After an unsuccessful attempt to teach Eliza whist—she never had been good at picking up rules to games—Amara had suggested they return outside to try their hand at battlecock. Eliza was happy, at least, to learn she was decent at that.
All the women had ceased physical activity, however, and now talked amongst themselves. It wasn’t so different from modern chatter; the young ladies avidly discussed current fashion, hair products, shoes ... and men. Evidently, Regency ladies were as obsessed with the opposite sex as any of her twenty-first-century contemporaries had been, although here the focus was on marriage, not hooking up.
Out of the range of the matrons, who’d gathered in lawn chairs near the garden, undoubtedly enjoying being able to relax their vigilance over their charges since the men were away, the young women talked of stolen kisses and attempts to escape the eyes of their mothers or maids. Most of the girls were better versed in the mechanics of the bedroom than Eliza expected. Another twenty-first-century bias to fall by the wayside, the idea that young gentlewomen of this period were ignorant about sex, though, from their conversation, Eliza gathered none of them had yet done much more than kiss.
It did surprise her they felt at ease talking in front of her, a stranger, but then again, since she was standing to the side, listening rather than participating, perhaps they’d forgotten she was there.
“What’s it like, Lady Amara?” Lady Harriet asked, a noticeable smirk on her face. Eliza definitely did not like that woman; she reminded Eliza of the mean girls from high school.
“What’s what like?”
“Oh, come on ... it. My married sisters won’t tell me any details. They say I shouldn’t worry about it until I’m married, but I say that’s ridiculous. Shouldn’t a young woman know what it’s all about before she gets into it?”
Amara didn’t act disturbed by the question, but Eliza was sure sadness flashed across her eyes. Good God, I want to claw that harlot’s eyes out, and I don’t even know the full story here.
“It, as you put it, is not something to be bandied about in light conversation, as you well know, Lady Harriet. I’m surprised your mother lets you come near me, being the fallen woman I am.”
The other women tittered at this declaration. Fallen woman? Eliza’s empathy for Amara jumped a hundredfold, as did her understanding of Amara’s standoffish demeanor.
“You’re likely correct, but I do believe she is napping under the shade of that umbrella and isn’t paying the least bit of attention to me. Is it true you were caught in flagrante delicto?”
The girls around Lady Harriet gasped. Amara’s eyes blazed brightly and two pink spots infused her white cheeks. Eliza put her fists on her hips, anger surging through her, but before she could open her mouth to defend Dev’s sister, Amara spoke, her voice calmer than Eliza expected. “My situation is old news and hardly fodder for public consumption.”
Harriet had the grace to at least look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense, truly—I merely hoped you could share details with us.”
“Here’s what I can share, Lady Harriet: be on your guard. Know what kind of man you’re dealing with before you go off anywhere with him. In fact, don’t go off with anyone ever. Don’t do anything ever. Live a boring, obedient life, until you find yourself nodding off under an umbrella at a house party, safe in the conviction that your daughter would never do anything untoward because you never did.”
Eliza nodded along with Amara’s words, glaring at Lady Harriet. She couldn’t resist adding, “Lady Amara has more class in her little finger than you in your whole little self. No woman should diss another woman like that.”
At that, Amara turned and walked off, shoulders straight and head held high.
Harriet sputtered as her friends looked at her. Ignoring the brat, Eliza chased after Amara, wanting to hug her to death after that strange, wretched, painful conversation.
“Oh my God, are you all right?” Eliza said as she caught up to Amara in the front parlor. Amara started at Eliza’s voice. She sniffed once quickly, running a finger along the underside of her left eye as if brushing away a tear.
“Yes, fine. I thank you for coming to my defense. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. It’s been five years.” She walked over and sat down on a green armchair, but kept her back erect.
That hardly looks comfortable. Eliza slouched down into a chair next to her, but immediately sat up when her stays pressed into her sides. No wonder everyone had such good posture here.
“That girl was awful to you. I am so sorry, Amara.”
