CHAPTER ONE
Hope Sharpe sat at the dining room table, chin in hand, as she gazed out the window of the London terrace home. She was trying to ignore the stifling heat that had descended upon the city that week, as well as feign interest in her grandmother’s overt excitement.
“Isn’t she a dear!” the elderly Alice Sharpe said, fanning herself with the envelope of the letter she held in her other hand. The invitation had topped the small pile of correspondence brought to her just before breakfast. “Dorothea is so gracious to remember us.”
The corner of Holly’s mouth pulled up in a half-hearted smile, but it was difficult to get excited for yet another ball, to be part of yet another season when Holly had been through several already. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful to be invited to the events that clogged the social calendar at this time of year, but the oppressive, unseasonably heatwave that had fallen on London this spring was all Hope could focus on.
The housemaids had opened nearly every window to allow in the breeze, but Hope dreamed of the cool, breezy months of autumn. She simply wasn’t made for heat. Her fair skin burned easily beneath the sun, which made her grandmother insist that she cover up so as not to freckle. But the extra layers of clothing that she was forced to wear were stifling. They may have kept freckles at bay but that was no compensation for the way they made Hope sweat.
But she didn’t complain. No. Ever trying to be the dutiful granddaughter, she always did what was asked of her, unlike her younger sisters, Faith, and Grace. But it wasn’t because she was weak-willed. Hope merely believed in finding the best of situations.
Including situations like attending the ball of…of… Come to think of it, whowasDorothea?
“Dorothea?” Hope asked, facilitating the conversation.
She went to take a sip of her tea but abandoned it when she realized how hot it was. Frowning, she looked at her middle sister Faith, who lifted her glass of water in a mock toast.
“The dowager duchess of Spotsmore,” her grandmother said. “She’s always been a dear friend of mine. She’s holding a ball in honor of her granddaughter, Lady Natalie Hawkins.”
Although the Sharpes weren’t exactly wealthy, they lived in relative comfort in a well-staffed London terrace in Soho square that had been in their possession for several years. Not quite as grand or fashionable as Mayfair, but certainly a respectable neighborhood and Mayfair adjacent. Alice had still somehow managed to wrangle them an invitation to what was bound to be one of the most prominent events that season. The Spotsmore mansion was the jewel of Mayfair, and they always held the most fashionable soirees.
“Isn’t Lady Natalie already engaged?” Faith asked, her brow creased.
“Lord Bartley hasn’t proposed,” Grace, the youngest Sharpe sister, interjected, not looking up from her book. Despite her grandmother's disapproval, Grace always read at the dining room table. “Not yet.”
“Well, I’m sure this is Dorothea’s very clever way of helping things along,” Grandmother Alice said, eyeing Hope with purpose.
The small, telling gesture reminded Hope of the state of her own romantic prospects with one Mr. Jacob Pennington. The fourth son of a baron, and with the very little likelihood of inheriting said title, Jacob had attended school to become a lawyer. They had met three years ago during a picnic in Hyde Park, and had started their courtship that very day. But he was steadfast in his five-year plan and Hope knew he wasn’t likely to propose until he made partner in his law firm.
Their pre-engagement was well known throughout London and almost everyone in society had taken to calling herHold-on Hope, which she had always endured with a smile, not wanting to generate gossip by showing her true reaction. In reality, it irritated her to no end.
“Hope?” Alice said, interrupting her daydream. She faced her expectant grandmother, who sighed with disappointment. “Pay attention, Hope. Young ladies do not fare well when their attentions are so easily lost.”
Hope nodded dutifully. Whenever she would complain about her prolonged courtship—with no engagement in sight—to her grandmother, she was merely reminded that patience was a virtue. Her grandmother would then say that Mr. Pennington would likely prefer a wife to be accommodating rather than peevish, which only added to Hope’s agitation.
But then she would take a deep breath, count to five and remind herself that no good ever came from complaining.
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Hope straightened her shoulders and focused her attention on her sisters’ discussion about Lord Bartley. Hope had once had the unfortunate mistake of asking the gentleman his opinion on literature. He had superciliously stated that fiction was a frivolous waste of time and that she would be much better served by focusing on writings ofrealimport. After that, she was forced to suffer through nearly an hour of his personalreview of a mathematics book proving Brianchon’s Theorem, written by Charles Brianchon.
It had been one of the most tedious hours of her entire life.
“Lady Natalie is a fine young woman and will make an excellent marchioness one day,” her grandmother said, waving off a footman’s attempt to fill her water glass. “She should be very pleased that Lord Bartley has chosen her.”
“I hope she doesn’t have a fondness for books,” Hope mused quietly.
“Poor dear,” Grace said, finally looking up. “I quite liked Natalie. It’s a shame that she’ll have to bear that marriage.”
“Whatever are you all talking about?” their grandmother asked with a pinched brow. “Lady Natalie is fortunate to have found someone to marry. She’s doing a sight better than you three,” she said before giving Hope a pitying glance. “Well, except for you, my dear.”
Hardly a shining compliment, but Hope tried not to be bothered.
“Why anyone would want to be tied to a man like Lord Bartley indefinitely is a mystery,” Faith said as she buttered her toast. “He’s an absolute toad, and I for one am very sorry for Lady Natalie’s misfortune.”
“Faith Sharpe, you’ll watch your tongue,” Alice scolded as a sudden cough escaped her throat. Her hand came to cover her mouth as her face scrunched up. “Lord Bartley… is a…” The tremor from her hacking caused her fine gray hair to loosen from its intricate style. “A fine…” She coughed forcefully into her fist. “A fine man.”
All three Sharpe sisters paused in their activities to focus on their grandmother’s terrible coughing fit. Panicked slightly, Hope sprung up and signaled to one of the servants. A footman returned with a pitcher of water and poured it into a glass thatHope handed to her grandmother. Grace came up to rub her back while a regretful Faith scooched down two chairs to sit by her side, taking her free hand.
