“I am so sorry, Prim,” her mother apologised. “The sheet… The consequences. We are all at our wits’ end.”
“Well, well, well,” the Viscount tutted. “There is not much we can do now. All that we can actually do is wait?”
“Wait?” Prim looked up in shock.
She gazed upon her sisters holding each other. The Season was in full bloom. Camilla and Myrtle had just started to get noticed. This was their chance, their debut. And they would sit around and wait?
“Father, what do you hope to wait for?”
Her father looked out the window at the carriages passing. His look was resolved and weirdly calm. He had a plan. Prim knew that look.
“We are waiting for the Duke.”
The twins jumped up in shock.
“You’re right, dear,” her mother said eagerly, leaving Prim’s side. “The Duke will certainly come.”
“Of course he will,” the Viscount echoed, nodding. “This is a matter that will require delicate resolving.”
Prim watched in dawning horror as the cogs in their minds began to turn. Whatever warmth she had felt evaporated in an instant.
“Who knows?” her mother added, rubbing her hands together like a scheming villainess. “He may even come to arrange the simplest of solutions.”
Cold sweat slid down Prim’s spine.
“Marriage!” her father declared, eyes gleaming.
Prim looked out the window as if actually expecting the next passing carriage to procure the Duke with flowers and a vicar in tow.
“I’ll be in my study,” her father announced.
“I’ll instruct the kitchen.”
And just like that, the Jenkins sisters were left alone in the ironically sunny drawing room. For a few moments, all three are stunned. This was a Tuesday morning no one saw coming.
Prim was the first one to snap out of it. She let herself fall back in her armchair, still staring out the window. Her sisters sat right across her on the little sofa. Tea was brought in, but her mother was still managing the household and probably changing in something more appropriate to receive a Duke.
“Do you think he is really coming?” Myrtle spoke for the first time. “Prim?”
Prim poured some fresh tea and pretended to drink to occupy her running mind and trembling hands. There were two completely new questions that burdened her now. Was the Duke really coming? And did she want him to?
“They say,” Camilla hesitated, but her youthful enthusiasm won. “They say the Duke is very charming.”
Prim’s eyes snapped to Camilla. The girl has taken her sister’s hand in hers, and she practically shook from excitement.
“They say he is dangerous,” Myrtle said.
“Well, heisa complete rake,” Camilla whispered.
“Mrs. Ellingham claims he once wagered he could make the sternest dowager in London blush.”
“He won,” Camilla whispered. “Twice.”
Prim’s fingers tightened around the delicate china. She was mentally preparing herself to go up against a dangerous, scandalous, admired, feared, and entirely impossible rake. Excellent. The writer of incredulous lies could have picked anyone else to falsely pair her with.
Prim looked out the window as the streetlamps were being lit one by one, each tiny flame marking the slow death of daylight, and of her hopes. The family sat scattered about the drawing room like forgotten chess pieces after a losing game. No one spoke. The silence was so sharp that every soft clink of a spoon against porcelain made Prim flinch.
Hours passed. Slow, agonising hours. Every knock, every rolling carriage wheel, every pair of heavy footsteps echoing along the pavement outside sent her nerves jerking to attention. But the truth crept in, cold and undeniable.
