Chapter One
Rosalie
Bath, 1817
“Are you listening to me?”
Rosalie looks up from her slouch on Mother’s stiff pink fainting couch, the latest copy ofDebrett’scrinkled in her hands. “The Duntons would like to meet the Spokes, and their son should dance at least one set with Henrietta.”
Mother narrows her eyes and Rosalie stares back just as pointedly. She may not actually care about tonight’s ball, but she’s still her mother’s daughter. Not missing a trick is practically part of their family crest.
“Good. MissRaught could use a few more dances, and it wouldn’t hurt to turn Mr.Spokes away. Wouldn’t want him getting any ideas,” Mother says.
Rosalie watches Mother consider her reflection in the three-pronged mirror. She has a small dais set up in the corner of her expansive, blue-wallpapered bedroom, and she spends at least an hour at it before every ball, perfecting every single part of her outfit.
Rosalie spends her fair share of that hour primping as well, but Mother is always the last one ready to leave. Well, unless Father is attending. It’s equally possible he’ll be running late tonight.
They’re well suited, and always at least an hour late.
But it saves Rosalie another hour at the Assembly Room, for which she’s grateful. Every ball is the same people, the same introductions, the same dances. It’s perfunctory.
Spending her whole night deterring men like Mr.Spokes, lest he, or anyone else, get the idea that Rosalie could be stolen away from the most eligible Mr.Dean, gets tired. Rosalie sometimes quietly wonders if she might like to be stolen.
Mother would have kittens. Mr.Dean is by far the best prize of Bath. Far better than Rosalie could do if they’d chosen to present her in London. Father’s estate has a sizeable living and they’re exceedingly comfortable here. But she knows her dowry wouldn’t command nearly the same attention in London, nor would Father’s young earldom command the same respect.
Other girls might pout, but Rosalie can’t imagine going through all of this on a larger scale. Being a big fish in the small pond of Bath suits her, her parents, and her brother, Christopher, when he’s at home. It used to be fun, even, running the ton, everyone catering to them, especially if Aunt Genevieve and Uncle Walter were in town.
But lately it just feels... hollow. Christopher’s off at school and Aunt Genevieve won’t arrive for another two weeks. Tonight is going to be interminable.
At least Mr.Dean doesn’t fawn. He’s a quiet, sturdy kind of man, of rather few words. Rosalie doesn’t mind so much. She doesn’t think their life together will be filled with witty conversation or sparkling attraction, but it should be a good life. She’ll have a staff and the money to give her children a comfortable upbringing.
It’s what her mother has had. And Mother is happy with her lot.
Rosalie should look forward to one day putting her daughter through—helpingher daughter through—the marriage market. Presenting Rosalie, seeing her happily wed, is something Mother’s dreamed about for years. Rosalie should be overjoyed with all that she has, like her mother is.
“All right, I can’t do anything more,” Mother declares, spinning back to get last looks from Rosalie.
“You are absolutely stunning,” Rosalie says, the smile in her voice almost genuine.
Mother, of course, does look beautiful. Her cream muslin gown, overlaid with a beautiful lace covered in little rosettes, is gorgeous. Her bountiful dark brown hair is swept up against the back of her head, and the gentle curls that frame her face only accentuate her rosy cheeks and bright brown eyes.
A smaller, near-perfect copy of her mother, Rosalie knows she’s equally beautiful. Has never had to doubt it. But Mother has always needed more reassurance. Rosalie wishes sometimes her mother wanted more than this. More than the most recent fashions and hair and beautiful compliments. Wishes there were more for her to want.
Rosalie wishes there were more for her to want too.
“You’re sure it’s—”
“Perfect. Everyone will be absolutely green with envy. Mr.Dean might even forsake me for you.”
Mother snorts. “One too many. You always go one too many.”
Rosalie laughs. “Come on, Father might actually be waiting for us this time.” She takes Mother’s hand to pull her out of her suite and down the hall to the massive staircase that wraps around and down into their grand foyer.
It’s the perfect place to make an entrance, and all four of them enjoy doing so. Christopher likes to slide down the polishedmahogany banister when he’s at home. Rosalie used to do the same, until she turned fourteen and it was suddenly brazenly unladylike to makethatmuch of an entrance.
Still, Father beaming at them as he waits for them to descend, beautiful in his own right in his navy waistcoat with a pink necktie to match the rosettes on Mother’s dress, is lovely enough.
“You have outdone yourselves,” he declares, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs, his grin stretching across his narrow cheeks, brown eyes crinkling.
