An icy chill rolled along her spine. This is what he intends. To maneuver her into a match with some fat-in-the-pockets lord, who’d forgive her father’s debt. In an interesting reversal of events, Lord Tennyson had been in search of a fat dowry but a positive turn at the tables had boosted the gentleman’s fortunes.
“The Marquess of Tennyson wants to properly court you,” he went on.
“A man who’d brush his hand over my buttocks during a dancing set is about as proper as a pig in church,” she muttered under her breath. A selfish, horrible part of her soul hated her mother for leaving her here with her sire, who, with his machinations, was far worse than any determined matchmaking mama in the realm. And a small, horribly selfish part of her wished Phoebe was here, still. And more, Edmund. Their presence had deterred the viscount in his ruthless attempts at selling her off to the highest bidder.
Her father ambled his corpulent form over to his desk. “Promised me he’d forgive my debt.”
Short, pudgy, and balding, the coldness in the viscount’s eyes was only rivaled by the greed in his heart. Justina had spent so many hours searching for a glimpse of the man who’d somehow won her mother’s hand. Loathing burned her tongue like vinegar on an open wound. “I hardly know Lord Tennyson,” she said slowly in even tones meant to drum logic into a man who’d never loved, or even cared for his family. Nor, despite what her father might wish, would she ever wed a man who’d have any dealings with her reprobate father.
“Bah, doesn’t matter if you know him.” He settled his sizeable girth in the worn leather seat. “You will know him.” He laughed as though he’d delivered a witty jest; his heavy form shaking with his hilarity so that liquid droplets tumbled over the rim of his glass and smattered the top of his hand. He pressed his fleshy lips to the moisture much like a starving man with his first taste of food. “Anyway, it is time you make a match.” Her father peered at her down the length of his bulbous nose, with assessing eyes that counted her inherent value.
She attempted to reason with him. “It is just the beginning of the Season,” she began.
“It’s been six weeks,” he snapped, all traces of his earlier humor gone. “No reason for you to be unwed, gel.”
Not according to him and the ruthless ton. Her debut had seen her praised as an Incomparable. Her golden beauty was compared to that da Vinci painting, La Belle Ferronniere. Only Justina seemed to realize the irony in comparing a blonde debutante to a woman of not only dark coloring, but one who was also reputed to be a king’s mistress.
Her father grunted. “You had a successful launching, but there’ll be other girls, younger and prettier than you, next year. Must take advantage of your beauty before it fades.”
Launched. Like a bloody ship. At his second cold likening that transformed her from a woman with hopes, dreams, and emotions into a vessel meant to serve, Justina dug her fingers so hard into her palms that they left crescent marks upon her flesh. Why couldn’t she be more like Phoebe? In control, in command of her every exchange with their father. Where she had always been stammering and bumbling.
“You’re a Diamond of the First Water,” her father snapped, in tones better fitting a condescending instructor handing lessons down to an inferior pupil. He banged the desk again. “But even those stones eventually fade.”
She curled her toes into the soles of her slippers until her feet arched. God, how she despised his comparing her to a cold, unfeeling stone for which no real emotion could ever be shown. It represented the material. A creation to be possessed but never truly loved. In short, how too many gentlemen viewed a lady. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that true diamonds never lost their clarity. “I’ll marry a man who loves me and who sees more than an ornament for his arm.” A thrill went through her at that blatant show of defiance. Mayhap she had more of Phoebe’s spirit than she’d ever believed.
“Come, gel,” her father scoffed. “You haven’t a brain in your head. Haven’t since you were a girl.” That same charge wielded when she was a girl by a hateful governess struck sharper now, coming from the man who’d sired her. “Which is good. No man wants a clever bluestocking for a wife.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. Of course, Phoebe had always been seen as the bookish, clever one and Justina the lady with her head in the clouds, more interested in a bonnet than a book. “Phoebe—”
“Bah, your sister was fortunate Rutland wanted her.” He waved his spare hand. “No gent wants anything more than a pretty face. It’s bad enough your damned brother-in-law wouldn’t fund a Season until you reached your twentieth year. But now I can turn you over to someone else.” There was an edge of finality to that matter-of-fact pronouncement.