Amara snorted but didn’t meet Eliza’s eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about my ruin in America. My mother seems to think it was scandal enough to cross oceans—a nine day’s wonder multiplied tenfold, in her view.”
“Surely it can’t be that bad.”
“Yes, actually, it can.” Amara traced her finger along the edge of the armrest. “I was twenty-two. Old enough to know better. Old enough to be considered halfway on the shelf, as a matter of fact. I’d had several offers over the previous seasons, but I’d always had eyes for only one man: Lord Drake Evers.” At Eliza’s blank gaze, she added, “Viscount Monteith. Do you know of the family?”
Eliza shook her head. The only Monteith she’d ever heard of was Cory, of Glee fame. Not that she had a chance of knowing any American families from this period, besides the presidential ones, perhaps.
Amara sighed as she smoothed her hands over her skirts. “I thought he only had eyes for me, too, with the way he’d flirt, the attention he paid to me. But one season turned into two and two to three, and no offer came. Mother told me to move on, that he was a rake, but I didn’t want to believe her.”
Plucking at an invisible thread, she continued. “He went away to America for a year. His uncle had plantations there in Carolina—South, I think—and his father thought it’d be good for Drake to see how they were run, or something.”
Eliza sat quietly, watching pain work its way across Amara’s face.
“When he came back, he flirted as much as ever. One night at a ball, he asked me to go into the gardens with him. He told me he loved me. I thought a proposal was forthcoming. I let him ... I lay with him. Right there, in the gardens. Like a common trollop.”
Amara shook her head, her mouth twisting. A lone teardrop traced its way down her cheek. “When I happily asked when we would be married, he just looked at me, a cross of pity and I don’t know what on his face. I remember his exact words. I’ll never forget them. ‘Sweetling,’ he said. ‘I’m already married. That’s why I went to America—my father arranged for me to marry my cousin years ago, before he died. It was a promise he’d made to his brother, to ensure the American holdings remained in the Monteith name. I have to return next month.’
“I yelled at him, beating on his chest. ‘You never told me! You let me think you were honorable, that your pursuit was honorable!’
“‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Someone will come. And I know. I’m sorry. I wanted you so much. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Nobody knew about the contract besides my uncle, but I’d agreed to it at eighteen, out of loyalty to my father. Once I met you, I thought maybe I could get out of it.’”
Amara made a derisive sound in her throat, clutching her arms across her body. “Of course, my yell brought people running, and yes, they discovered me there, half-undressed, in a daze.” She stood up and paced across the room. “Drake, well—he fled to America, but I, I got to bear the brunt of the scandal here at home.”
She sniffed. “Deveric tried to call him out, but the coward slipped on board a ship that night and hasn’t come back since. The truth came out about his deceptive behavior, but it was too late for me.”
“No wonder you and your mother dislike Americans,” Eliza muttered. Her heart broke at the travesty Amara had described. They might call such a man a scoundrel here, maybe even a bastard, but he was flat-out an asshole, no matter what the century.
Cat’s fiancé had ditch
ed her at the altar for another woman. How often had Eliza worked to convince Cat she wasn’t at fault? Now here was another poor woman, blaming herself for the despicable actions of another. “But you did nothing wrong.” Eliza ran her hand across Amara’s back. “All the fault lies with Drake. That jerk.”
Amara tensed at Eliza’s touch. “Jerk? I don’t know this word.”
“Uh, a blackguard, a bounder, a ...”
“I get the idea.” A wan smile crossed Amara’s face. “I was at fault. For being free with my affections. Not that I wanted to marry, but after being publicly ruined, no man of status would consider me. Though a number propositioned me, of course.”
“Ruined? That’s absurd. Having se—having relations with someone doesn’t ruin you, for Pete’s sake.”
