She groaned and dropped her head on the table, splattering jam across her cheek.
Perfect.
ChapterNine
To her deep disappointment, Sybil couldn’t prevail on another gentleman to offer her their hand in marriage. She flirted as best she could, but considering every time their gaze dropped down her body to ogle at what little bosom she had, she wanted to slap them. It wasn’t enormously successful.
By the time of the ball, she was still resolutely ineligible and her mother was insisting she attend.
“I’m… ill,” she said with a weak cough. “Mama, I don’t think I could possibly go.”
“What do you think, Kirby?” her mother asked, holding out two dresses to Hatchet. One was primrose, the other was mint green. “This will be the second time the Duke sees her and we need to make sure she leaves a good impression.”
Technically, it’s the third time.Sybil pressed her face into her pillow and fought back the urge to scream.
“Primrose,” Hatchet decided.
“Perfect. In which case, I’ll wear the yellow silk.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“I really think I’m too ill to attend, Mama,” Sybil said, trying again, and was just as thoroughly ignored.
Perhaps, if she climbed out of the window, no one would notice her leave. A household somewhere would be in need of a governess, and although she didn’t have very many accomplishments, she at least had the deportment of a lady, and perhaps that would see her through.
“I think pearls would be ideal,” her mother said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“I don’t want to go!”
For the first time, her mother looked directly at her. “Kirby,” she said quietly. “Leave us.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
The door clicked closed, and Sybil swallowed at the anger on Scarlet’s face—rare anger, because, for all her mother’s vices, she was rarely angry. “Give me a reason you do not wish to be acquainted with the Duke,” she said. “One reason, Sybil. That’s all I ask.”
“He’s a rake,” Sybil managed. It wasn’t a lie, precisely—it wasn’t a lie at all—but it wasn’t the true reason, no matter how much it rankled.
“A rake? So are half the men in London. Don’t be a prude, my love.”
“Mama, please.”
“You will attend that ball if I have to drag you there myself.”
Judging by her mother’s general lack of decorum and propriety, Sybil had no doubt she would. By the hair as well, for maximum embarrassment. Sybil gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes at the primrose dress her mother still held. It looked like weak summer sunlight, and she had no doubt it would cling just as tightly.
* * *
As predicted, it was awful.
Thomas accompanied them to the ball, which meant he spent his time making eyes at his wife in the carriage while Sybil tried not to exist. Over the years, she’d gotten very good at it.
Then, her mother took her arm firmly in hers and marched her up to the steps to where Lady Peterson waited for them. Her husband, his rather large stomach protruding unflatteringly, merely nodded at them as they passed, but Lady Peterson took Sybil’s hand.
“You look lovely, dear,” she said.
Sybil didn’t look lovely. She looked as though she had been put into a primrose dress that made her hair look like straw and her skin look sallow. But she smiled, because her mother would expect it, and dipped into a tiny curtsy. “Thank you.”