Her heart thumped at a slow, panicked rhythm. I will not become my mother. A woman forever bound to a worthless lord who wagered too much and carried on with other women. “If I am…” She grimaced. “An Incomparable, a Diamond,” she amended, using that hated language in a desperate bid to dissuade him from his goals. “Surely you would be better served in not rushing me to accept an offer.” Justina held her breath, using the ruthless logic her father lived by as a means of retaining her freedom.
“He’s measured your worth, and the offer is right,” he said, as though they discussed the sale of a mare.
My worth. Her character and body measured out the way a clerk counted his coins. Revulsion snaked through her and Justina forced her gaze to her father’s repugnant face. “Would he also care to see my teeth?” she asked in modulated tones. “I’ve been told I possess remarkably even teeth.” She displayed them for his perusal.
“Don’t be silly,” he barked. “Fortunate for you, the gent cares more about your other attributes.”
Nausea churned low and deep in her belly. I am going to be ill.
“Tennyson’s coming to call at noon,” he said with finality.
She shot her gaze to the long-case clock. Thirty minutes. Her panic mounted.
Her father waved her off. “We’re done here, gel.” He picked up his previously discarded glass and dipped the empty snifter upside down over his mouth. With her eyes, she followed the trail of several amber drops as they slid onto his tongue.
By God, she’d see a drunkard like him in hell before she abandoned the dreams she had of a loving marriage. Not attempting to keep the disgust from her face, Justina stood and snapped her skirts before taking her leave.
Once free of his office, she quickened her steps. Her hem whipped noisily about her ankles. So, her father was determined to sell her off—and not even to the highest bidder—only to the most convenient one. He would sell her body and soul to that man.
Justina rushed around the corner and, not breaking stride, shoved open the door of the billiards room. She closed the door quietly behind her and opened her mouth to speak, but words died on her lips. Her brother stood, poised over the edge of the table, with a silly grin on his face. His faraway, dreamy gaze lingered on the untouched balls. The urgency of her father’s intentions for her momentarily slipped to the corner of her mind as she stared at him. “What is the matter with you, Andrew?”
He jumped and his cue stick skidded across the table, scratching the surface. A crimson blush stained his cheeks. “Justina.” He glowered. “Hardly the thing interrupting a fellow when he’s—”
“Woolgathering?” Despite the direness of her own situation, a small smile pulled at her lips.
His cheeks flamed apple red. “Playing billiards.” He yanked at his immaculate cravat. “What do you want?” he asked with a bluntness that raised a frown…and also brought her back to her reason for seeking him out.
She spoke on a rush. “I require an escort.”
Andrew returned his attention to the two balls remaining on the table. “You always require an escort,” he mumbled as he released his cue.
The crack of his stick striking the object ball filled the space.
Justina folded her arms at her chest. “You are my brother. It is your role to esco
rt me about Town when I need to be accompanied.”
“That is Mother’s role,” he said, walking about the table and assessing his next shot.
“Mother is with Phoebe and I’m here.” She paused. “With you.”
“And I just accompanied you shopping last week.” Of course, with her visits to Gipsy Hill, he’d drawn the same flawed conclusion that any male might—that her sole reason for visiting that unfashionable end of London was for some fine frippery or another. “Besides, I am meeting someone.”
Justina eyed him skeptically. “Who?” She knew every last friend Andrew had. Men who were more acquaintances, with shared interests in gaming and drink.
Her brother flushed. “None of your affair,” he mumbled, studiously avoiding her eyes. “A chap shouldn’t have to explain who he’s seeing and when.”
She drummed her foot. At any other time, she’d press him on his red cheeks and lovesick look. “Father has a visitor coming shortly,” she said, advancing deeper into the room. She’d not remain and be sized up by Tennyson like the Christmastide hog.
