This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Kasey Stockton
Cover design by Blue Water Books
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations for the purpose of a book review.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Love in the Bargain (Women of Worth, #1)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
About the Author
For Jon, my eternal hero
Prologue
Miss Smythe’s School for Girls
England, 1810
“IF WE DO THIS, THERE is no turning back.”
I held my breath as Freya sipped from the ancient silver goblet, her grimace a testament of the distasteful concoction within. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed me the cup, her twelve-year-old face full of equal parts reverence and disgust.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“Yes you do, Elsie,” Rosalynn countered with equal gravity.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes and I nodded once. I had not made this decision lightly.
Cupping the goblet in both of my pale hands, I lifted it to my lips and let the lumpy fluid slide into my mouth, clamping my lips shut as I sputtered involuntarily. The leftover stew from tonight’s dinner mixed with who-knows-what Rosalynn found in the kitchens had a distinctly tart aftertaste, and stew should not be tart.
Shuddering, I swallowed the glob of Promise Juice and set the goblet on the wooden floor in the center of our circle. Rosalynn firmly grasped my hand in hers, giving my other hand a pointed look. Obediently, I clasped Freya’s and we all bowed our heads.
Rosalynn began. “With this Promise Juice...”
“With this Promise Juice,” Freya and I recited.
“We make a pact...”
“We make a pact.”
“That the Sisterhood of Deserving Females shall never let a man determine our worth.”
I peeked at Freya out of one eye. She squeezed her eyes closed when I got a jab in the knee by Rosalynn’s elbow.
“That the Sisterhood of Deserving Females shall never let a man determine our worth,” I repeated, trying to sound confident.
Rosalynn’s voice became strong, authoritative. “Nor will we give up our power through matrimony. We will retain our dignity by honoring ourselves foremost. We hereby declare to sustain one another through the perils of society and the ideals that are pressed upon us by our mothers. These things we swear, breaking the bond of the Sisterhood of Deserving Females upon penalty of death!”
My fingers ached from Rosalynn’s firm grip. I squeezed Freya’s hand once supportively, took a deep breath and began the remainder of the oath.
When we completed the vow, we raised our heads. Freya would not look me in the eye, but Rosalynn was in her element. Her rich brown eyes glowed in the candlelight with empowerment and strength.
Our hands dropped to the wooden floor. I felt less changed than I had anticipated. But alas, I had made a promise that would impact the rest of my life, for the good. I hoped.
“Now,” Rosalynn said in her distinctly knowledgeable tone. “Nothing will come between us. We are forever united.”
“Except when we leave tomorrow for the summer term,” Freya countered with a teary smile. “I will miss you both so much!”
“It is only a month,” I reminded her, thoughtlessly.
Rosalynn pouted, her energized face turning sullen. “For you two, it is only a month. Then you get to be together while I am stuck in the wild, withdrawn from polite society and forced to endure the company of The Tyrants.”
The Tyrants; her nickname for her brothers.
“Summer will pass and we will be back here at school together before you know it.”
A loud thump sounded in the stairwell and we all stilled. “Quick,” I whispered, “the candles!”
Turning in unison, we each blew out the candles behind us while heavy footsteps ascended the attic stairs. Mr. Peele’s head came through the doorway. Leaping to my feet, my foot collided with the forgotten goblet on the floor in my haste. I watched in horror as a spray of the Promise Juice doused Mr. Peele’s torso, arm, and lantern.
He let out a yelp and stumbled forward, falling before me on the rough wooden planks.
“Run!” I yelled, jumping over his legs.
I raced down the stairs, hoping the footsteps following behind me were from Freya and Rosalynn’s feet, and not those of our school caretaker.
Turning at the landing, I raced for my bedroom. Jumping into my bed and pulling up the blankets, I held my breath in a futile attempt to slow my breathing. I heard two other doors down the hall close swiftly and silence ensued.
The thin blanket moved in rhythm with my rapid breathing. I winced when I heard Cecily, my roommate, turn over in her bed, groaning. She did not, however, wake up. Minutes later I screwed my eyes shut when the doorknob twisted quietly. I forced myself to relax and my mouth to droop, silently counting slowly in time with my deep, even breaths.
Wincing when the lantern light roamed over my face, I moaned groggily and turned away from it. I hoped my acting was believable, and I cheered mentally when I heard Cecily moan softly, the rustle of blankets when she turned over as well.
Time seemed to drag while they searched all of the bedrooms. It was probably mere minutes later that I heard the headmistress sigh in frustrated defeat while she walked away with Mr. Peele, unable to positively identify the curfew breakers.
