Page 29

Beatrice watched her for a moment then sat down before her mirror, removing her necklace herself. “I’m afraid you would have been better off sleeping. I have nothing to report.”

Marianne should have left that moment. Beatrice was clearly not in any mood to speak. But Marianne was desperate for any sign—even miniscule—that perhaps her sister had connected with Mr. Wakefield.

“Nothing at all?” she asked, taking on a light tone. “Come now, Beatrice. You know how I long to hear all the happenings at a dinner party.” Specifically the happenings with gentlemen.

“I cannot imagine why.”

Could she not? How Marianne missed the old Beatrice. The one who had been filled with life. The one who’d knocked on Marianne’s door years ago to tell her about the first gentleman who had flirted and danced with her after her coming out.

“Please?” Marianne pressed.

Beatrice sighed, her petite shoulders falling forward. “It was the same as every dinner party. People mingling in their finery. Discussions at the table about the same weather we’ve been having for months. Praise over one woman’s pianoforte playing and another’s high-pitched singing.” She looked back at Marianne. “You say you would enjoy such things, but I know you, Marianne. Your taste for adventure, your spirited personality, they have no place at a dinner party.”

She turned back around, removing her right earring.

Beatrice didn’t know Marianne as well as she professed, or she would have never said something so damaging as Marianne not fitting into Society.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I think I’d rather enjoy being out in Society simply to see beyond the walls of Daffley.”

Beatrice sniffed. “It is not as freeing as you mistakenly think.”

Impatience bubbled within Marianne. How could her sister be so unfeeling? “In what way are you not free?”

Beatrice removed her final earring then swiveled in her chair to face Marianne directly. “You are aware that Father has chosen a new gentleman for me to pursue.”

There was no question in her voice, nor did Marianne deny her words.

“Father has spoken highly of Lord Ryecombe’s second cousin, Mr. Wakefield,” Beatrice continued. “He is handsome, wealthy, of good breeding. But I cannot love him.”

Marianne hadn’t known the amount of hope she’d allowed to grow within her heart until that very moment, for it left in one fell swoop, leaving her chest to sink in its absence. How could Beatrice simply brush away the man so swiftly? “Surely you are making a hasty decision. You might fall in love with him the better you know him.”

Beatrice looked away. “What is love, anyway? I’m sure I shall never know.”

Marianne’s breathing came in small, short puffs of air. Beatrice would never know love, yet she demanded love in order to marry. If Mr. Wakefield—a cousin to an earl—was not good enough for her, then who would be?

Her chest was tight, and her logic, flawed. The hour was not so very late that she was not aware of that fact. Yet, with her patience waning and her hope all but gone, every shred of common sense slipped through her fingers.

For reasons she could not begin to understand, Mr. Steele’s image popped into her mind. What if Beatrice was looking in all the wrong places for love? What if a gentleman wasn’t who would make her happy, but a working-class man was?

Mr. Steele was wealthy, kind, and charming. He also behaved more gentlemanly than any gentleman Marianne knew. If anyone was deserving enough to marry a lady, surely it was Mr. Steele.

“Perhaps…perhaps you are simply looking for love in the wrong places.”

Beatrice didn’t respond.

“Perhaps you ought to consider a working man instead of a gentleman.”

Beatrice whipped her head around to meet Marianne’s gaze. Was that fear in her eyes?

Marianne needed to stop, but her tongue had already been set loose. “Perhaps a moderately successful, respectable man like Mr. Steele might make you the perfect husband.”

At her own words, a strange, angry stirring awoke in her heart, akin to jealousy. But it was forgotten in a moment as Beatrice’s startled expression shifted to a relieved smile and easy laughter.

“Oh, Marianne. You have always been a dreamer.”

Annoyed with her condescending tone, Marianne scowled. “I do not jest.”

“Are you hearing yourself, sister? Me, marry a woodcarver? As I’ve said before, I would never stoop so low.”