Page 22 of A Gifted Earl

He was even looking forward to it.

*****

That night, for the first time, the man in her dreams was more defined, more the Earl she had danced with, than the vague impression of the groom she had held in her mind for months. The two merged in the dream, both kind and considerate, as if they were the same, despite all of the differences.

Because in one thing, she was absolutely certain, they were the same – they both looked at her face directly, with no hint of disgust or aversion.

That fact fed the small flame of hope within her, the flame which had been close to flickering out, and gave it strength to go on. If one man could look at her without revulsion, then surely so could others. Perhaps she might still find a man to marry, after all?

Venetia slipped into deeper sleep on that thought, wishing that the day when she might dance with the Earl of Templewick again was already here.

*****

Three long weeks had passed, and October was nearly gone – the days had closed in, and the taste of winter was in the air. The talk amongst society was of who would retreat to their country estates for Christmastide, and when they might go. If anything, the social events became more frenetic, as if everyone wanted to enjoy themselves before the colder weather made that more difficult.

Her uncle and aunt had returned from Hard Abbey, stayed two weeks, and departed again, declaring London too dull, when all of those who were their preferred company had retreated to the countryside already. Venetia could not say that she was sorry to see them go. Her uncle was an unpleasant man, as self-interested in his own way as his son, and her aunt agreed with whatever her husband said and did, having seemingly no personality of her own.

At least it left them with the house mostly to themselves, except when Lord Jasper chose to show his face – which wasn’t often, thankfully, not since that last incident when Lady Hardenwell had threatened him with detailed exposure to the gossips, and his father.

On this particular afternoon, Venetia and her mother sat in their small sitting room in Hardenwell House, where a fire kept the chill at bay.

Lady Hardenwell looked pensive, and Venetia wondered just what she was thinking about. She sipped her cup of warm chocolate and stared at the flames, waiting for her mother to speak.

Long minutes passed, and the silence remained, such that Venetia felt almost close to drifting off to sleep in her chair. She was startled back to full attention when Lady Hardenwell spoke.

“By the end of November, nearly everyone will have left London, retreating to their country homes before the roads get so bad as to make travel difficult. If… if you have not made a match by that time, then we must retreat too, and go back to Brightwood Chase. I do not think that we will have a pleasant Christmas, for we will have to economise excessively. There isn’t a gentleman that you might…?”

Venetia set her cup down, shaking her head gently.

“There isn’t – and it’s not a matter of ‘a gentleman I would consider’ so much as ‘a gentleman who would consider me’. One who isn’t lecherous, excessively old, a gambler and wastrel, or all of those together, that is. We must face it, Mother – this scar has, indeed, been the ruin of me. No man will consider me as a wife. I… I am so sorry…” her voice broke a little, and a sob escaped her, but she forced herself to go on. “It is all my fault. You were right, every single time that you told me I was rash and foolish. I never thought that it could come to this… But I brought this on myself, and I will bear it. I am only sorry that it places such a burden on you as well.”

Lady Hardenwell reached across and took her hand, squeezing her fingers gently.

“We will survive, somehow. Perhaps tonight you will meet someone, or….”

“I doubt it, Mother, but still, I will try.”

“Then we had best get dressed and ready ourselves for tonight’s Ball, if you are to have the best possible chance…”

Venetia rose, sighing.

“You’re right. I’ll ring for Molly and get started.”

Three hours later, they were on their way downstairs, with the carriage waiting outside, when Lord Jasper stepped into the front hall. He looked them over superciliously, and a shiver of dread went through Venetia. She did not know why, for surely there was nothing he could do in the current situation, except sneer at her, yet she shivered a little, regardless.

They stopped. It was only polite that they greet him.

“Good evening, Lord Jasper. I see that you are on your way out – to the same Ball that we are attending? Or to another event?”

For a moment, Venetia was taken aback by her mother’s words – Lord Jasper had not yet attended even one of the events which they had been to. She suspected that he frequented gambling hells, or his club, but rarely anything more respectable. His expression became even more disparaging, and he laughed.

“I am going out, yes, but not to such uninspiring entertainment as Lady Quilpie’s Ball. And as to you attending… I don’t know why you bother - not even those dull dogs who attend Balls like that will sniff in your direction – haven’t you accepted, yet, the fact that you’re ruined for any decent man? You’d best choose whose mistress you’ll be, while some are still interested, or you’ll never be looked at, at all. But don’t let me delay you, if you wish to continue with your farcical hopes.”

And with those words, he bowed, and swept out through the door, to where his carriage waited near theirs. Venetia swallowed hard, for a moment close to tears, then she stiffened her resolve.

She would not allow Lord Jasper’s unpleasantness to hurt her – she must try, must believe that she had some hope of finding a gentleman to marry.

But as they climbed up into the carriage, her fingers went to her face, momentarily tracing the outline of the scar, and doubt assailed her.