemed to have forgotten Bryony’s presence completely. “Has Courteland come to call?”
“He has not,” Mother admitted. “No, don’t look sorry for me. Our barony is respectable and our position in Society is sound. Bryony is far more presentable now than she used to be, but still not enough to attract a duke.”
Mrs. Eastburn was silent for a moment. “Is it the hair?”
“Itisthe hair,” exclaimed Mother, vindicated. “I’ve told her time and again that she will not catch any man without side curls, but she acts as if she hasn’t the time to submit to a pair of curling tongs.”
“She’ll wish she took the time,” Mrs. Eastburn said ominously. “If she ends up wed to a second son because she was unwilling to let her lady’s maid perform the duties required of her, it will only be her own fault.”
“I tell her soevery day,” Mother said with a groan.
Bryony gritted her teeth. Even though they believed her well out of earshot, she was not some mare at Tattersall’s, to be discussed and dissected before being bid upon by gentlemen more interested in her outward appearance and capacity for breeding than in her intelligence.
But what point was there in saying so? Adding more fuel to the fire was not the way to win her mother’s approval or gain Society’s good favor.
Worse, from all she had seen, there was no reason to believe her mother did not have the right of the matter. Diamonds of the first water who bewitched earls and viscounts during their very first come-out were all of a type: the opposite of Bryony.
It went far beyond perfect hair, although even Bryony would admit the most successful debutantes did possess beauty in abundance. They were also sweet and biddable, accomplished in talents like country-dances and proper posture, with little ambition beyond giving birth to future ladies and lordlings.
They would not talk back or disagree. Their future husband would be a catch by all standards, and they were secure in the knowledge that their own worth was a fair match to his.
Bryony was opinionated and headstrong, quick-tongued and impatient. She rather suspected she would make a terrible wife, and could not blame any lord for not wishing to put her to the test.
The truth was, Bryony did want a secure future. She did imagine herself with a husband. She would love to have a nursery full of happy, confident children.
With luck they would be just as obstinate and opinionated as their parents.
Presuming anyone acceptable ever offered for Bryony’s hand.
She lowered her gaze to her demon-inspired sampler. Whatwouldsuch a man look like?
Dark eyes and a sardonic smile rose to mind. She pushed the image away at once. Poppycock.
Not only was she far from the sort to fall in love at first sight, Maxwell Gideon did not inspire one to develop soft feelings towards him. Yes, he was sinfully attractive, and very well, she was consumed by the thought of kissing him, but those were desires one could quench in a single evening, not an attachment that would last for eternity.
