“No,” Lillian had sighed. “No, he’s not.”
“Oh, well, in that case…”
Disappointment.
It was an emotion she’d become quite acquainted with over the past year and a half. Eighteen months of Lady Wimples. Eighteen months of watching what she loved slowly die, as she’d had to watch her father die. And not being able to do anything to stop it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure whether she was talking to Marjorie… or herself. “There’s too much to do before opening night, and everyone saw that I should work on my lines.”
“What yeshoulddo,” said Marjorie, the painted corners of her eyes wrinkling with matronly concern, “is get some food and some rest, Lillian. When was the last time ye did either?”
“There’ll be plenty of time to eat and sleep after the play.” A pile of unpaid notes slid off the side of her desk and fluttered to the floor as Lillian pushed her chair back and stood. She didn’t bother to pick them up. “We have one more chance tomorrow night. I managed to secure myself an invitation to the Yuletide Ball at Foxhaven House.”
Marjorie’s jaw dropped. “That fancy manor up on the hill? Blimey. I’ve never even been close enough to see what color the shutters are.”
Neither had Lillian. Renowned for its elaborate themed parties and the elite crowd such gatherings attracted, Foxhaven House stood alone atop a rolling knoll overlooking the River Thames. As the daughter of a baron, she’d attended a handful of balls during her debut Season before her attention had been captured by the stage and she’d veered off in the completeopposite direction of her peers.
While other young women her age had been curling their hair and gossiping about London’s list of most eligible bachelors, she’d been wearing wigs and reciting Shakespeare. Rubbing elbows with theton’selite had never held much appeal and finding a wealthy husband–finding any husband, for that matter–wasn’t high on her list of priorities. But if the Lisbon Theater was to survive beyond Christmas, then she did require a wealthy benefactor. Someone whose name would fill seats and whose deep pockets would fill the chandeliers with candles that weren’t worn down to little nubs of wax.
Having exhausted all of her father’s acquaintances, she had one last chance to land a stag. And if there was any place to do it, it was the infamous Yuletide Ball.
Held once every three years, it was considered thecrème de la crèmeof social affairs. The gold embossed invitations were as valuable as the Crown Jewels and possessing one was a reflection of your power and influence…unless you happened to win it in a lucky roll of hazard.
“The shutters are blue, I think.” Lillian shrugged. “I’ll let you know. The ball is tomorrow night.”
Marjorie clasped her hands together under her chin. “What are ye going to wear?”
“Do you remember the dark red gown I wore for last year’s production of ‘Ye Merry Gentlemen’?” When Marjorie nodded, she continued, “I had the sleeves shortened and an overlay of lace added with a jeweled sash. Unless someone looks closely, no one should notice that the gemstones are made of glass or that the satin is secondhand.”
“I’m sure you’ll be the prettiest lady there,” Marjorie said loyally.
“The poorest, at least.”But the most determined,she added silently.
It was said that if a duke feared anything, it was a debutante’s mother desperate to make a match. Lillian may not have been a mother, and she hadn’t been a debutante for more than decade, but shewasdesperate. And desperate women were dangerous women. If Shakespeare had taught her anything, it was that.
Failure was not an option. She was either going to find a rich benefactor…or her dream of owning the Lisbon Theater would end in a nightmare.
Chapter Two
“Will you be home in time totuck us into bed, Papa?”
As he gazed into the earnest green eyes of his youngest daughter (by a grand total of five minutes), Abel, the Duke of Dorchester, felt an all-too familiar twinge of guilt.
There was guilt over the loss of his beloved Catherine, of course. She’d given him two beautiful, healthy children…and then she had left him to raise their daughters by himself. As if he knew the first thing about childrearing. As if he was prepared to shoulder the burden of parenthood alone. As if he was ready to live a life without her in it.
He was still angry with her for that. Angry that she’d granted him this unbelievable gift and then left before they could enjoy it together as they were supposed to. Which only invokedmorefeelings of guilt, for how could you be angry with someone that was dead? Catherine had not wanted to leave this earth. She’d not gone willingly. But after the girls were born and she kept bleeding, there was nothing that could be done. Nothing that could save her. Nothing that could bring her back…and he’d tried everything.
Except moving on.
Too soon, the twins would be seven. Seven, when just last week they’d learned to crawl! Time was a damned thief that had already taken too much from him. He wouldn’t let it take any more. Anne and Amelia needed a mother. He needed a wife. The dukedom needed a duchess. So tonight, at the Yuletide Ball, he was going to find one. A woman that was principled and organized. A woman that was kind and gentle. A woman that understood he was not seeking a love match, but rather a marriage born of reason and practicality.
“Not this evening, my dear. Nanny will tuck you in.” He brushed Amelia’s pale blonde curls to the side before he placed a soft kiss upon her smooth, warm forehead. Then he did the same to her sister, who laid right beside her, blankets tucked up to her round little chin. The girls had their own beds in the large nursery, but they preferred to sleep next to each other. Especially when their father was going out for the night.
“Will Nanny read us a story?” Anne asked.
Abel nodded. “Of course.”
“Will she bring us a glass of milk before we fall asleep?” Amelia wanted to know.
