Page 33 of Always the Lyon Tamer

Rebecca sighed.The same old conversation, the one they had been having for years now.

She had been foolish to think she could escape it this evening, particularly after she had been visiting a friend the evening before.

At least, that was what she had told her father.

I should have returned to my bedchamber after supper. It would have been lonely, yes, but she would have avoided this age-old conversation.

She swallowed as she looked at the grey lines across her father’s face, the way he flinched if a cushion was not adequately protecting his back. He was old. He had been old when she had been born, near fifty.

She should spend as much time with him as she could, she knew.Who knew how much more time she would be given with him?When he was gone, and the thought made her stomach twist, she would miss these evenings, these debates even if she loathed them now.

“I know you believe it is imperative I marry as soon as possible, Father,” she said quietly, pulling a blanket over his knees, “but I am still only two and twenty years of age. There is plenty of time, I believe, for me to find a husband.”

Her words did not calm the elderly gentleman. In fact, it appeared to have the opposite effect; the mention of her age, Rebecca knew, was always a sore subject for her father, who believed young ladies should be married before they reached their twentieth year.

His brow furrowed with concern, and his light blue eyes met hers. “Two and twenty, two and twenty! In my day, you would have a child, or maybe two or three, by that age!”

Rebecca nodded. “I know, Father, but this is not your day. It is my day.”

How she could say that with such defiance, she was not sure. She was always respectful to her father, naturally, but there was a limit!

“In my day,” continued her father, ignoring her, “ladies were married before—”

“—their twentieth year, yes, I know,” said Rebecca as calmly as she could, moving a small table beside her father’s chair and placing a glass of red wine upon it. “You have told me before, Father.”

Mr. Darby’s eyes narrowed as he watched his daughter sit down carefully on the sofa beside his chair and pick up her embroidery.

“And yet, you never listen,” he said sadly.

Rebecca heaved a great sigh and remembered to smile as she said, “I do listen, Father, but as I said, that was then, and this is now. Things are different now.”

“Now that’s a true word,” said the older man as he reached for his wine. “In my day, a lady would be ashamed to be unmarried at your age!”

Rebecca was forced to bite down the retort that sprang to her lips—namely, that he had not married until he was forty, and it was most unfair to have such differing rules for the sexes!

The words would not have gone down well, and as she picked up her needle to continue with the rose and ivy pattern she had started last week, she plastered a smile across her lips.

“I do not see what you have to be so cheerful about,” muttered Mr. Darby.

Rebecca sighed. She knew it was difficult for her father. The world had changed, and he had not changed with it. Besides, any conversation with him was sure to spare her further thoughts of John.

Blast, she had been so good this evening at ignoring the thought of him.

“And there are no eligible gentleme—”

“Father, I am unmarried,” Rebecca said, allowing her embroidery to fall into her lap. “Yes. But what do you expect me to do about it? A young lady cannot simply walk up to a gentleman she likes the look of and propose marriage, can she? You would not like me, your daughter, to act in such a wanton way, would you?”

Her heart twisted as she said these words. She hated being so direct with her father, who did mean well, but her pain was particularly acute after last night.

For that was precisely what she had done, had she not?

“No, of course not, that would be scandalous!” Mr. Darby looked uncomfortable at the very thought. “But…well, there must be ways for you to…”

Her father’s voice trailed away. It was clear, Rebecca could see, that he was not entirely sure how the wiles of ladies worked. That they had worked on him thirty years ago did not exactly make him an expert.

“And you are old now, compared to the debutantes coming out at fifteen, sixteen,” he continued plaintively.

Rebecca put her embroidery aside again. She could not allow this line of conversation to continue! Could he not see how she longed for a husband, for an establishment of her own—in short, for John?