Page 10 of The Season of Lady Chastity

How could Prudence be so obtuse as to think that the past would never affect their future?

Their fate had everything to do with the past—or at least it did for Chastity.

They’d lost something integral to their development as women before either of them had a chance to know their mother. They hadn’t been instructed in the ways of womanhood by the one female that mattered most to young girls. They’d learned of important matters from their governess and other caring Downshire servants.

Chastity feared she’d never discover who she truly longed to be because she hadn’t had anyone to model herself after. Except for Prudence—until Edith, Luci, and Ophelia had come into their lives.

Strangely, from what Chastity had learned of their mother, Clara had been much more like those three women than her daughters. Perhaps it was the reason Chastity had gravitated to the trio—because if her mother had lived, Chastity was certain she’d be similar to Edith and her friends. She thought highly of them for the simple fact that she had no other woman to hold in such regard.

What would her friends think of her if she was proven to be a bastard?

“You are wrong, Prudence.” They reached the upper landing and began moving down the corridor that led to their assigned room on the family’s floor. “I agreed to an evening of games because I seek something to distract me. I do not plan to spend our entire holiday thinking only of my past and the note.”

“Our past.” Prudence’s shoulders stiffened.

Chastity pushed past her sister and entered their room.

If they’d been at home, she might have been tempted to slam the door in Prudence’s dour face. But, instead, she stomped into the dressing closet to select a clean, pressed gown for her evening.

When next she met Lord Mansfield, Chastity was determined she not be distracted by thoughts of her mother and her mom’s long-ago tryst with the mysterious Cam. Or Chastity’s fear that proof of her bastard birth would soon be found.

Chapter 3

Bastian set his napkin on his empty plate and nodded for the servant to clear the table. His mother had finished some time before him and then folded her hands in her lap, her stare raising the hairs on the back of his neck. She’d requested that they take a small meal in her suite, just the two of them before she retired for the night. The room she’d been assigned at Oxburgh Hall had been strung with garland and large red-ribboned bows tied securely to the back of each of their chairs.

There was no other evidence needed to prove to Bastian that his life was not what he’d planned but, perhaps, what he deserved. Here they were, his mother and himself, at a country holiday party secluded in his mother’s room—strangers to most in attendance and startlingly alone.

Bastian picked at the holly branch that decorated their table, pulling free one bright red berry and rolling it between his fingers as he pondered their time thus far at Oxburgh Hall.

The coach ride had been jarring for his mother, and he’d noted her slight limp as he escorted her to her room after he’d returned from the moat. He hadn’t thrown himself into the placid water, and he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would have missed his absence had he done so.

Certainly, his mother would have grown concerned if he hadn’t returned.

But, try as he might, he could not think of another person who would notice—or care about—his absence. No one would mourn his disappearance. His name would not live on in anyone’s memories.

He would be remembered for nothing.

Bastian forced a pleasant smile for his mother’s sake. However, when he met her empty stare, he knew she felt the same as he did.

Neither of them was living, at least not in the truest sense of the word.

His mother had aged several decades beyond her forty years when his father passed away. And Bastian, in his need to care for her, had shut himself away in their London home, not that he’d ever journeyed out much once his father had taken ill. He’d never even returned to Eton to finish his proper education.

The clock on the hearth mantel chimed, and Bastian couldn’t help but watch the hands slowly tick onward as the minutes passed. The quiet of the chamber was deafening and disheartening, only reminding him of how alone he was—how alone he was likely destined to stay.

He and his mother only had each other, yet they could remain silent for an entire meal, their conversations having dried up long ago after so many years. When his father was alive, his mother had rarely been quiet. The two had met at a very young age, and their love had blossomed quickly. They’d wed before his mother’s sixteenth summer, surrounded by their close family.

Over the last year, their home had been shrouded in painful silence.

It was the reason Bastian had insisted that his mother journey to Oxburgh for Montrose’s wedding. Not only would she be present to honor her late friend’s son’s marriage, but she would be out of their abandoned home and around others. She would be forced to leave her chambers and, with any luck, gain back some confidence and a semblance of the cheerful, boisterous woman she’d once been.

“Is there somewhere you need to be, Bastian?” she asked.

He hadn’t noticed that he was tapping the toe of his boot under the table. An annoying habit he employed when he was anxious. “Montrose is hosting cards downstairs. I thought I might join them. If you are feeling well enough for me to leave, of course,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“Nonsense.” She waved off his concern and nodded to the footman, who stepped forward and pulled out her chair. “I will be going to bed soon, and I will not have you sitting in the shadows of my room watching me sleep. It is unnerving when you insist on such things.”

“That was months ago, Mama.” Bastian cleared his throat. “And it was only because I feared for your health.”