Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
B reakfast among the Lightholder siblings went like this:
Xander first drank a cup of coffee while reading the papers, then a cup of tea. It was only after he’d done that and had turned to his toast, eggs, and kippers that a sensible person would dare risk speaking to him.
Jason stumbled in, looking half-dead. He stared sullenly at the table for five minutes or so, then ate and drank with an equally dour attitude, just a bit more chewing. One was best served to avoid all conversation with him until half noon, at least.
Ariadne looked sleepy but not nearly as grouchy as the other two. She nibbled absently at toast until she fully woke up.
Catherine arrived like a hurricane.
“Good morning, all,” she said brightly, coming into the room. “How did everyone sleep?”
Jason groaned.
“Well enough,” Ari mumbled.
Xander kept reading his paper.
Catherine was undeterred. “Splendid. I had a fine night myself—oh, thank you, Edwards.”
This latter bit was directed to the butler, who had brought the morning’s correspondence on a silver tray with a bow. The staff absolutely adored Catherine, whom they all seemed to regard as a saint made flesh. Xander, who had seen the feral, competitive monster that his sister became when they played parlor games, knew this was not fact, but he did not disabuse his workers of the notion. After all, if they thought the sun rose and set on Catherine, they brought all the annoying household matters to her , not him. It was the kind of benefit that benefitted everyone.
“Of course, Lady Catherine,” Edwards said. He gave her another bow, ignored the rest of them, and left the room.
This was likely for the best, as Jason had put his head fully down on his arms at this juncture.
“Oh, look!” Catherine said brightly, opening a letter on top of the stack, which was made out of the stiff, expensive paper that was popular among members of the ton . “Ezra is hosting a party this week!”
Their cousin Ezra Swifton was the son of the youngest daughter in the Lightholder family’s previous generation. Xander’s Aunt Peace had married Jeremy Swifton, the Duke of Rutley; unlike the other branches of the family, this union had produced only the one heir. Unlike the other men of his generation of the family, Uncle Jeremy still lived, which meant that Ezra had not inherited at the same young age as his cousins.
While Xander knew that old gossip had held that it was a dashed pity that Cornelius Lightholder, Xander’s grandfather, had sired so many daughters, Xander thought that position was short-sighted. After all, being the most powerful duke of one’s generation had its perks, and Cornelius had been sharp and savvy. He’d ensured that each of his three daughters had been married off to a different duke (none so powerful as Cornelius himself, of course), thereby solidifying the Lightholder power for subsequent generations.
Xander, his siblings, and his cousins had all been raised on the importance of preserving and building that family legacy, that family power. And each of them had, in their own way, lived up to that expectation.
If pressed, however, Xander might have quibbled with the precise way in which Ezra, of all his cousins, chose to use that familial power…
Xander might have been the catch of the ton (not, of course, that he ever intended to get himself caught), but it was charming, effervescent Ezra that caused maidens to sigh and preen and write maudlin little poems about the arch of his brow or whatever other nonsense.
The Marquess of Featherston might not, unlike his cousins, have yet assumed his ducal title, but he was nevertheless one of the most eligible gentlemen of London Society. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he would inherit one day.
Unlike Xander, who scorned matchmaking mamas and their fluttery offspring, Ezra embraced gossip, minor scandals, and overall shenanigans. He knew everyone and was owed a million favors from the most important people in Europe. He had, after all, drank and made merry with nearly all of them.
Despite these antics, Xander could reluctantly admit that Ezra did seem to know limits. His younger cousin had never quite gone too far. Even so, Xander found Ezra’s actions immature and shortsighted.
In short, he had no desire to attend his cousin’s party.
“Splendid,” Xander said dryly.
Catherine shot him a look.
“Don’t be difficult,” she told Xander tartly. “It’s Ezra. Of course we’ll go.”
Well, that was plain unfair. Xander had always planned to go . Family was family. He just didn’t think a man should be asked to act happy about it while seated at his own breakfast table.
“Of course we’ll go,” he confirmed. Catherine gave him an approving look that was more than a touch smug.