“’Fraid I cannot.” Andrew leaned over the table once more and positioned his stick. He took his next shot. It sailed wide, missing his target.
With a frown, she captured the end of his cue.
“What—?”
“I have to leave, Andrew. Father wishes me to see Lord Tennyson.” Releasing his cue, she stuck a finger in his chest. “You may believe yourself wholly removed from my circumstances, but if Father succeeds in marrying me off, then you will be next.” He picked his head up and his eyes flared wide with panic. Now she had his attention. “You will be expected to find a lady with a fat dowry,” she continued, playing on any young gentleman’s greatest fears. “So, muster some fraternal devotion and accompany me.”
Worry danced in Andrew’s eyes. “I cannot go marrying another w—” He promptly pressed his lips closed, cutting off those telling words.
So, there was a lady who’d garnered her brother’s notice.
“Furthermore,” her brother groused. “It’s not in good form to take a jab at a man whose dibs not in tune.”
Dibs not in tune? “First, I do not know what that means,” she said, positioning herself between him and the table once more, and earning another scowl. “Second, I require your help.”
“No,” he said, restoring his attention to his single-player game.
“Here.” Justina fished around inside the clever pocket sewn into the front of her ivory velvet gown and drew out a small sack. She hurled it onto the table. Andrew looked between her and the velvet purse, and scrabbled for it. “We leave in ten minutes” she said, starting for the door. She paused, with her fingers on the door handle. “And if you care to speak of bad form, Andrew, requiring your sister to pay for your help is certainly the veriest form of low.”
Her brother had the good grace to flush. “You know I would help you, anyway. You don’t need to pay for my assistance.”
Justina looked back at him. “I know,” she said softly. And she did. She also knew that the same disease that led their father to those gaming tables night after night, and plunged their family further into debt, plagued her brother. Not for the first time, worry settled in her chest about Andrew and who he might one day become.
“Not that I’ll reject your gift, either,” Andrew spoke on a rush and tugged at his robin-egg blue satin cravat. “Bad form and all to reject a gift, especially from a sister.”
Her lips pulled at the corners. “Ten minutes,” she reminded him.
A short while later, Justina, with her reluctant brother in tow, made her way through the crowded London streets, onward to Gipsy Hill. Andrew whistled a discordant tune and drummed his fingertips in time to the rumble of the carriage wheels.
Chin in hand, she stared out at the passing scenery as the aged black barouche drew them farther and farther away from the townhouse. There, her father would meet with a gentleman and attempt to sell her off like some prized broodmare. The muscles of her stomach knotted. That was the manner of man her father was. One who’d trade his soul for a sack of silver, and release his daughter to a stranger without a thought of her happiness. Or her hopes. Or dreams.
With his avaricious heart that beat for nothing but those gaming tables, he could never see, nor care that she was a woman who longed for so much more than the gloomy existence her own mother knew. Justina wanted more than even a respectable, honorable husband who carried on a life separate from her own. She wanted a loving husband, loyal and devoted to her and their someday babes. And more, she wanted to be free to read whatever books she wished, write, and be a woman with control of her life…and thoughts.
And she would have it. Despicable father be damned.
“Why can you not be content with staying to Bond Street?” Her brother called her back to the moment. There wasn’t a single Circulating Library on Bond Street. “All the thing, you know? Splendid tailor over there where I find all my jackets.”
From the corner of her eye, she took in his shockingly bright, burnt orange cloak and the canary yellow satin breeches revealed through the crack in that garment. “Oh, I expect you might find an even better tailor at Gipsy Hill.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Gipsy Hill?” her brother parroted. “Egads, would you have me don garments fit for a gypsy?”
The reminder that his vibrant garments would be the envy of any true gypsy hovered on her lips, but she quelled it. As long as her mother remained in the country with Phoebe, Justina was still in need of his assistance. It would hardly do to offend him.
