So, if she felt a trifle smug with triumph tonight, she’d earned the feeling. Those squirreled-away winnings had gained her a place at Miss Adelaide’s School for the Refinement of Young Ladies, enough new dresses for a season, and a come-out ball.
This.
A chance at a good, solid future.
Arealfuture.
As she exited the ladies’ retiring room, she smiled a greeting toward a young lady she knew from Miss Adelaide’s. In the smile reflected at her was the same giddy excitement she’d met in the mirror not thirty seconds ago. Before she reentered the ballroom, she tucked herself into a quiet nook and attempted to quiet her heart that begged leave to race again. She took one deep breath, then another, before she heard it—the low murmur of male voices on the other side of the silk screen.
It was a question—“And Lady Artemis?”—that had Beatrix pressing her ear to painted silk.
“She was the prize when she debuted,” said another voice. “But that was two years ago.”
“She’s Rakesley’s sister,” said a third voice. “She’s still the prize.”
Beatrix could only agree. Artemis was the daughter of one wealthy, powerful duke and the doted-upon sister of another wealthy, powerful duke. The size of Artemis’s dowry would, of course, make her the prize of every season until she eventually picked a husband.
Even if a small, unworthy part of Beatrix experienced a pang of envy, she didn’t begrudge her friend her freedom. Just as Beatrix couldn’t help the accident of birth that had led to her unlucky parentage, neither could Artemis help that which had granted her the best.
“She’s a headstrong chit, though,” said another gentleman—or perhaps the first. They all sounded alike.
“Why hasn’t she married, anyway?”
Though she’d never voiced as much to her friend, Beatrix wondered the same. The season of Artemis’s come-out, though, there had been a lord. The second son of an earl, in fact. Quite handsome, in further fact. He and Artemis had danced at every ball—then…nothing. Artemis never spoke of him again, and Beatrix sensed she couldn’t ask.
“Word has it that Rakesley has given her access to her fortune.”
“A mistake handing over that kind of blunt to a lady.”
“How many new dresses does a lady need, anyway?”
The round of laughter that followed set Beatrix’s teeth on edge.
In the conversation that ensued, the gentlemen began reciting the names of other young ladies—and their perceived chances in this season’s marriage mart. Breath held, Beatrix waited for her name to be spoken.
And waited…
And waited.
At last, a voice said, “What of Lydon’s daughter?”
A pause followed—one that drew out a few beats too long.
“Do you mean Lady Beatrix?” came a question that sounded…bewildered.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She might not ever breathe again.
“What of her?” came another question.
Less question and more…scoff.
The thin laughter that followed wasn’t the jolly sort, but rather the sort with a streak of cruelty running through. Her ears began ringing, even as they felt like they’d been packed with cotton. A slick of perspiration coated her palms.
Then came the question—the one that would come to shape the trajectory of her life from this point forward.
“Who amongst us would be saddled with the Marquess of Lydon for family?”
“If she had a curve or two on her bones, one might be tempted…”
