Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Adelia St. George sat in front of the mirror, trying desperately to drown out the incessant chatter of her sister. It wasn’t that she did not love her younger sister—she did, immensely. However, when Margaret St. George began talking, she never stopped.
Never.
They were preparing for yet another ball, at the home of her sister’s aunt Francis.
It was a small room that they shared, with dull green walls, a brass bed, and a large wardrobe that contained both girls’ clothing.
Despite being daughters of a duke, neither one of them was in possession of the latest fashion, especially not Delia.
“Everything will change tonight. He’s a little older than I, but oh Delia, I really think he’s my Mr. Knightly.” Her sister released a breathy sigh.
Oh, for the love of God.
Delia tried—she really did try—not to grimace in horror over her sister’s obsession with the book Emma, but Margaret was using it as a road map for her life.
It was slightly disturbing.
She was happy for her sister. Delia herself had never experienced the excitement of infatuation or the thrill of falling in love.
Conveniently, she chose to have a dalliance with her sister’s music tutor, two years earlier.
It lasted a few uneventful months, and then it faded unceremoniously like it began.
When Delia was younger, the idea of falling in love with someone who accepted her completely, in spite of the circumstances of her birth, had filled her days with longing.
But now, at five and twenty, she was officially on the shelf and was well aware of the realities of being born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Perhaps if she had been born legitimate, life wouldn’t have been cruel to her.
However, her mother was a courtesan, paid for her favors.
Her father, the Duke of Cliffbury, was instantly riveted by her beauty, among her other qualities, at least according to her father’s servants.
It was a tumultuous affair, armed by passion and infatuation, in which an unwanted child was born.
“You’re aware that Mr. Knightly isn’t a real person, aren’t you, Margaret?” Delia looked over at her sister.
Margaret’s beauty shined bright as she waited for one of her aunt’s maids, Jenny, to tie the pink ribbon around her waist.
The differences between Delia and her sister were shocking to those who learned that they shared the same father. Her sister had pale white skin, whereas Delia had smooth brown skin, exactly like her mother’s. Delia’s thick brown curls made Margaret’s silky dark hair look fragile in comparison.
They were as different as night and day, yet their love for each other was instantaneous from the moment Delia’s mother abandoned her on her father’s doorstep.
“Yes, Delia,” Margaret said in her annoyed tone. “I’m perfectly aware that Mr. Knightly is not real.” She let out a breathy sigh. “But he is the ideal man, and I do believe Hunter is perfect for me, with his blond hair and green eyes.”
Blond hair and green eyes did not sound perfect to Delia at all, but she was happy for her sister.
If only she could meet the man in question to ascertain his true intentions with her sister.
She had seen this earl only in passing, and it seemed every time Delia was in his vicinity, he was rushing off in pursuit of other adventures.
It was strange to be sure. Delia did not know why the man was adamant about not meeting her, but it was not unusual for someone in Society not to want to associate with the bastard daughter of the Duke of Cliffbury.
Besides, it mattered not how Delia was treated by some pompous earl.
If he made Margaret happy, then she would be happy for her.
Once her sister was wed, Delia would be free to do as she pleased. Without Margaret to look after, her life would be her own. It didn’t matter that she had no funds and no connections. All that mattered was that she could live.
Her father would grant her that one request, once Margaret was married.
“Will tonight be the night I am provided a proper introduction to the mysterious Earl of March?” Delia asked, turning away from the mirror to grace her sister with a stern stare.
Jenny stiffened behind Margaret, her eyes wide with knowledge, at the mention of the Earl of March.
That is interesting.
They’d arrived in London a fortnight earlier, shipped off by their father to Margaret’s mother’s sister.
Aunt Francis agreed to assist Margaret with finding a husband as a favor to her dearly departed sister.
She reluctantly accepted Delia at their father’s behest. Perhaps she would find a nice vicar, solicitor, or a third son to take Delia off his hands once and for all.
It wasn’t that her father was unkind. In fact, he was perfectly satisfactory as far as fathers went.
