Chapter Six
How could they? How could he think to discuss her as if she were no more than a horse or chattel?
Ha, and to think she had held a candle for him.
Lord Angus Westland. A bright, burning, heart-fluttering candle lit every time she glimpsed him brooding on the fringes of a ballroom.
On the rare occasions he appeared in society, she had fancied his indifference and gruff manner a mark of shyness, his aloofness a veil for hidden gentleness.
What a Romantic fool she was. Pff, a fool indeed, as now she knew without any uncertainty, he was nothing but a big, rude, cold brute of a man.
And if he were the last man in the kingdom, she would not marry him. Ever.
Yet… she sniffed, determined not to cry as Betsy fussed over her gown…
in all probability, that dratted man was the last man in the kingdom for her.
Never again would an eligible gentleman ask her to dance, or send her a posy, or pay her a morning call.
Her reputation was in ruins, her virtue in question — never mind the absurdity that she had never even been kissed and oh!
… the tears she’d been so determined to hold back suddenly sprang forth — because now, she never would be.
Never would she experience that dizzy thrill, the breathless flutter, the bliss of a first kiss like the heroines in her romance novels.
She was doomed. Doomed forever to a life as an old maid.
The injustice of it all. How could she ever face anyone again?
“Betsy, oh, Betsy,” she sniffled, “I cannot go. I simply cannot. They will all be staring and whispering. Oh, what am I to do? Mayhap I should run away? Say you will come with me? We could go to… to Yorkshire, yes, we shall go to Yorkshire. Hugh Thomas will take us in, I am sure of it. We are cousins of sorts. His mother was the sister of my uncle’s wife. Oh, please tell me you will come.”
“Now, now, Miss Sylvie, I’ve never known you to talk nonsense before.”
Brushing the last of her tears from her cheeks, Sylvie sniffed. “Well, I have never been a fallen woman before, Betsy. I am a social pariah!”
“Oh, be away with you, a fallen woman indeed. Did your mama not come here herself, not half an hour past, to say you are to be wed?”
“Wed! Sold more like. Packed off to some remote estate, never to be seen again, so as not to embarrass them further. And, Betsy, how can I marry that man? He… he wants nothing to do with me, he said so himself. You should have seen the look on his face. He loathes me. How can I marry a man who loathes me? I cannot, I tell you. I won’t. ”
“There, there, my little lady,” cooed Betsy. Steering her to the dressing table and making her sit, she set about styling her hair with practised skill. “Is he truly so old and horribly repugnant?”
“Heavens, no! He is older than I, but… but very handsome and…”
“Oh? But he’s cruel and gave your hide a tanning for dancing barefoot?”
Despite herself, Sylvie gave a helpless giggle. “Gosh, no. He… he was rather kind, actually. Under the circumstances.”
“I see. Yet he abandoned you in the garden and couldn’t care less about your reputation.”
Sylvie narrowed her eyes, studying her little maid for a moment through the mirror. “I know what you are trying to do.”
“Do?” asked Betsy, all innocence. “And is it working, my lady?”
“No,” Sylvie sighed in defeat. “It would be horrendous. You know I refuse to marry for anything other than love.”
“Indeed, it would be truly horrendous. To be forced to marry the very man whom you have been sweet on since the first time you laid eyes on him. Now, when was that, mmm, when you were sixteen, if I recall?”
“I… I… oh. I knew I should never have told you that… you, you…”
“And becoming a marchioness, simply dreadful,” continued Betsy, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Hosting all those dinner parties, throwing lavish balls, attending the theatre whenever you wished. Horrendous indeed. Then, of course, you would have to put up with being the envy of all your peers. Heavens, even that Lady Cabbot-Leigh would have to treat you with respect, dip a curtsey. Ugh, she might even start to call on you,” said Betsy, shuddering in mock disgust.
“Dinner parties? Really? And who, pray tell, will attend in some far-flung corner of the kingdom?”
“Now, now, didn’t His Lordship himself say you could reside at a property of your choosing?”
“Well…” she murmured, worrying her bottom lip as she thought a moment, “well, yes. Yes, I suppose he did.”
“So, if you chose to reside in the same property as your husband… seeing each other every day…?”
“But, Betsy, that is the entire predicament. He loathes me and does not wish to be my husband. How could I force my company upon him, knowing such a thing? You know,” lowering her voice to a whisper, “he said he would not even… You know… husbandly duties. Does that mean I am never to be kissed? Not even by my husband? It’s such a bumble-broth, Betsy.
Marriage should be romantic and lovely, and we should be the best of friends, and talk of everything, and laugh with each other, and… ”
“Live happily ever after,” Betsy finished with a shrug. “Yes, yes, I know. But if you ask me, you’re already off to a good start.”
“Good start!” choked Sylvie. “How on earth is this a good start?”
“Because, my lady, you are going to marry the very man of your dreams, who also happens to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom, with a social standing most could only dream of. And, really, have your lovely heroines, who’ve captured the affections of their heart’s desire, taught you nought? ”
“Oh, Betsy,” sighed Sylvie wearily, “I’m no heroine, and no amount of daydreaming or wishing it otherwise is going to make Lord Angus Westland — The Morose Marquess — into a romantic hero.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” mused Betsy. “He seems rather gallant to me.”
“Gallant! The poor man is being forced into marrying me.”
“Oh, he’s a poor man now, is he? Not a heartless ogre?”
“Pff, well, I can’t entirely blame him for my, our, predicament, can I?
I hardly think he awoke this morning and declared, ‘Today I shall ruin Miss Mason’s life by taking a nap under a tree,’ do you?
No, poor Lord Westland is, in all probability, as much at odds as I am.
I mean, he could have married anyone he chose, and now he’s been landed with me — when he doesn’t even like me! ”
Knowing her mistress couldn’t hold a grudge any longer than she could hold a lump of burning coal, Betsy smiled, sensing she was finally coming around.
“He doesn’t know you, tis all. Give him a little time to see the bright, happy person that you are, and he’ll be in love before he knows it.
Just be yourself, and all will be well.”
“Be myself?” spluttered Sylvie, “I hardly think so. Papa says half the things that tumble from my lips have turned his hair white, and I rather like Lord Westland’s hair the colour it is.
” With a faltering little sigh, she peered up sheepishly at Betsy.
“Do, do you really think… he may come to like me?”
“Yes, silly, what’s not to like? And think how lucky you are that it was Lord Westland you toppled over, and not that bulbous, sweaty, lecherous Lord Oswald,”
Screwing her face up in revulsion, Sylvie shuddered. “Ugh, yuck! A thousand wild horses couldn’t have dragged me to the altar with him.”
Stepping back to survey her handiwork, Betsy nodded in satisfaction. “There. All finished. Just perfect.” She drew a breath and gave her mistress a bright, encouraging smile. “So… are you ready?”
Taking Betsy’s hands and pressing them in her as she rose, Sylvie nodded bravely.
“Yes, dearest Betsy, I do believe I am, and you are right. I shall count my blessings and put my best foot forward. And no more of the dismals, they are positively exhausting. I know no one would ever accuse me of being utterly sensible, but neither am I completely witless. So, I will go forth and do my best to win the affections of my future husband, so we can live happily ever after. Amen.” And in a style, more in keeping with her usual disposition, she waved an exaggerated flourish of her hand as she swept a theatrical bow and winked cheekily at Betsy.
Betsy laughed. “I’m glad to hear it, because I understand His Lordship, your true heart’s desire and this future husband of yours, will be awaiting your arrival at the bottom of the stairs to escort you to the duke’s wedding…”
Sylvie froze.
“What!”