I relaxed into the feather mattress and sighed. Perhaps I did feel lighter. I was forever changed, and it had to be for the better.
Chapter One
London, England
1816
“FOR THE LOVE OF ALL things holy, you are not to tell your Aunt Georgina that we are back in Berkeley Street for the Season,” Mother said, fixing her husband with a fierce look.
Father forked a sausage on hi
s plate and shoved it into his mouth, watching her and refusing to respond.
“David, I shall not reside here another moment if that woman—”
“If she what? Calls on us?” Father asked, tossing me a wink before spearing another sausage. “You’ll tuck tail and run home?”
I took a bite of the toast on my plate. He had perhaps gone too far this time.
“Mr. Cox,” she said acerbically.
Mother only used Father’s surname when she was particularly displeased.
“I shall not endure that woman’s theatrics for an entire Season. I refuse! We are trying to bring Elsie out. How are we to find her a husband if your Aunt Georgina scares them all away?”
“Mother,” I cut in, swallowing frustration. We must have had this conversation fifty times, at least. “I promised you I would attend the Season. I did not agree to marriage. You know how I feel about that institution.”
“That institution brought you into this world, young lady, and I would prefer it if you did not spout nonsense at my breakfast table.”
I glanced at my father but he was busy analyzing the coddled egg on his plate, his bushy eyebrows pulled together. No help at all.
Not that I needed it. I pushed back from the table and rose. “I am expected at Freya’s. Her mother is taking us to choose gowns for the Gibsons’ ball.”
Mother popped a strawberry in her mouth, all the while glaring at Father.
I suppressed a sigh. “I shall be home in time for dinner. Do we have any engagements this evening?”
“No,” Mother said around another strawberry, her glare unrelenting.
“Very well, then.” I left the breakfast room behind with its multitude of feelings, certain I would never understand the greater intricacies of the marriage relationship. Besides, whatever was the matter with Aunt Georgina anyway? Yes, she was a tad eccentric, but surely she would not force her company upon us.
My parents had been attending the Season each year for longer than I’d been alive. Aunt Georgina had had plenty of opportunities to pester them before now. Yet, in my entire life, I had only met her twice. There was little evidence she was going to suddenly change her desire for a relationship.
I dressed quickly for my outing with Freya and left the house with Molly, my maid. We walked the ten minutes between my London home and Freya’s, and I dismissed Molly the moment I stepped inside the Hurst’s townhouse. It was, perhaps, too early to call on an acquaintance by proper etiquette standards, but Freya and I did not bother upholding proper etiquette with one another. I was led into the parlor where Freya and Rosalynn already sat, their heads bent together over something on their laps.
“Care to share?” I asked, crossing the room and installing myself on the sofa beside Rosalynn.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Freya lifted the parchment to show me a watercolor portrait of a dog.
It was a rather charming dog and expertly painted. One ear stuck straight up while the other flopped down and a little pink tongue dangled out the side of its mouth.
“She should be named Clementine,” I said decisively.
“Completely,” Rosalynn agreed. “I found this in a quaint little shop on Bond Street yesterday and it almost makes me wish to acquire a dog of my own. But alas, I feel I cannot be bothered. So I will simply look at this one instead.” Grinning unrepentantly, she put away the painting.
“We cannot leave yet,” Freya said. “Mother is still abed.” She tucked a lock of curly, copper hair behind her ear. “I tried to convince her we could choose our own gowns but she wouldn’t relent.” She lifted her dainty shoulder in a shrug. Her hair was mostly pulled up, away from her face in loose waves piled into the semblance of a bun. Her soft features were perpetually turned up, evidence of her cheerful nature.
“Mothers.” Rosalynn shook her head, disgusted.
I wanted to scoff—good naturedly, of course. I was proud of myself for smiling instead. “Have The Tyrants come to town yet?”
“Cameron has.” Which I knew already. He had escorted Rosalynn to London only last week. “The rest of my family is traveling down together later. I believe they are set to arrive the day after the Gibsons’ ball.”
“Then why are you attending?” I asked, with some confusion. Rosalynn was not only morally opposed to men, she also despised formal dancing. On principle, if nothing else.
“Because Cameron wants to attend. And he will tell my mother if I fail to do so.”
Freya and I exchanged glances. It was apparent we did not have all the information. The way Rosalynn stood up and began pacing the Aubusson carpet proved further how much she did not want to fill us in.
But no matter. She would tell us when she was ready.