His only flaw was that he always had something better to do than to raise daughters.
He provided for them, made sure that they had food, clothing, and tutors, but he never provided the one thing every child longed for—love.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to properly meet Hunter.” Margaret twisted her mother’s ring on her hand. “It’s just that he’s very private, and that people will misconstrue his intentions.”
Delia folded her hands over her chest, trying to calm the rage trying to force its way out of her. She took several deep breaths before she spoke. At five and twenty, she’d learned that not everyone could handle her sharp tongue, especially her younger sister.
“What exactly are his intentions?” she asked, tapping her foot against the dark burgundy carpet of their shared room. “You are remembering not to allow him any liberties that should only be permitted to your husband, aren’t you?”
“Delia!” Margaret turned to peer behind her to ascertain Jenny’s reaction.
To her credit, the maid tried to ignore the conversation as she tugged at the silk ribbon around Margaret’s waist.
Delia ignored her sister, not caring one wit about Jenny, who she knew was having an affair with the Aunt Francis’ older butler.
In her experience, it was always good to befriend the servants.
They were aware of everything in the house, even the houses of the neighbors.
That was the precise reason Delia made it a point to befriend servants wherever she was.
The small bits of information had saved her on several occasions.
Her father’s valet would always tell Delia when he was going to take a trip in advance.
It was good to know that way she could stay out of her stepmother’s way when her father was not around.
She was the first to know of new visitors, before they were announced.
When there were whispers of her stepmother trying to find Delia a suitor at sixteen years—she had conveniently disappeared for a sennight under the pretense of taking care of the retired housekeeper who was always kind to her.
It was a delicate balance, of course. One mustn’t allow themselves to become too familiar with the servants, but you also could not be unpleasant.
“What?” she asked, tilting her head. “Do not play coy with me, Margaret St. George. I personally took it upon myself to educate you, and I will not allow this Earl of March to ruin you.”
Margaret’s mother died five years earlier, and the responsibility fell on Delia to ensure that her sister was well acquainted with the ways of the world and the threat men posed to an innocent.
Now, it was true that, in Delia’s opinion, the former Duchess of Cliffbury was not any type of mother at all, but her sister still felt the loss greatly.
It was difficult for Delia to understand such devotion. Perhaps if her own mother had not abandoned her when she was seven, like she was no better than rubbish, she would have some loyalty to the woman who gave birth to her.
“T-thank you, Jenny. That will be all,” Margaret told the maid, who was trying not to show how astutely she was listening to their conversation. “Please tell my aunt we will be down shortly.”
Jenny left the room, practically bubbling with the new information.
Good.
Occasionally feeding the servants’ gossip ensured that Delia would be informed of things that Aunt Francis or Margaret had no interest in.
“Must you do that?” her sister asked once they were alone.
The room was scarcely decorated, the furniture nearly a decade old due to Aunt Francis’ dwindling funds as a widow.
Her affection for her dead sister was not the reason she had readily accepted the duke’s request for her to host his daughters.
She was also in desperate need of funds, which was obvious from the state of her townhouse and her meager number of servants.
Delia walked to the dressing table and began slipping long gloves onto her hand. “Do what exactly?” she asked innocently, perfectly aware what her sister was asking.
“Say such personal things in front of the servants! Really, Delia, one day your candor is going to get you in trouble. You will never get married with such a sharp tongue.”
Delia bristled at her sister’s words. It wasn’t as if any man in London was worthy to be Delia’s husband. She was a bastard after all, nothing but a duke’s by-blow. If a man couldn’t accept every part of her, regardless of birth or how sharp her tongue was, she didn’t want to marry him anyway.
“Good.” Delia peered in the mirror one last time. She looked more and more like her mother every day, from what she could remember of her. It was both a blessing and a curse.
Her mother, Selena Belvoir, was beautiful.
She had had men worshiping at her feet. Her father was nothing more than a prize, and Delia was the one thing her mother used to keep him captured.
When her father married, he provided a small amount of funds for Delia, but it did not satisfy her mother’s lifestyle.