“I do not wish to speak about the squirrel.” Her mother’s lips were tight.
“About the vase and the table, I—”
Mother’s eyes were shards of blue ice. “I do not wish to speak about the vase or the table.”
PoorMère.She would have been beautiful if she weren’t always so angry. Usually with Delilah. Her mother’s blond hair held subtle streaks of white, her eyes so blue they would have been heavenly if they weren’t so hard. She had a perfect, patrician nose and lines around hermouth no doubt caused by years of frowning at her only child.
Delilah looked nothing like her. Lord Hilton was correct. Delilah took after her father. She had Papa’s dark brown hair and matching eyes. A butter stamp, they’d called her, meaning she looked exactly like him. Delilah was of medium height while her mother was petite. Delilah was exuberant and talked far too loudly and far too much, while her mother was always calm and reserved. Delilah was a failure on the marriage mart, while her mother (even at her advanced age of three and forty) had a score of suitors. Hilton was the most aggressive, and her mother’s obvious favorite.
Delilah’s mind raced. If Mother didn’t want to chastise her about the vase, the table, or the squirrel, what could she possibly—
Delilah winced. “Is it about the donkey ears?”
Mother’s eyes widened slightly with alarm. “Donkey ears?”
Oh, dear. Now was probably not the best time to tell Mother she’d been rehearsing a play for charity. The woman rarely approved of anything Delilah did, and joining the outrageous Duchess of Claringdon, Lucy Hunt, in a production of a play was certain to be another in a long list of things Mother disapproved of, even if they were performing Shakespeare’sA Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“Never mind,” Delilah said in as nonchalant a voice as she could muster.
Mother delivered another long-suffering sigh. She touched one fingertip to each of her temples. “I don’t even want to know what you meant by that. But no, it’s not about any of those things.” Her mother’s hands returned to settle motionless in her lap.
Delilah watched with awe. She’d never been able to master the art of sitting perfectly still. She also hadn’t mastered the arts of speaking fluent French, being patient, pouring tea without spilling it, keeping her clothing clean and rip-free, or any of a number of other things she’d tried. All of her shortcomings were a source of unending shame to her mother.
Delilah pressed her lips together, but she couldn’t keep her slipper from tapping the floor. When would she learn it was always better to allow Mother to speak first? The conversation tended to be less incriminating that way. “Whatwouldyou like to speak to me about, Mother?” she forced herself to ask in the primmest voice she could muster. Mother had always valued primness.
Mother straightened her shoulders and pursed her lips. “It’s about your marriage.”
A sinking feeling started in Delilah’s chest and made its way to the bottom of her belly, where it sat, making her feel as if she’d swallowed a tiny anvil. She’d known this day would come, known it for years, but she had merely hoped it wouldn’t arrive quite so… soon.
“You’ll be three and twenty next month,” Mother continued.
A fact. “Yes, Mother.”
“That isfarbeyond the age arespectableyoung woman should take a husband.”
That depended upon what one considered respectable, didn’t it? It also depended on whether one’s goal was respectability. “Yes, Mother.”
“You’ve spent the last five Seasons running about with the Duchess of Claringdon, playing matchmaker for other young ladies.”
True. “Yes, Mother.” Delilah managed to stop her footfrom tapping, but her toes continued to wiggle in her slipper.
“You don’t seem to have given so much as a thought to your own match.”
Also true. “Yes, Mother.” Was it her fault if it was much more diverting to find matches for other people than to worry about a courtship for herself? When she was a girl, she’d looked forward to being courted by handsome gentlemen. But that had been years ago, before she’d grown up to be entirely unmatchable. She’d always known she would have to try to make her own match eventually, however. Someday. Apparently Mother’s patience was at an end.
“I daresay your friendship with Huntley hasn’t been a good influence. He also refuses to make a match. And he’s a duke, for heaven’s sake. He’ll need an heir someday.”
Delilah winced. It was never good when Mother mentioned Thomas. The two could barely stand each other. “Thomas doesn’t exactly believe in marriage.”
“Yes, well,you’dbetter start believing in it.” Mother’s highly judgmental eyebrow arched again. “This is yoursixthSeason, and it’s nearly over.”
Yes, but who was counting? And why did Mother have to pronounce the wordsixthas if it were blasphemy? She sounded like a snake hissing.
“I insist you secure an engagement this year,” Mother continued. “If you do not, I shall be forced to ensure one is made for you.”
Delilah shot from her chair. “No! Mother!” Her fists clenched at her sides.
Mother’s brow lifted yet again, and she eyed her daughter scornfully until Delilah lowered herself back into her seat. She managed to unclench her fists, but her foot resumed the tapping.
