1. Chapter 1 #2
Lavender raised her eyebrows and blinked at him. “So you are going to London? That wouldn’t make sense at all. I’m going to be here.”
Mr. Lanscombe scooted further away from Lavender, and dread pooled in her stomach. A cold rush of air cut between them. “You didn’t think that we . . . that I . . . did you?”
Lavender felt a tightness in her throat and hot tears pricking the backs of her eyes.
She placed a hand over her mouth. “What else would you have had me think?” she asked in a strangled whisper.
All those evenings he’d spent visiting with her in the garden, every gift he’d sneaked to her, every touch of his hand, and his declarations of love had meant nothing?
She pressed her hand to her lips. He’d even stolen a few kisses these past months.
Her tears fell freely—she hadn’t even recalled them starting.
“What of the plans we made for our future together? What was I supposed to think?” she asked again.
He stood suddenly, leaving her alone on the sofa.
He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up like he was still a boy.
“I feel like it’s time for me to move on.
I can’t stay here forever. I either need to marry into money or learn how to make some myself.
Besides, my father has taken away my allowance until I fulfill his wishes. ”
“I have a dowry. You know that,” Lavender argued.
“Yes, but it is uncertain. Your parents have been known to withhold the dowry of their daughters in the past. And your mother is terrifying. There are plenty of women in London with money that would come without any of those complications.” Mr. Lanscombe paced in front of her, guilt written in the lines of his face.
“Then why have you been courting me these past three years?” Lavender clenched her teeth together so tightly, she started seeing black creep into the edges of her vision. She curled in on herself as the ramifications of what he was saying began to sink in. “You have used me ill.”
“Don’t be like that, darling—”
“Darling? Darling!” Something snapped inside of her.
“Don’t you ever call me that again.” She may have been ever the wallflower, willing to keep their growing relationship in the background while Mr. Lanscombe “sorted out his future,” but she was also raised by the one and only Lady Gardner.
Summoning all her interactions with her mother, Lavender stood and pointed a shaking finger at Mr. Lanscombe’s chest. “You are a scoundrel, a snake. I hope you find exactly what you deserve in London.”
Mr. Lanscombe stood and looked at her with not only guilt in his eyes, but even worse: pity.
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You know I never could have married you.” He looked in disgust at the red scars that peeked out from between her long white glove and the sleeve of her dress.
“There are too many obstacles to overcome between us. Besides, I need a wife that will keep things interesting. With you, I always knew what I would be getting.”
“What you would be getting?” Lavender’s stomach rolled. “So all of it was a lie, a manipulation, for you to get what exactly?”
He put his hands out in front of him. “Calm down. We are neighbors; I was just having a bit of fun.”
Fun? That was all she’d been to him? An easy distraction from the boredom of country life?
They’d talked about a future together, and the ease of courting since they lived next door.
She’d seen the way her scars had made him uncomfortable.
She knew they were grotesque, so she did her best to keep them from sight.
But if they were something so hideous that he couldn’t see past them to who she was, she couldn’t marry him even if he had wanted it.
All his sneaking through the gardens and pastures to see her made sense in a completely different light.
“You need to leave. Now.” She pointed to the door.
Mr. Lanscombe sighed dramatically. “Don’t be like this, Lavender.”
“And you do not have permission to use my Christian name.” She strode from the room and knocked into Mary, who had just turned the corner, bringing in a tea tray. The hot, steaming pot of liquid crashed to the floor between them, shattering into fragments alongside Lavender’s heart.
She steadied herself by holding onto the maid’s shoulders. Mary looked as if she were being threatened with a knife. “Forgive me, my lady.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. This was not your doing, Mary.
I’ll make sure my mother knows that, don’t worry.
” She made tear-filled eye contact with Mary to assure her that she wouldn’t lose her position over the occurrence.
Then Lavender turned to see Mr. Lanscombe staring at her like she was a helpless child.
“Mary, see that Mr. Lanscombe leaves this moment.”
Lavender did not look back as she ran up the stairs to her bedchamber, her tea-stained dress clinging to her ankles.
She’d wasted three years waiting. She’d never pushed for a London Season, content with loving her closest neighbor.
But now, at the age of one and twenty, she didn’t know what her future would look like—only that Mr. Lanscombe would not be a part of it.
What a terrible, hateful man he turned out to be.
And what a stupid girl she’d been to trust him.