Like in Love with You

Chapter One

Rosalie

“Are you listening to me?”

Rosalie looks up from her slouch on Mother’s stiff pink fainting couch, the latest copy of Debrett’s crinkled in her hands. “The Duntons would like to meet the Spokes, and their son should dance at least one set with Henrietta.”

Mother narrows her eyes and Rosalie stares back just as pointedly. She may not actually care about tonight’s ball, but she’s

still her mother’s daughter. Not missing a trick is practically part of their family crest.

“Good. Miss Raught could use a few more dances, and it wouldn’t hurt to turn Mr. Spokes away. Wouldn’t want him getting any

ideas,” Mother says.

Rosalie watches Mother consider her reflection in the three-pronged mirror. She has a small dais set up in the corner of her

expansive, blue-wallpapered bedroom, and she spends at least an hour at it before every ball, perfecting every single part

of her outfit.

Rosalie spends her fair share of that hour primping as well, but Mother is always the last one ready to leave. Well, unless

Father is attending. It’s equally possible he’ll be running late tonight.

They’re well suited, and always at least an hour late.

But it saves Rosalie another hour at the Assembly Room, for which she’s grateful. Every ball is the same people, the same

introductions, the same dances. It’s perfunctory.

Spending her whole night deterring men like Mr. Spokes, lest he, or anyone else, get the idea that Rosalie could be stolen

away from the most eligible Mr. Dean, gets tired. Rosalie sometimes quietly wonders if she might like to be stolen.

Mother would have kittens. Mr. Dean is by far the best prize of Bath. Far better than Rosalie could do if they’d chosen to

present her in London. Father’s estate has a sizeable living and they’re exceedingly comfortable here. But she knows her dowry

wouldn’t command nearly the same attention in London, nor would Father’s young earldom command the same respect.

Other girls might pout, but Rosalie can’t imagine going through all of this on a larger scale. Being a big fish in the small

pond of Bath suits her, her parents, and her brother, Christopher, when he’s at home. It used to be fun, even, running the

ton, everyone catering to them, especially if Aunt Genevieve and Uncle Walter were in town.

But lately it just feels . . . hollow. Christopher’s off at school and Aunt Genevieve won’t arrive for another two weeks.

Tonight is going to be interminable.

At least Mr. Dean doesn’t fawn. He’s a quiet, sturdy kind of man, of rather few words. Rosalie doesn’t mind so much. She doesn’t

think their life together will be filled with witty conversation or sparkling attraction, but it should be a good life. She’ll

have a staff and the money to give her children a comfortable upbringing.

It’s what her mother has had. And Mother is happy with her lot.

Rosalie should look forward to one day putting her daughter through—helping her daughter through—the marriage market. Presenting Rosalie, seeing her happily wed, is something Mother’s dreamed about

for years. Rosalie should be overjoyed with all that she has, like her mother is.

“All right, I can’t do anything more,” Mother declares, spinning back to get last looks from Rosalie.

“You are absolutely stunning,” Rosalie says, the smile in her voice almost genuine.

Mother, of course, does look beautiful. Her cream muslin gown, overlaid with a beautiful lace covered in little rosettes,

is gorgeous. Her bountiful dark brown hair is swept up against the back of her head, and the gentle curls that frame her face

only accentuate her rosy cheeks and bright brown eyes.

A smaller, near-perfect copy of her mother, Rosalie knows she’s equally beautiful. Has never had to doubt it. But Mother has

always needed more reassurance. Rosalie wishes sometimes her mother wanted more than this. More than the most recent fashions

and hair and beautiful compliments. Wishes there were more for her to want.

Rosalie wishes there were more for her to want too.

“You’re sure it’s—”

“Perfect. Everyone will be absolutely green with envy. Mr. Dean might even forsake me for you.”

Mother snorts. “One too many. You always go one too many.”

Rosalie laughs. “Come on, Father might actually be waiting for us this time.” She takes Mother’s hand to pull her out of her

suite and down the hall to the massive staircase that wraps around and down into their grand foyer.

It’s the perfect place to make an entrance, and all four of them enjoy doing so. Christopher likes to slide down the polished mahogany banister when he’s at home. Rosalie used to do the same, until she turned fourteen and it was suddenly brazenly unladylike to make that much of an entrance.

Still, Father beaming at them as he waits for them to descend, beautiful in his own right in his navy waistcoat with a pink

necktie to match the rosettes on Mother’s dress, is lovely enough.

