Chapter 1 #2
And the day you lost your shoes at a garden party and went about playing croquet as though it was perfectly reasonable, or …
and how could I ever leave this one out …
the time you spoke openly of your political opinions concerning the candle tax in front of the very man who most supported it in the government? You made a fool of him.”
“He made a fool of himself,” Lavinia retorted, the incident bringing a small smile to her lips. “For he hardly knew his own arguments.”
“And yes, of course I want to speak with you about yesterday,” Lord Bamford snapped. He was so rarely angry that his fury carried a more poisonous power.
“I would not be surprised, Lavinia, if the rest of your life is in some way characterized by the choice that you made today. You and your sister spoke as though it was a small crowd gathered at Kensington Gardens, but I should have known better—in the middle of the morning, at the start of summer—you had an audience Grimaldi would envy.”
“Papa, people will forget,” Lavinia began nervously. “Nobody cares about me, truly. They will move on to gossiping about the American heiress or something more interesting.”
“More interesting than the spectacle of an earl’s daughter hurling herself into danger to save a kitten?
” Lord Bamford spoke this last word as though it was a curse.
“I do not think so, Lavinia. You have gone too far this time. You were dragged, soaking wet, from death by a gentleman who was a stranger to you. This will damage our family reputation.”
“I wanted to help the creature,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “Would you have had me stand quietly to the side and watch it perish?”
“I would have you behave like a lady, because society remembers when you do not,” he said coldly. He put a hand to his head, suddenly tired. “Lavinia, I do not know what to do with you sometimes. Your mother, were she still alive, would be so deeply disappointed by your recklessness …”
He trailed off, but his words had struck home more than his anger ever could. Lavinia’s mother had died when she was still a young girl—barely 13 years of age—and her memories were of a beautiful woman with raven hair and perfect poise. Lavinia longed to make those memories proud.
She sat silently, feeling the weight of her father’s disapproval. After a long moment, he looked up at her, and there was genuine sadness in his eyes.
“I do not believe you have left me any other option, Lavinia,” he said quietly.
“Not just your behavior yesterday, though it is the defining moment that has forced my hand, but your insolence in society ever since your first Season, your refusal to conform to what is expected of you, and your desire to thwart convention at every turn.”
“What are you saying, Papa?” she asked slowly, dread building in her chest.
“I have arranged a marriage between you and a respected widower of the ton,” the earl said quietly. He would not meet his daughter’s eyes.
“It was many weeks ago that we first spoke about the matter, although I wrote to confirm my agreement last night. He is, as far as I can tell, an honorable man. He is not a gorgon, cruel, or infamous in any way. He may not make you happy, but he will not harm you. I believe it is the only way to restore—”
“No.” Lavinia sat up, crossing her arms and shivering. “I will not do it, Papa.”
The earl sighed and rubbed his forehead. “For once, my dear girl, I must put my foot down. Your refusals will continue to fall on deaf ears because this arrangement is no longer open for discussion.”
“You cannot force me,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “I do not wish to be married.”
“I know this,” he said, looking up and meeting her eyes.
“But I do not think I will have to force you, Lavinia. Ever since your mother died, you have been responsible for more than a girl should have to carry—your sister, namely, was raised more by your tenderness than mine. I appeal now to that part of you that cares for her well-being. If you do not mend your own public image, hers will be ruined as well. Do you wish Rosamund to suffer for your willful behavior?”
Lavinia felt the tears coming full and fast. “But to someone I do not know? To someone I do not love?”
“Marriage can work well without love,” the earl said quietly. He gestured to the door. “Now please, leave me. I must do my best to put these rumors you have created to rest.”
She got up and walked slowly out of the room, like a person stripped of their humanity. She felt entirely numb, and as the door to the study closed behind her, she caught a glimpse of a marble statue in one of the alcoves. It was a beautiful woman, Grecian in style, holding a jar of water.
She was lovely to look at, but entirely inanimate. That is me now, Lavinia thought hopelessly. Decoration for some lord’s household.
Her possibilities had never been particularly rosy. Even as she pored over antiquarian journals or read the adventures of explorers in Africa, she had always known that was not a world that she could enter. Dreaming of those masculine pursuits and the freedom they contained was just that—dreaming.
But she had hoped for simpler things—to remain obscured from the attention of the young men of high society long enough to see her sister happily wed.
She did not anticipate a love match—she had never even seen one, in her experience—but she was happy to settle for spinsterhood in her father’s care, or perhaps looking after her sister’s wee children in her domestic bliss.
Quiet. Peace. Freedom from a husband’s whims. Whatever her hopes had been before, she could feel the truth closing in around her. Her future was not hers anymore, if it ever had been.