Before the buffoons could regain their balance, we threw them onto their buttocks and watched them bang down the steps of Anya House.
The fools cursed and shook fists but spent more time complaining of shock.
“Does your helping toss out men mean you are done with this, Livingston?”
“In science, you must eliminate the outliers. This was manual ejection of bad data. Those fools needed to be excluded from Torrance’s experiment.”
Mr. Steele came outside and tossed hats and gloves at the fools. “As the duke would say, do svidaniya. Goodbye!”
He closed the doors, then disappeared. The man asked no questions, as if it were an everyday thing to expel visitors by force.
Stretching, Livingston said, “If a woman must marry, it should be to someone good. Someone who’ll be kind and respectful.”
“My sentiments exactly. That’s why I must stop—”
“No, Sebastian, you won’t. I wish no ill will to Miss Wilcox, but there are a lot more fools like those two in this world. You haven’t the means to protect a wife, any wife. A woman who has a background and life that’s different from yours needs more. You’re a good man, Sebastian. You’ll stand up to strangers but not your family. Prahmn will be worse than the folks we just kicked out. He can hurt you and the Wilcoxes.”
I couldn’t move or respond.
That saying about a broken clock being right twice a day was correct.
Livingston said the truth aloud to my face.
And I was ashamed.
The vaulted prize I needed to become established, I’d pushed my entry to next year. It must feel so arbitrary to Georgina. The delay meant I’d need my family’s support.
How cruel that must sound to her, to think her husband might be dependent on the whims of people who could turn her—us—away.
No woman should be made to endure any abuse for the sake of love. Yet that was how I’d been telling Georgie our lives would be.
I wasn’t as good as the horrid pony owner, a man who could provide for a wife. That boorish man could offer a woman security.
The notion to be a better man and step aside started to burn, scorched my fingertips. Yet when I stepped into the duke’s hell, his red study with the parade of men roaming like Hades’s Cerberus, I felt sick.
I glanced at Georgie. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to sear a memory between the two of us that would be lasting.
But moments ended.
Memories faded.
I shrank into the corner, hoping all the science came to the conclusion that none of these candidates would work. I needed one more chance, just a little more time, but the hourglass for Georgie’s and my future had drained of sand.
* * *
After another round of questioning and further shrinking of the candidate pool, I retook my position in the back next to Livingston, waiting for Torrance and the Wilcox sisters to return.
I believed they’d gone to the maze. The Wilcox women floating on his arms were stylish and graceful. The goddess, my goddess, had the perfect skin, lovely and warm. Unlike my sainted Dido, her chignon was free. The prettiest, tightest curls were pulled high.
The doors to the study opened.
The duke led the ladies back inside and helped them to sit beside his desk.
Torrance turned to the younger. “Miss Scarlett. It’s your turn again to ask the remaining gentlemen. We should pick candidates with whom you’d want your sister to get more acquainted.”
Wait. Did my ears deceive me? Was Torrance backing down?
Miracle. I could sing Georgie’s hymn.
