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EARL OF DRYDEN

Chronicles of a Bluestocking

Wicked Earls’ Club, Book 12

by Tammy Andresen

“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of

the living.” ~Marcus Tullius Cicero

Miss Chloe Finch sat on the edge of the dance floor tapping her toe. She’d strategically placed herself somewhere between the potted fern and the shining marble statue of some long-ago valiant soldier. The candlelight shone on his alabaster finish, adding shadow under his cheekbones and ribcage. He looked quite dashing actually and the only company she had, despite the sea of people around her. Which was how she’d preferred to be at such events.

Her aunt, Lady Mildred Hartworth, engaged in conversation with several other matrons. They whispered behind their fans as people passed, casting judgment upon them with narrowed eyes and not-so-subtle words.

Chloe could only hope to stay hidden behind them so their sharp tongues did not turn on her. Inevitably, however, they always did.

“Did you see the garish bird figure perched in Lady Millicent’s hair? Dreadful. How does she expect to make a decent match looking like that?” Her aunt gave a loud sniff.

Chloe cringed, shrinking smaller into her chair. She hated these affairs. Her aunt was insistent that Chloe could make a good match if only she’d stop being such a ninny and attempt to be charming. Chloe had tried on numerous occasions to fit in, but she simply couldn’t. Plagued with an irrational shyness that she didn’t dare explain, she froze, unable to utter a syllable, every time a suitor came near. Or anyone she didn’t know for that matter. She couldn’t explain the why, she scarcely knew herself. She only could pinpoint the when; the dreadful plague began shortly after her mother’s death four years prior.

Wrapping her arms about her waist, her forearm pricked with pain, so she loosened her grip, rubbing the tender flesh. She consoled herself that her affliction was getting better. She’d even made a few friends. Lovely girls, who like herself, were outcasts, each for her own reason. Penny and Annabelle both had irresponsible parents while Caroline had been caught with a known rake. But that didn’t bother Chloe. She thought them delightful.

And they thought her smart and fun rather than simple or daft. She’d been passed over by suitor after suitor when she’d been struck mute in their presence. Who could blame them?

Of course, there were also the men who took advantage of her silence, she blamed them plenty but there was little she could do to stop them. Her aunt most definitely blamed Chloe for their deeds.

“Chloe looks darling this evening,” Lady Mayfair said as she leaned over to her aunt and Chloe’s eyes widened.

No no no, she chanted in her head. Don’t talk about me please.

“What does it matter? Until the girl will stop being so stubborn and apply herself to seeking a match, I may as well be dressing up a doll.” Her aunt gave a loud huff to match her words. “One would think she’d show some appreciation for my efforts by actually trying. Since the moment I took her in, she’s been nothing but a willful, errant, troublesome girl. Exactly like her mother.”

Even crossed as her arms were, in a display of protection, her fists clenched. She was trying to be what her aunt wanted. Always had. Tears pricked at her eyes. Did her aunt think she enjoyed being so socially awkward?

“Such a pretty girl too. What a shame,” Lady Mayfair said, despite only being a foot away, as though she spoke in a foreign language and Chloe wouldn’t even understand the words.

Her aunt knew very well that Chloe understood everything and yet she persisted. “That’s not the half of it. She isn’t dumb or mute. She’s just trying to disobey me. I’m sure of it.”

Chloe opened her mouth to protest, but then closed it again. Who was she kidding? She’d never argue with these women. Instead she turned to the statue. He was tall and strong and for just a moment, she pretended he was real though she knew very well he wasn’t. “Would you save me, kind sir, from the dastardly tongues of wicked old women?”