Even as the words came out of her mouth, Eliza recalled all the books she’d read that stated exactly that—if you slept with a man before you were married in this era, you were toast. Eliza had always been conservative in this area, a testament to her overly romantic heart, perhaps. She’d only been intimate with her husband, and one other man. And the second one wasn’t because she’d wanted to, but because he’d put on pressure and she hadn’t said no. But at least the worst she’d faced from that was her own self recriminations. No one else had batted an eye. In fact, many of her friends thought it weird, her reluctance to hop into bed. At least Cat had understood, had agreed that kind of intimacy wasn’t to be taken lightly.
Eliza’s thoughts flitted to Deveric. He aroused her like no one else, even more than Greg—though it felt a betrayal to think that. Then again, she and Greg had been young, new, inexperienced. Their first encounters had been half-fun, half-fear. It had gotten better, their lovemaking, but, truth be told, Eliza had always wrestled with the naked part of physical intimacy. It was difficult for her, to be so fully exposed to another person, to face their judgment, and potential rejection. Not that her husband had disliked her body. But he had made the occasional comment about her level of sweets consumption.
“Do you really need that second piece of cake?” he’d said to her on her eighteenth birthday, a month before their wedding. She’d been self-conscious after that, wanting to only make love in the dark, lest he see her rounded thighs, her not-exactly-flat stomach, and be turned off.
Images of Deveric and her naked, entangled, flooded her mind. She was sure her cheeks flamed brighter than a fire truck and was almost grateful Amara had her hands over her eyes, so she didn’t see. Eliza swallowed.
It was one thing to admire Deveric’s physicality from afar. What would it be like to be in bed with him? To be intimate with him? Panic flared, even as her skin tingled and her pulse raced at the mere thought. It was clear, thank God, that Deveric was physically attracted to her, but would that attraction dim if he saw her in the nude, saw how her skin dimpled and curves existed where they ought not to be?
Better not to think of that right now. She’d deal with that if and when the time came. Perhaps everyone in this time period preferred intimate relations to occur in the dark.
“You are not ruined, Amara,” Eliza repeated, her hand making circular motions across the other woman’s back, desperate to imbue some calm into Deveric’s poor sister, whose shoulders shook as silent tears fell. She knew, however, her words weren’t true, by Regency standards. Anger and frustration flared at all Amara had had to endure. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t.
“You’re telling me it’s different in America? That young women are not judged on their virtue?” Amara narrowed her eyes, her mouth pinched tight as she wiped the tears from her face. She stood up and paced the room. “Here, ironically, you can be intimate with whomever you want—after you’re married. People turn a blind eye to affairs and trysts all the time among the married or even widowed set. Mama certainly did to Father’s. But be less than virtuous once as a debutante, and your reputation can never be restored. The taint of scandal forever remains, even for the daughter of a duke.”
“That sucks.” Deveric’s father had cheated on his mother? Maybe that explained the Dragon’s sour disposition. Deveric wouldn’t do that, would he? Eliza’d mentioned specifically to Cat an unfaithful husband was one of her greatest fears. Surely Deveric was the loyal and true type, right?
A choked laugh burst forth from Amara. “That sucks? I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds apt.”
Eliza rose and walked with Amara, glad to see a spark return to Deveric’s sister’s eyes. “Do you want to get married?”
Stopping at the window, Amara stared out at the lawn, where the other young women still meandered back and forth, talking. “It hardly matters; I am not marriageable. Oh, Mother found men willing to take me after the ... incident. A large enough dowry wins out over soiled goods. But I refused. I was, stupidly, still in love with Evers. I couldn’t imagine giving myself to another man. Now, I am past my prime.”
Eliza snorted. “Um, how old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-seven? Honey, you are hardly past your prime.
You’re just getting started. Besides, Anne was twenty-seven when she found Wentworth, and love, again.”
Amara’s brow furrowed. “Who is this Anne?”
Drat. Persuasion hasn’t been written yet. Jane Austen’s novels had been such a part and parcel of Eliza’s life for so long, it was hard, not to mention a bit bewildering, to realize most of them didn’t exist yet. “A ... friend. I myself am twenty-nine and still hope my great love is out there.” Out hunting right now, as a matter of fact. “But if you don’t want to marry, you must have other interests.”