This time, it was Jason’s turn to look unenthused. “Do you think Uncle Jeremy will be there?” he asked, sounding morose at the prospect. “Because if I have to sit through one more conversation about what it means to be the leader of a family, I might actually die. It might truly, truly kill me.”
“Don’t be rude about Uncle Jeremy,” Catherine chided. “He’s the last of Papa’s generation; no doubt he feels the weight of it.”
While Xander didn’t wish to countermand Kitty when it came to lecturing Jason on manners—Catherine had become something of a de facto mother to their younger two siblings after their father’s death had left their real mother floating through life like a ghost—he privately agreed with his younger brother. Jeremy’s lectures on the rights and duties of dukes were…tiresome, to say the least.
The first time he’d tried such a talk with Xander, the newly minted Duke of Godwin had adopted his iciest look and reminded his uncle that only one of them was a true Lightholder. Jeremy had not repeated the lecture, at least not where his eldest nephew might overhear.
Jason, however, was not as strict or as stern as his elder brother, and, as such, was one of Jeremy’s favorite victims of conversation.
“He won’t be there. He and Aunt Peace are at that house party, remember?” Ariadne reminded Jason, who slumped in relief.
“Be polite, both of you,” Catherine chided again, though, from the lack of heat in her voice, she, too, was sympathetic. “We are going, and we are going to at least act properly pleased about it. Besides, Ari, this will be an excellent chance for you to build confidence socializing. You’ll know at least half of the attendees, which will make things more comfortable with the other half.”
Ariadne did, true to her sister’s command, have the look of someone who was trying to act pleased.
“Oh, lovely,” she said weakly.
Catherine cast a glance heavenward. It was not an uncommon expression for her to wear, particularly at breakfast. This was, Xander felt, her own fault for being so chipper in the mornings.
His mind quickly drifted away from his siblings, however, as a thought passed his mind. Yes, Ezra’s party would be good for Ariadne to meet people, for all that the people Ezra tended to know could be shockingly varied in their circumstances. But a good opportunity for Ariadne would also be a good opportunity for someone else to meet people…
Xander felt a faint smile cross his lips as he began to scheme about how best to drag his little Northerner directly into the belly of the beast.
Helen hadn’t bitten her nails since she was a child, but after her nighttime rendezvous with the Duke of Godwin, she’d gnawed her thumbnail practically bloody.
Things seemed very resolutely not good .
“Goodness, Helen!”
Helen sat bolt upright at her sister’s voice. Patricia, who had managed to startle her even though they’d been sitting in the parlor together for the better part of an hour, was regarding Helen as though she were a bizarre stranger.
“What on earth has gotten into you?” her younger sister demanded. “You are distracted, blushing—” Patricia gasped, an expression of utter joy crossing her features. “Have you taken a fancy to a man ?”
Helen had to physically stop the words, “God, I wish ,” from leaving her mouth because, for one, she did not wish, and for another, such a comment would immediately rouse her sister’s suspicion.
And there was no universe—not in reality, fiction, or fantasy—where Helen would admit to her younger sister that she had kissed the Duke of Godwin.
And, worse, that she had nearly slapped him.
Again.
Because if she told Patricia those things, she’d have to confide why she had gone to the duke for help in the first place, which would mean she would have to admit that George planned to marry Patricia, that Helen had known and kept it secret, and that Helen had no plan if the duke decided he no longer wished to help her.
So, yes, having a harmless fancy would be a significant reduction in her problems. Alas, such a simple fate was not for her.
“No,” she said instead, burying her face in her hands. “I just…miss how it used to be.”
Even this admission felt too heavy to bear. Helen was meant to be the strong one, not the one seeking solace.
Patricia offered that solace anyway. She crossed the room and sat at Helen’s side, wrapping her elder sister in a hug. Her arms were thin, but they were strong, where they held Helen tight.
“I miss it, too, sometimes,” she admitted. “Northton will always feel like home. But—don’t hate me—sometimes I like it here, too. London is exciting, though I don’t know if I’d like to live here forever.”
She sounded unspeakably nervous to make even this little concession.
