Soon after her arrival in London, Polly had begun visiting the Hunt Academy, a unique school for foundlings. She adored working with the children, many of whom had once existed on the fringes of society. Through pure grit and pluck, they’d survived the harsh realities of the rookery, and at the school they were learning invaluable skills that would earn them a better lot in life. In truth, the academy was an oasis not only for them but her as well: it was the rare place where she felt a sense of belonging and purpose.
“I’m not sure who benefits more from my visits—me or the children,” she said earnestly.
“Mayhap I ought to have stayed on with the foundlings myself, but children are so sticky.” Rosie wrinkled her nose. “I do hope the lunatics have a better sense of hygiene.”
Polly shook her head because the comment was just so…Rosie. People who didn’t know the girl oft made the mistake of believing that flippancy was the beginning and end of her when, in fact, she possessed keen intelligence and a loyal heart.
“Instead of lunatics, it might help to think of them as people with ailments,” Thea said mildly. “Folk who are doing their best to cope with a difficult illness.”
Thea spoke with an empathy borne of experience. Once an invalid, she’d fought an uphill battle to live a normal life, and her perseverance had paid off. Not only had her health improved, but she’d married her love, the Marquess of Tremont, and was the proud mama to a stepson and a pair of toddler twins.
Polly admired Thea’s determination. At the same time, she felt a pang of longing. Unlike Thea, she couldn’t rid herself of her affliction—which meant she’d never find love.
The memory of Lord Brockhurst wrung her heart like a wet rag. The only person she’d shared the experience with was Rosie, and she’d left out the part involving Revelstoke. That humiliation was too much to speak of to anyone. Being the object of a nasty wager was bad enough, but to be judged so unworthy…
For reasons she didn’t fully fathom, Revelstoke’s contempt clung to her like wet mud, harder to shake off than even the cruelty of Brockhurst’s prank.Seducing a wallflower—where’s the sport in that?Revelstoke’s words had sunk into her, their fine grit settling uncomfortably into the crevices of her soul.
Still, she ought to count her lucky stars that her secret was safe. Brockhurst had kept her aura-seeing ability to himself—perhaps out of guilt or some belated sense of honor. She would never know because he hadn’t approached her again, and she’d avoided him with equal fervor.
Not all that came from the incident was bad. She’d learned two important lessons, after all. First, the family tradition of marrying for love would not apply to her. No man would fall in love with a girl who was plain and peculiar. Second, it was a reminder that emotions were different from thoughts and actions. She’d glimpsed attraction in Brockhurst’s aura, but his behavior spoke the truth: she’d been no more than a prank to him.
A way to prove his prowess to his friends… to win a hundred quid. Just because she saw an emotion didn’t mean she knew its cause or meaning, and she’d be well served not to make assumptions in the future.
Seeing the worry that continued to flicker around Rosie, however, Polly refocused her thoughts. The present trip was about Rosie’s future. After everything the other had gone through this Season, she needed Polly’s support.
Polly touched the other girl’s sleeve. “We don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to. But if you want to continue on, I know you’ll do fine. You always do.”
“You’re a dear. And, no, I don’t want to turn around. This was my idea, and I must follow it through.” Rosie straightened her slim shoulders, her jade green eyes determined. “I’m going to prove that I’m not the flighty flirt everyone believes me to be.”
“Everyone doesn’t believe that,” Polly protested.
“Half thetondoes. The other half doesn’t deign to notice me at all because I’m a bastard,” Rosie said flatly.
Polly’s chest tightened in sympathy.
Rosie had been born out of wedlock, the result of her mama Marianne’s youthful indiscretion. Since then, however, she’d been publicly acknowledged by her paternal grandparents as well as her aunt, the influential Marchioness of Harteford. Moreover, Ambrose had adopted her after his marriage to Marianne, and the Kents had brought her unconditionally into their fold.
For thebeau monde, however, none of this seemed to matter. Although they didn’t give Rosie the cut direct, what they’d done was even crueler, to Polly’s mind. They’d allowed Rosie theillusionof acceptance into their exclusive sphere. Since her debut, Rosie had enjoyed enormous popularity, her beauty and charm rightly winning her the admiration of countless gentlemen.
Yet in recent months it had become painfully clear that popularity was not the same as respectability. Flirtations had not led to offers, nor promises to proposals. Most unfair of all, Rosie’s reputation had suffered from the men’s fickle behavior:shehad been the one labelled brazen—a flirt.
“It matters not. I’ve put it all behind me,” Rosie declared. “Once I reform my image, I’ll have eligible suitorsvyingfor my hand. Which is why I must carry on with the visit today. To show them all that I’m charitable, respectable, and all the things a lady ought to be.”
“And perhaps doing good will be reward in itself,” Thea suggested. “You sing like an angel, Rosie. When we give our performance, I’m sure your voice will lift many a downtrodden spirit.”
“I’ll do my best.” Rosie smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Well, since I’m to attempt to cheer up some cracked pots… how do I look?”
Rosie had inherited her mama’s exquisite bone structure, corn-silk hair, and stunning green eyes. She had an unerring instinct for fashion as well, and her white sprigged muslin, with itsau courantflounced butter-yellow underskirt and ribbon trim, set off her slender form to perfection. To complete the ensemble, she’d worn matching yellow kid boots, and a spray of buttercups adorned her bonnet.
“Beautiful as always,” Polly said sincerely. “You do know how to put an outfit together.”
“If that’s the case, I do wish you’d let me dress you. That sack you’re wearing,”—Rosie gave a shudder—“it’s atravesty.”
Since this was a familiar conversation, Polly didn’t take offense. She knew Rosie had her best interests at heart, but what the other didn’t understand was that Polly wasn’t like her. Not everyone could be beautiful. And not everyone wanted to be noticed.
As if the fiasco of Lord Brockhurst hadn’t been enough, Polly had suffered yet another indignity in the past year. For most of her life, she’d been a thin, slight girl, but Emma, her eldest sister, had correctly predicted that she’d be a late bloomer. Seemingly overnight, Polly had sprouted curves that strained the bodices of her dresses, and her lower half had undergone the same excessive expansion as well. Coupled with her short stature, her new form was awkward and ungainly.
How she wished she might be slender and lithe like Rosie. The other was as graceful as a swan whereas Polly resembled the proverbial partridge—in figure and coloring. Her hair was a non-descript shade, as if it couldn’t decide whether to be blond or brown and settled for something in between. Neither straight nor curly, the thick tresses rebelled against pins and hot irons and were the bane of her existence, trumped only by her aura-seeing queerness.