A harsh cackle escaped Amara. “What shall I do? I live off my brother’s largesse. There are few options for spinsters. Unless I serve as a lady’s companion, or perhaps a governess.” She threw her hands in the air. “I sew fine stitches; perhaps I shall become a seamstress. Or an actress. Or perhaps courtesan, to match others’ opinions of me.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you further.” And women thought they had it bad in modern America. Sure, ageism was rampant, but at least there were many more options from which to choose than here.
Amara didn’t answer but rather traced her finger along a pane of glass.
Eliza fell silent, as well. Her options, were Deveric and she not to fall in love, weren’t much better. She was a widow, at least, so she had more freedom, even in potential dalliances, than Amara did. But regardless of whether widowed or never married, being a single woman in the Regency was not desirable in the least, unless one was perhaps rich. And rich she was not.
Crossing her fingers, Eliza sent up a mental plea that should, heaven forbid, she need to use Cat’s escape clause, it would work. She’d been so swept up in the fantasy, in the absolute belief Cat could make her dreams come true, that she hadn’t wanted to face the very real possibility this could fail, and she could be trapped—permanently—in the past. Deveric had promised she’d always have a place here, but would he stick to that if they had a falling out?
After a moment, Amara turned toward Eliza. “No, I should apologize. That was untoward of me. I’m frustrated that women of my position are expected to do nothing. Throw balls and soirees, maybe play an instrument. Dabble in painting. But express too much of an interest in, say, reading, or heaven forbid, science, and one gets labeled a bluestocking.”
“I can think of worse labels. Is that what you want to do? Study science?”
Amara looked up and out at the brilliant blue sky. “I’ve always been fascinated by the stars,” she admitted. “They are so beautiful. Fixed. Familiar. And yet unknown at the same time. I want to know more about them. I want to visit the Royal Observatory, look through a giant telescope. I would love to meet Mr. Herschel, and his sister, Caroline, perhaps someday be elected to the Royal Society.” She tucked her head down. “I’ve never admitted that to anyone before. Those aren’t things a duke’s daughter does.”
“I’m honored you shared with me,” said Eliz
a, truly touched that this woman, who two days ago seemed a certain enemy, now felt more like a friend. “It’s a shame the universities here don’t admit women.”
Amara gave her a wry grin. “Here? They do in America?”
“Uh, well, not yet ...”
“Not yet? America may not have the same social restrictions as here in England, but I highly doubt the day will ever come when women are valued as equally as men, no matter what Mary Wollstonecraft preaches.”
Eliza considered Amara’s words. While she’d never been as career-driven as other women she knew, she’d had friends who railed against the glass ceilings in their corporations, against the minuscule maternity leaves granted to women and the difficulties in reentering the workforce after having kids, especially if one worked in a high-intensity, highly competitive field such as law or medicine.
“Maybe we’re not there yet, but much will change. I’m sure of it.”
Amara eyed her curiously. “You’re different. I’m surprised to find I rather like your American frankness.”
“Thank you,” Eliza said. “I would so love to have a friend here. I miss mine from back home.” Heart pangs struck. What was Cat doing right now? Who was she with? Was she okay?
“Why did you not stay, then?”
“There wasn’t much left for me, without my parents and husband. And I was hoping for better fortunes here.”
“Better fortunes?” Amara’s whole body tensed as her brows narrowed.
“No, no. I don’t mean it in that sense.” Heaven forbid Amara think her a fortune hunter. “I mean—I guess I mean family. I don’t have anyone anymore. I’d like family here, whether that be ... cousins, or yes, eventually a husband and children of my own.”
“I have noticed you watching Dev. Are you after my brother’s title and wealth?” Suspicion emanated from the woman who moments before exhibited friendliness, the bluntness of her question catching Eliza by surprise.
The Magic of Love Series Page 40
