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“Stop torturing me,” Amy snapped back.
Her cousin offered her the rag. “You do it then.”
“Hmph. That the rag won’t make one spot of difference. The bruise will fade in the same way the ones before did.” Amy got up to stalk to the vanity, dropping the damn rag back into the stinking, vinegar-laden basin.
“I think that’s true for all scars.” Portia sighed, standing slowly. “There will be other men, Mellie. Some are far better suited to you than Lord Hewitt. I heard that Lord Varley is looking for a wife this season. Surely your father wouldn’t turn down a viscount! You said that’s what he wanted.”
“So he said.” Amy heard the doubt in her own voice.
“There’s Lord Farris. He is a bit older. But wealthy and still rather handsome.”
Amy shook her head, dropped into the wooden chair in front of the vanity, and absently twirled a lock of her brown hair around her finger. “I fear Father’s rejection of Lord Hewitt had nothing to do with his title or fortune. I’m the only child left to him if a Spanish bullet finds Charles.”
“You suspect Uncle has suddenly grown attached?” Portia asked, bewildered.
“Not exactly.” She regarded her bruised reflection in the dressing mirror again. It’ll be gone in a week. I can hide it with powder after tomorrow. “My father lost Rupert. Edward is lost in heaven. And Charles ... will never come back.”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s true. We all know it.”
Even if no musket or cannon took Charles from the world, he would stay in the Peninsula or flee to Australia, America ... anywhere in the empire except home. Lord Sunderland despised his only daughter, but he hated his surviving son with an unholy fire, and Charles bore the marks to prove it.
“He’ll have to let Charlie have the title, and the old mansion’s entailed, but everything beyond that is Father’s to decide. He’ll pick your brother. But Father seems to be concerned with finding himself a suitable wife first. The better to have a few more spare boys.”
“Well and good, Mellie. But what’s all this to do with you? A stepmother won’t be a trial for long—you’re bound to find a match the baron will take,” Portia said loyally.
“He’s punishing me. Because Rupert died and I didn’t, and he cannot get to Charles. He means to keep me here. To see to my misery.” Amy’s stomach roiled. “If I don’t wed this season ... Portia, I cannot bear another summer in his house. Better to walk into the sea.”
Portia steadied herself with the thick bedpost. “I wish you weren’t serious.”
“So do I.” Amy’s eyes returned to her cousin, as cold and grim as a grave. She noted Portia didn’t protest the evil of such thoughts. Perhaps I’m not the only one growing desperate to escape.
“Well, it’s settled.” Portia sat on the bed again. “We shall see to it that you are married as soon as possible.”
Amy let out a humorless chuckle. “Words easily spoken.”
“Come now, Mellie. We both know that if a woman wants to procure a husband, there are more than the conventional ways to go about it.”
“And ways to get a proper beating if I’m caught—”
“Of course, we should be careful. But it’ll do you no good if you should leave home only to find yourself stuck in a place just as terrible. Or worse. There must be a few reputable candidates about.”
“Are you suggesting—?”
“We need a list.”
“Oh, dear. You are.” Amy couldn’t help smiling. She’d had the same thought in her diary yesterday. And Portia had a lot more time to read up on the eligible beaux of the season...
Chapter Two - Nicholas
(Almacks, London. Nov 7, 1813)
“I told you it would be dire, didn’t I?” Tom sighed heavily as they paused at the edge of the ballroom.
A bevy of young misses and other suitors milled and pranced before them with all the grace of the Muses incarnate, but Nicholas found himself nodding in agreement with Tom’s estimation. Rather a lot of paste jewels and remade silks this year. Poor pickings for the paupers...
“You haven’t been missing much, Clarendel. The beauties are all marrying their country cousins.”
