“No,” Rachel corrected him. “She is looking out for herself. My parents want me to marry to get more clout with the capital. The three men they wanted me to marry were men with close contact to the Prince Regent.”
“That would matter, but I am not taking her words in any negative way. She was right; artists are the romantic sort, so it is reasonable that she would suspect me. I imagine that you never made the declaration that you wanted to find a romantic partner before?”
“No.”
“Then you could see why she came to that conclusion,” William stood and brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “Don’t fret about it too much, Rachel.”
The smooth push of the door—Jane’s reentrance—had him stepping away and going back to his easel. Jane rested the glass of lemonade on the table, and they took a few more moments to drink.
Rachel drank half her glass while thinking about William’s words. He was not fazed by her mother, and she wondered why. How was he not insulted? The morning hours passed with the question still heavy on Rachel’s mind and lingered there when her mother called for her to get dressed. Soon they were off to church.
***
It was late when Rachel and her family arrived home from a long, tedious service and sermon. She privately wondered if her mother had a hand in the priest’s sermon because he had droned on about sin of disobedience and how control should be dealt with. A wife should submit to her husband, and children should submit to their parents.
But Rachel had made up her mind; she was not going to live a loveless marriage like the one her parents did. She uttered her goodnights to them then went to her rooms. It was late, so she did not bother calling Jane to help and disrobed alone.
She donned her nightclothes and slid into bed, only to feel the crinkle of paper under her hand. Curious, she plucked the paper up to peer at it. Thankfully, the firelight from the grate was enough for her to make out a drawing of a woman, her face hidden by a mask made of feathered wings. On closer inspection, Rachel realized that it was her face.
William had drawn her as the angel he saw her as. It was a beautiful picture, and she treasured it. It was a bit frightening how William had seen through her pretense of being as impassive as her parents. And more disturbing was how instinctively she responded to him. Not only to his kisses and his touch, but to how his eyes would skim over her and the small smiles he gave her when he thought that she was not looking.
He must have given the drawing to Jane.
Carefully folding it in half, she slid it into her bedside table and closed it. For once, she wondered if William had a lady friend somewhere. Surely a man as handsome as he would have admirers somewhere. He did not kiss with hesitation, which told her he had experience with women.
Of course, he has experience; he is ten years older than I. Unless he is a monk, he must have some involvement with women.
But why did that conclusion make her stomach sink?
***
Resisting the urge to stick a finger in the high neck of her dress, Rachel tried to focus on the conversation around her. To her surprise, the night after she had interrogated William, her mother had taken her to ball held in their neighborhood.
Compared to the other ladies in silk dresses and hairs done up with jeweled ornaments, Rachel still felt like an object of curiosity in her high-collar outdated velvet dress and simple hairstyle. When the dance was called, breaking up the conversation, she was prepared to take her seat at the sidelines with all the other wallflowers there, but a Lord stopped.
“Lady Hampton,” he bowed. “I am Julius Bennet, Earl of Strathmore. May I have this dance?”
Rachel blinked. Disbelief washed through her that such a handsome Lord, tall, fair-haired with bright green eyes, was askingherto dance. When they were more fashionable, graceful women around. She heard the music begin and rushed to say, “Oh, yes, yes.”
She took his extended hand and was swept to the dance floor for the Cotillion. She danced with her heart somewhere in her throat, double guessing every move she made. Only when the dance ended did she feel relief that she had not stumbled or made a wrong step.
Lord Strathmore took her arm. “You have a graceful step, My Lady.”
“Thank you.” Rachel reddened as he led her to the refreshment tables. “You…erm, dance well too. May I ask, where did you go to school?”
“Eton, then Cambridge,” he replied over a glass of punch while Rachel had water. “I spent a semester in America at the Yale University at New Haven.”
A thread of jealousy ran through her. For most of her life, she had wanted to travel, but her parents had stated that not only would she not be leaving London, but that she would never leaveEngland.
“That is very fortunate of you,” she added. “To travel, I mean.”
He gave her a proud smile. “America is a fascinating country. A little rustic and undeveloped, but the masters do have a good grasp of what they are teaching. How about you, My Lady?”
“I was schooled at home,” Rachel said. “And I also did finishing school at home. My parents were worried that I would be drawn off the righteous path by the influence of the other girls.”
“I see,” he nodded.
Her stomach sank a little at his tone. It felt as if he were drawing away from her with her admission. Resting the glass down, Rachel gave him a wan smile. “I am not like these other ladies as you can see—” she brushed her hand down her drab dress, “—so if you would not want to see me again, I understand.”