“You have outdone yourselves,” he declares, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs, his grin stretching across his narrow

cheeks, brown eyes crinkling.

He touches Rosalie’s chin and then looks at Mother, hearts practically coming out of his eyes. He takes her hands and helps

her down the final step before twirling her. Her laughter fills the foyer and Rosalie’s shoulders come down just a hair.

In thirty minutes, they’ll be their most prim, proper, and intimidating selves, presiding over the ton. But right now, they’re

just her parents as they truly are. Happy, soppy, and really far too much sometimes.

She supposes that’s the real difference, isn’t it? Mother may have little with which to fill her time, but she and Father

do love each other.

“We’re going to be late,” Rosalie says after giving them the requisite two minutes of fawning over each other.

They’re easier to handle when Christopher is home. Or at least she can commiserate with someone when he’s here, equally exasperated

along with her. It’s always worst when Father’s preparing to return to London for Parliament too.

“We’re already late,” Father says, even as he steps back from Mother, sedately offering her his arm.

“We’ll miss the opportunity to make an entrance,” Rosalie counters. “We can only be fashionably late so long.”

“Well, you two took forever getting pretty.”

“How long were you waiting?” Rosalie asks, ushering them both toward the door. Mother just eyes them with fond exasperation.

They do this dance every time. Rosalie kind of loves it, and kind of hates it.

“Thirty minutes.”

“Oh, George, really,” Mother cuts in.

“Miss Wrigsby?” Rosalie calls out, glancing toward the servants’ wing.

Their lady’s maid, Miss Wrigsby, pokes her head out and looks among them, her big brown eyes narrowed, lips suppressing a

cheeky smile. “M’not sure it’s in my best interest to be truthful.”

Mother cackles. “Less than five minutes!”

“It was at least ten,” Father counters.

Rosalie winks at Miss Wrigsby before shooing her parents out the door and into their waiting carriage.

For all his charms, Father abandons them almost immediately for the cards room, leaving Mother and Rosalie alone to push through

the stifling crowd toward the ballroom at the Upper Rooms.

Every six steps there’s someone they need to greet. She can feel Mother’s fingers pressing indentations into her arm even

through both of their long white gloves.

Eventually, they make it through the foyer and into the two-story rectangular ballroom.

With its vaulted, half-dome ceiling and tall white columns, the room is a breath of air, even packed as it is with bodies.

There’s space in the center for dancing, and an orchestra set up at the far end.

Still, the perimeter is easily ten people deep on every side, with more packed into the alcoves created by the overhanging balcony and interspersed pillars.

Rosalie gratefully notes Henrietta Raught and Amalie Linet across the room, loitering in one of those alcoves, momentarily

out of the fray. Their yellow and green dresses are easy to spot and complement each other nicely, a truly welcome sight.

“I’m going to . . .” Rosalie says over the din, jerking her chin toward her friends.

“Keep an eye out for Mr. Dean,” Mother whispers, tugging Rosalie in for a moment in a wordless farewell before she sets her

free.

Mother’s immediately swarmed by her own circle, a group of mothers equally intent on finding their daughters proper matches.

It’s like watching Mother be swallowed by a sea of white muslin. Rosalie leaves her to swim on her own, lest she get sucked

in as well and stuck in an endless round of thinly veiled insults dressed as compliments. Mother’s much better at navigating

these events than Rosalie is, even though she doesn’t have bosom friends to fall back on.

Mother always has endless acquaintances, of course—and she’s invited to every tea—but outside of Aunt Genevieve, it’s like

she’s never wanted to make true friends.

But Rosalie doesn’t want to feel sad about her mother’s lack of friends tonight, not when she has twenty minutes of politely

declining dances and pretending not to see men’s advances ahead of her. Amalie and Henrietta simply watch her struggle, sipping

their drinks and smirking.

They used to be a phalanx ten girls strong, all moving about the room together, making pacts and architecting charming bumbles to intersect with their chosen suitors. Rosalie adored those balls; she was always good at making sure the right girl stumbled into the right boy.

But now, it’s just her, Amalie, and Henrietta—a lone trio inching toward spinsterhood and left at the perimeter of the room.

Well, Amalie and Henrietta are concerned with spinsterhood. Rosalie has Mr. Dean, of course.

“Lady Rosalie—if I may, I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Thomas Pilkey.”

Mrs. Thornson steps directly into Rosalie’s path, her pinched face split in an overly polite smile. Beside her, the aforementioned