“Well, regardless,” Andrew persisted, stretching his legs out and knocking her knees. “You’d be better served by finding your fripperies at Bond Street. All the crack, you know?”
“I like Gipsy Hill.” At the junction of South Croxton Road and Westow Hill, the bustling streets lined with gypsy wares and carts didn’t have the same crush of proper lords and ladies one found in the fashionable end of London. She’d discovered, merely by a matter of chance in those streets, The Circulating Library.
The carriage rocked to a slow halt, and Andrew grabbed his leather gloves from the bench and pulled them on. “At last. Will you pledge to at least keep this visit short? Meeting someone.” He puffed out his chest like the prized rooster that used to dance outside Meadow Manor. The memory ushered in that place where she, Phoebe, and Andrew had known so much laughter.
Their driver drew the door open, yanking her from her reverie. Andrew jumped out and skimmed his gaze over the crowded streets. The servant, Stevens, reached inside for her. As her booted feet touched the ground, Justina flashed him a smile. “Thank you, Stevens.”
“Come along,” Andrew urged, smoothing the lapels of his cloak. “You were eager to shop, let’s not tarry.”
She pinched his forearm through his cloak, earning a wince. “Oh, hush.” She dropped her voice. “You know very well, you’re just as excited to be here as I am.” The dull flush on his cheeks confirmed the supposition she’d long known. Nearly a foot shorter than Andrew’s six-foot, two-inch figure, Justina went up on tiptoe and added on a conspiratorial whisper, “I promise I shan’t shatter your reputation as a flawless dandy with the truth.”
His color deepened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, darting his gaze about. His eyes landed on a wide wagon littered with vibrant-hued kerchiefs.
Justina laughed. “You are free to go look. I wanted to select a book,” the book she’d had to leave behind earlier that morn, “and then—”
“You’re certain?” Andrew asked, his feet already carrying him several carts over to the toothless Rom. The young peddler held up a peacock blue fabric and her brother reached for it with reverent hands.
Andrew otherwise occupied, Justina strode purposefully along the pavement until she reached The Circulating Library. After she’d entered she moved quickly through the establishment and found the copy of Shelley’s work. Collecting it, she m
ade her way to the front and checked out the volume.
Prize in hand, she hurried outside. A blast of wind whipped at her face and tugged at her skirts as she started back down the street to where Andrew was engrossed with a purchase. Even with the length of distance between them, the burnt orange kerchief held up for his inspection stood out. Her brother eagerly grabbed the bright scrap. Justina fought back a grin. Though she’d long teased him for his garish fashion, she appreciated that he, at the very least, knew his mind and made no apologies for his interests or choices.
She picked her way around the crude table set out with bonnets, gloves, fans, and other colorful fripperies and stopped. Drawn over, Justina set her borrowed book down and trailed her fingertips over a straw bonnet with green satin ribbons.
A bemused smile tugged at her lips. How many years had she spent collecting nothing more than pretty bonnets and ribbons? As a girl, she’d spent countless hours trying on her mother’s hats. Then, as a young woman, she had reveled in the power to at last select something of her own. She fiddled with the green ribbon, running it between her thumb and forefinger. The ton believed a lady incapable of having more than singular interests. By Society’s narrow-minded standards, one who appreciated lovely bonnets could never also enjoy books.
“White gloves, my lady?” A gypsy with stringy, graying hair held the long, white cotton, embroidered pair aloft.
Setting down the bonnet, Justina shook her head and continued her perusal.
“Mayhap, a book then?” This time the woman held out a small leather tome.
Unwittingly, Justina stretched her hands out and the Rom turned it over for her inspection.
The cacophony of the riotous street sounds grew distant as she stared at the faded gold title: Evelina. Justina fanned the pages of the old, musty-smelling volume. Of all the baubles or fripperies the gypsy should hold forth a copy of Frances Burney’s work. Transfixed, she snapped the book closed and ran her gloved palm over the cover with reverent awe for the female author who’d challenged her father and Society’s disapproval to publish the once well-received work under her own name.
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