“Do you think I should choose a nice blue silk to offset my hair?” I asked Freya, fingering my honey colored locks. “I am convinced you need to find a green similar to the gown you wore to the school holiday formal—”
“Elsie, you do know that we are limited in our color options, do you not?” Freya’s concern was sweet. Of course I knew debutantes wore pale colors. Mother had not failed to remind me multiple times before agreeing to this outing. I was simply trying to bring Rosalynn out of her pacing and into the conversation.
“Of all the ridiculous—” Rosalynn threw her arms in the air and groaned. She resumed her pacing, mumbling something incoherent under her breath.
Nearly there, but not quite. I asked, innocently, “Can we not wear any colors though?”
“Only pale colors,” Rosalynn cut in, never breaking stride. “It is supposed to symbolize our purity.”
“You sound disgusted,” Freya said as though this was uncommon. It was not. At least, not where Rosalynn was concerned.
“Are you not?” Rosalynn countered. “You should be. Why are we bending to such ancient rules?”
I smiled wryly. “I believe it is what some would call tradition.”
“Tradition is dull,” she muttered.
“Regardless, it is tradition,” I said.
“So is marriage, but we are not going to bend that far.”
Silence fell upon the room. A clock chimed in the hallway that broke the tension and Rosalynn slumped into a chair.
“What is it?” Freya prodded gently.
Rosalynn took a gulp of air and then raised her face to the ceiling. “Mother has decided to take away my inheritance, pending marriage.”
We gasped in unison. Rosalynn’s inheritance was the very thing that triggered the origin of our Sisterhood of Deserving Females. And it wasn’t only Rosalynn’s, either. Freya and I were both to be independently wealthy in the future. I had no siblings and my father’s estate was not entailed, so eventually all he owned would be passed down to me. Freya received an inheritance from her maternal grandmother when she was six years old in the form of an estate. She had never before visited the thriving country house, but the reports she found in her father’s study were promising, indeed.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Rosalynn locked her eyes on me. “I do not know yet. I must live the facade until I figure that out, I suppose.”
The wheels in her mind were plainly turning. She had a plan, though I could not fathom what it would be. With three older brothers, one of them a future duke, her inheritance took the form of a trust placed in her name years ago. She was not to receive property or the like, but sufficient money to live out her life in comfort. We had all sort of figured we would end up together one day, living happily under one roof like we once did in school. Only this time, we would be in charge of ourselves.
“It will all work out.” It had to. She could move in with me if needs be.
Freya asked, “But how?”
“I don’t know,” Rosalynn answered. “But I agree with Elsie. Somehow, it will all work out.”
The mood was heavy when Freya’s butler came in to announce that Mrs. Hurst was finally prepared to leave.
Freya pasted on a wide smile. “Shall we drown our
woes in beautiful new gowns?”
Rosalynn stood wiping her hands down her dress to remove invisible lint. Even in distress, she was the most dignified person I knew. Perhaps that was what came of being a daughter to a duke. “Yes, let’s.”
Freya shot me a worried smile when we followed Rosalynn outside, and I tried to reassure her with a grin.
All was not lost, yet.
MRS. HURST BUSTLED about the shop directing each of us in our choice of style, fabric, and embellishments. She was a self-proclaimed expert at matching a woman with her ideal gown, and I had to admit that so far, I had been satisfied with her input. Watching from one end of the shop while Mrs. Hurst showed Freya a few fashion plates she thought would suit her, I considered how the excursion would have gone differently with my own mother in tow.
It was not an altogether horrid image, but an experience that I would perhaps receive less enjoyment in. My mother, though an expert of many things, much like Mrs. Hurst, could not abide being proven wrong. She would dig her heels in and fight me on any opinion for the sheer opportunity of obtaining a victory. Considering that she did not have the option of winning any match against my father, I could see why she chose to exert her authority over me. I did not blame her, entirely, but I did not enjoy it either.
“Freya and Mrs. Hurst are quite the team,” Rosalynn said sotto voce. “My mother would have merely swept in, directed a few shop girls to measure us, chosen fabrics, then hurried home to await the delivered parcels at her leisure.”
“She is of a status where that is possible,” I reminded Rosalynn. “Not many people would begrudgingly serve a duchess.”
Rosalynn merely glanced away. “It is not really worth the title, though, is it?”
“What is not worth the title?”
“Putting up with my father.”
I chose not to respond. I’d heard many stories about the ruthless dictator who ran the Nichols’ household. He was not physically abusive, as far as I’d heard, but he was a duke and thus undisputed in all things. His commands were to be followed, regardless of how unreasonable or senseless they seemed, and frequently ostracized his wife and children.
Love in the Bargain (Women of Worth, #1) Page 1
