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“At last,” Uncle said, spotting her first. “A veritable angel adorned in white, come to grace us with her presence.”

Morvoren glided through the doorway just as Uncle wished her to, pausing as he came up to greet her.

Just as she wished for a different room, how she wished for a different man to greet her.

Uncle reached forward, feigning a kiss to her cheek, whispering in her ear instead. “You have kept them waiting for far too long. You had better make up for your poor behavior.”

She lowered her head in submission, then moved farther into the room to greet her betrothed and future father-in-law.

“Miss Hollow,” the elder Mr. Andrew Foss greeted with a bow. “You look lovely today.”

Morvoren nodded her gratitude. In the limited time she’d spent with the Fosses, she’d learned that the father was far more respectable than his son, if not a little vain. At least he had the decency to converse with Morvoren.

“Does she not look a portrait, son?”

The younger Mr. Richard Foss smiled, his eyebrows pulling in as if to accentuate his words. “You are from Heaven itself, Miss Hollow.”

He bowed low, but when he straightened, his eyes sought the doorway instead. Morvoren glanced over her shoulder, seeing a maid flitter swiftly by.

She didn’t know what was more upsetting, the fact that the man was making eyes at someone else with his betrothed in the room—or being relieved that he wasn’t looking at her with that same leering gaze.

She wasn’t surprised with his wandering eyes. After all, he’d have Morvoren soon enough upon their marriage. Until then, why would he not spend his time with other women who were easier to obtain?

She moved farther into the room, taking the seat nearest to the fire, though they all shuffled a few steps closer to her as she settled.

“We have been looking forward to this day for quite some time,” Uncle said. “To share an intimate moment with our closest friends—well, our family. Have we not been eagerly awaiting them, niece?”

Morvoren nodded, as numb as she usually was during such events as these. “Yes, Uncle,” she responded dutifully with her placid smile.

“As have we,” the elder Mr. Foss agreed. “It will be good to speak about…matters.”

Was it just Morvoren, or had he hesitated?

She brushed the matter aside as Uncle continued, puffing the man up by complimenting one thing after another that Morvoren didn’t care about.

She smoothed out her white skirts and readjusted her pearls. Uncle wouldn’t take the necklace back as he had all her other jewelry. These were a gift from the Fosses for the betrothal. Uncle had made her wear them to make a better impression.

“Anything to distract from that awful skin you’ve destroyed over the last few weeks,” he’d said. “And do something with that hair.”

Her lady’s maid had spent hours on it that morning. Morvoren hadn’t missed wearing her hair in such a style. Yes, it was elegant, with piles of curls twirled into a graceful style. But the pins dug too deeply into her scalp and seemed to weigh her head down to the floor.

Or perhaps that was simply her mood doing so.

Footsteps thumped toward her, and she glanced up to see Mr. Richard Foss standing directly before her. The tips of his yellow teeth peeked out from his lips as he spoke. “My father said you attended the Larings’ ball last evening. I’m sorry to have missed you. Had I known, I would have been certain to save you a dance.”

She forced her typical smile and bowed her head. “Yes, I was there. But there were so many people, it is no wonder I was lost in the crowds.”

If only that were true. Morvoren had witnessed the man in the card room, drinking and flirting with women all evening. If Trevik were there, he’d be sure to teach the man a lesson he’d not soon forget, no doubt laying him flat out as he’d done to Uncle.

But Trevik wasn’t there. She’d chosen Mr. Foss instead. Yes, for Trevik and his family’s lives. But then…what was to become of her life? Could she truly give up her worth, her value, and her freedom to marry a man who held even less respect for her than Uncle did?

“Don’t they look handsome together?” Uncle said, his voice crawling up her skin like an unreachable itch. “My niece and your son.”

Mr. Andrew Foss nodded in silence, though he shifted in place uncomfortably.

Morvoren tried not to stare—“Staring is what heathens do, Miss Hollow”—but the man’s uncharacteristic discomfort stuck out to her like a rock tumbling in the waves.

Uncle seemed unaware, of course, focusing entirely on himself. “Well, shall we commence with the discussions?”