They’d arrived in London a fortnight earlier, shipped off by their father to Margaret’s mother’s sister. Aunt Francis agreed to assist Margaret with finding a husband as a favor to her dearly departed sister. She reluctantly accepted Delia at their father’s behest. Perhaps she would find a nice vicar, solicitor, or a third son to take Delia off his hands once and for all.
It wasn’t that her father was unkind. In fact, he was perfectly satisfactory as far as fathers went. His only flaw was that he always had something better to do than to raise daughters. He provided for them, made sure that they had food, clothing, and tutors, but he never provided the one thing every child longed for—love.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to properly meet Hunter.” Margaret twisted her mother’s ring on her hand. “It’s just that he’s very private, and that people will misconstrue his intentions.”
Delia folded her hands over her chest, trying to calm the rage trying to force its way out of her. She took several deep breaths before she spoke. At five and twenty, she’d learned that not everyone could handle her sharp tongue, especially her younger sister.
“What exactly are his intentions?” she asked, tapping her foot against the dark burgundy carpet of their shared room. “You are remembering not to allow him any liberties that should only be permitted to your husband, aren’t you?”
“Delia!” Margaret turned to peer behind her to ascertain Jenny’s reaction.
To her credit, the maid tried to ignore the conversation as she tugged at the silk ribbon around Margaret’s waist.
Delia ignored her sister, not caring one wit about Jenny, who she knew was having an affair with the Aunt Francis’ older butler. In her experience, it was always good to befriend the servants. They were aware of everything in the house, even the houses of the neighbors. That was the precise reason Delia made it a point to befriend servants wherever she was. The small bits of information had saved her on several occasions. Her father’s valet would always tell Delia when he was going to take a trip in advance. It was good to know that way she could stay out of her stepmother’s way when her father was not around. She wasthe first to know of new visitors, before they were announced. When there were whispers of her stepmother trying to find Delia a suitor at sixteen years—she had conveniently disappeared for a sennight under the pretense of taking care of the retired housekeeper who was always kind to her.
It was a delicate balance, of course. One mustn’t allow themselves to become too familiar with the servants, but you also could not be unpleasant.
“What?” she asked, tilting her head. “Do not play coy with me, Margaret St. George. I personally took it upon myself to educate you, and I will not allow this Earl of March to ruin you.”
Margaret’s mother died five years earlier, and the responsibility fell on Delia to ensure that her sister was well acquainted with the ways of the world and the threat men posed to an innocent. Now, it was true that, in Delia’s opinion, the former Duchess of Cliffbury was not any type of mother at all, but her sister still felt the loss greatly.
It was difficult for Delia to understand such devotion. Perhaps if her own mother had not abandoned her when she was seven, like she was no better than rubbish, she would have some loyalty to the woman who gave birth to her.
“T-thank you, Jenny. That will be all,” Margaret told the maid, who was trying not to show how astutely she was listening to their conversation. “Please tell my aunt we will be down shortly.”
Jenny left the room, practically bubbling with the new information.
Good.
Occasionally feeding the servants’ gossip ensured that Delia would be informed of things that Aunt Francis or Margaret had no interest in.
“Must you do that?” her sister asked once they were alone.
The room was scarcely decorated, the furniture nearly a decade old due to Aunt Francis’ dwindling funds as a widow. Her affection for her dead sister was not the reason she had readily accepted the duke’s request for her to host his daughters. She was also in desperate need of funds, which was obvious from the state of her townhouse and her meager number of servants.
Delia walked to the dressing table and began slipping long gloves onto her hand. “Do what exactly?” she asked innocently, perfectly aware what her sister was asking.
“Say such personal things in front of the servants! Really, Delia, one day your candor is going to get you in trouble. You will never get married with such a sharp tongue.”
Delia bristled at her sister’s words. It wasn’t as if any man in London was worthy to be Delia’s husband. She was a bastard after all, nothing but a duke’s by-blow. If a man couldn’t accept every part of her, regardless of birth or how sharp her tongue was, she didn’t want to marry him anyway.
“Good.” Delia peered in the mirror one last time. She looked more and more like her mother every day, from what she could remember of her. It was both a blessing and a curse.
Her mother, Selena Belvoir, was beautiful. She had had men worshiping at her feet. Her father was nothing more than a prize, and Delia was the one thing her mother used to keep him captured. When her father married, he provided a small amount of funds for Delia, but it did not satisfy her mother’s lifestyle.
Delia would never forget the last time she saw her mother. They had taken the coach to her father’s ancestral seat in Leicestershire. The entire ride her mother told her how much fun she would have staying in a grand house and that she had a little sister.
For years, Delia longed for her mother to return, but the years went by, and soon Delia was a grown woman.
“Are you ready?” Margaret asked, standing beside Delia, looking at herself in the mirror.
She wore a pretty, simple blue dress. Their father wasn’t the wealthiest of dukes, but he wasn’t completely impoverished. He was able to provide a small dowry for Margaret, and even Delia, though it wasn’t as much as her sister’s.
She took her sister by the arm, her stomach swirling with excitement. Delia did not enjoy the London Season, but there was something different tonight. “I’m ready.”
Margaret led them out of the room and through the once grand house. The fading curtains and torn carpet were all signs of Aunt Francis’ decline in Society.
“There you are. We must hurry if we want to avoid the crush.” Aunt Francis waited at the door, dressed in a green gown, her lips pinched, her dead brown eyes locked on Delia. “I suppose you have nothing better to wear?”