Helen sat up, surprised—half about what Patricia had confessed, half that her sister had been anxious about saying as much.
“Of course I don’t hate you,” she said, thrilled to be distracted from her own problems. “Nothing could make me hate you.”
Patricia rolled her eyes with the confidence of a little sister who had never once doubted the affection of her sibling.
“Yes, I know ,” she said with a faintly impatient air that reminded Helen of when Patricia had been small. “I just meant… Well, you said it yourself. You miss the way it was. You wish we’d never come here.”
Helen considered this. “Oh, I don’t know that’s true,” she said after a moment. “I do miss the way it was before Papa died. But I don’t know that I hate London.”
And she didn’t, not necessarily. She didn’t like feeling like the outsider, didn’t like feeling like she was desperately trying to swim against a current that kept growing stronger and stronger. But she had been amazed the first time she’d seen the opera, enjoyed that she could walk down the street and see all kinds of people from all walks of life.
It wasn’t about London itself. It was about everything else.
Patricia was still looking at her curiously, so Helen sighed. “I just… Wish things were easier.”
That was as true a statement as she could make without giving herself away. Without letting loose the ties that bound her feelings tight inside her, that kept them from spilling out.
And this seemed to encourage Patricia, who rubbed Helen’s arm in a brisk motion. Helen bit back a smile. She’d seen Patricia do this to several dozen skittish animals.
“Well, that’s good then,” Patricia said smartly. “We’ll learn how to make it easier together. After all, we have time, and we have each other. What else do we need?”
Just like that, Helen’s spirits plummeted again. They didn’t have time. And Helen was lying to her sister.
Before Helen could be tempted to do something truly stupid like reveal everything, George barreled into the room, looking uncommonly pleased with himself.
Huh. Helen would have thought she’d never be grateful to see George. Wasn’t life curious?
“Oh, there you two are,” he said, sounding exasperated. Just like that, Helen’s gratitude died a swift and merciless death. That seemed more apt. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
It seemed pointless to argue that they had been sitting in their own parlor, so they’d hardly been hard to find.
“What do you need, George?” she asked instead, not bothering to hide the exhaustion from her tone. It wasn’t like her cousin ever truly listened to what she had to say, anyway.
“Be more excited!” he demanded. “We’ve had great news. I’ve finally received my due! I’ve been recognized by one of the most prominent lords of the ton —the Marquess of Featherston has invited me to dine!” He paused, then added with considerably less enthusiasm. “Oh, yes. And the two of you are included in the invitation, as well.”
“That’s…wonderful?” Patricia ventured.
George would choose that moment to start thinking of anyone but himself, Helen thought with an inward roll of his eyes.
“Yes, it’s very fortunate,” he snapped at Patricia. “Or it will be, so long as the two of you don’t muck it up. You two are to get decent frocks before the dinner party; none of this usual hideous nonsense you wear.” He flicked a hand to indicate Patricia and Helen’s perfectly appropriate day dresses. “And then you are to make that expense worth it by making appropriate connections at the party.”
It was all Helen could do not to make a face. If George ever thought about anything other than social climbing, Helen had not yet seen evidence of it.
“Is there anyone in particular you want us to meet?” she asked. It was, she felt, a valiant effort at diplomacy.
George, naturally, looked at her like she was an idiot.
“The Marquess of Featherston is Ezra Swifton ,” he said meaningfully. When neither of the girls reacted appropriately, George heaved a deeply put-upon sigh.
“He’s part of the Lightholder family,” he explained. “First cousin to the Duke of Godwin. This might be,” he added, this part aimed at Patricia, “an opportunity to make up for your dreadful faux pas.”
It was no doubt un-Christian to be grateful for one’s sister’s discomfort, but Helen was glad that Patricia was giving George a wide-eyed look of dismay as it stopped Patricia from noticing how Helen had gone very still at the mention of the duke’s name.
“Oh, I see,” Patricia said, sounding as though she were trying very hard not to be sick. “Well. That sounds…exciting.”
Oh, yes , Helen thought, feeling semi-hysterical. It would be exciting, indeed .