by Renee Ryan
The fabrications drawn up by her family were supposed to be for Elizabeth’s protection. Her mother benefited most. Katherine’s friends had no idea what she’d done. They didn’t realize how self-serving she could be. No one in the family had known, either, until Caroline had shown up and exposed her shocking deeds.
Prior to that, everyone had believed Libby St. James had run off with a lowly stable boy for the sake of love. For years, Elizabeth’s father and grandfather had mourned her abandonment of the family, never understanding why she hadn’t contacted them.
Except . . . Libby had made many attempts to reach them. She’d sent letters home, nearly three dozen over a span of fifteen years, begging her father to let her return to the family fold. Richard St. James had never received those letters, because Elizabeth’s mother had intercepted them.
The very worst part of the story was that Libby had died destitute in a run-down shack on the East End of London and Katherine’s reputation had remained intact.
“I trust you correspond with her regularly.”
Oh, the irony.
Elizabeth gave a slight incline of her head, this time unwilling to openly lie.
“In your next letter, do be sure to tell your mother that I asked about her.”
“I will most definitely include your request in my next letter.” Elizabeth managed to hold her smile. “If you’ll excuse me, my aunt is motioning for me.”
She didn’t wait for Mrs. Newbury to respond before hurrying in Aunt Tilly’s direction. The older woman was alone now. The light from the fire cast her features in partial shadow, emphasizing the soft angles of her face and the prominent beak nose that somehow worked with her eyes and mouth.
“Ah, Elizabeth.” Aunt Tilly met her at the edge of the hearth rug. “Your grandfather and I were just speaking about our upcoming trip to London. I have grand plans for you, my dear.”
Attempting to keep her tone light, her face serene, Elizabeth said, “I would love to hear them.”
Her aunt launched into a detailed exposition.
Only half listening, Elizabeth cast a quick glance around, searching for Luke. He’d moved to another group that included his sister and her fiancé. His manner was deceptively easy, but Elizabeth noticed the tension in his shoulders, especially when he spoke directly to Simon.
“We will begin building your wardrobe immediately.” Aunt Tilly glanced briefly at Elizabeth’s dress. “Tulle and taffeta must give way to satin and other superior fabrics.”
Elizabeth stifled a sigh. Here was yet another woman attempting to dress her.
“The conservative décolletage of your current gowns will have to be replaced with a more generous display of neck and arms.”
“Truly?”
“You must stand out. But not too much, of course. I know exactly how far to go. When I am through with you, you will be the talk of London.”
“I hope in a good way.”
“Of course, of course.” Aunt Tilly waved a dismissive hand. “Once we arrive in London, I will introduce you to a few friends at a small, informal tea. We will proceed from there to a private dinner party. The theater will be next. And then a ball. We will calculate each step carefully.”
Caught up in her plans, Aunt Tilly continued mapping out her strategy for acquiring Elizabeth the perfect husband. The woman had missed her calling. The US Army could use her tactical mind.
“I believe I can secure us an invitation to the Duchess of Marlborough’s annual garden party. Once you are accepted there, you will be accepted everywhere.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Elizabeth wondered what was wrong with her when even the prospect of meeting a duchess didn’t spark anything more than mild curiosity. Certainly nothing close to the excitement she heard in Aunt Tilly’s voice, her eagerness almost—almost—contagious.
Elizabeth attempted to tap into the older woman’s enthusiasm. A trapped sensation stole over her instead. The sudden churning in her stomach made her head spin. The room grew unnaturally hot, so hot she feared she would faint. But her hands were like ice. She clasped them together, willing her stuttering heart to calm.
“It’s important we pick the right clothing,” the woman said, returning to her original topic of discussion. “As I always say, we are what we wear.”
Elizabeth wanted to believe she was more than her clothing. A sense of urgency took hold. She must uncover what lurked beneath the handmade gowns and perfectly coiffed hair before she sailed for London. If she sailed for London.
No matter what path she chose, action was required. A few rules needed to be broken, an adventure or two must be experienced. How else would she know what she was truly made of if she didn’t push the boundaries and live a little?
While Aunt Tilly regaled her with all that lay ahead in England, Elizabeth’s mind raced over the things she would do, the daring steps she would take, if she found the nerve. Some would require a partner.
Well, then, she would find a partner, a willing partner.
She knew she could, and probably should, enlist Sally’s help. But that wouldn’t be fair to the maid. As Elizabeth’s paid employee, the young woman would have to go along with her schemes.
Elizabeth could go to Caroline. But her cousin was a newlywed, and she would soon begin working with their grandfather in the family business.
That left one option.
Elizabeth glanced surreptitiously across the room. Luke was engaged in a lively conversation with his sister. He leaned in and said something low. Penny laughed, and so did Luke. Elizabeth willed him to look at her. One more time. Just one more.
As if hearing her silent call, he turned his head and held her gaze. Her pulse roared into action as though the look were a physical touch.
Him.
Luke was the one Elizabeth would approach with her plan. Once she had a plan.
She would be careful, and not take too many chances with her reputation. No matter what, she would do nothing to prevent herself from fulfilling her duty to the family. No, not a duty. It was more than that. It was an honor, a privilege.
Nonetheless, she desperately wanted to go to Luke and demand he help her, as only a man with his past would know how to do.
Eyes fastened with his, she smiled.
He did not smile back.
She upped the brilliancy of her smile.
As if he’d turned off a switch, his expression shuttered. His attention turned back to his sister.
The connection was lost. But Elizabeth would not allow herself to be discouraged.
She was glad she’d switched his seat at the dining table. She would drop a few hints, see where that led. The evening stretched before her with endless possibilities.
As if on cue, one of the staff slipped into the room, gave Elizabeth a nod, then slipped out again. The first course was ready to be served.
Excellent timing.
Several hours later, Elizabeth stood alone in her room, shaking with frustration. The guests were gone. The party was over. Dinner had been a success.
Save for one minor disappointment—Luke.
Oh, he’d done nothing untoward or rude. If anything, he’d been an acceptable dinner companion, perfectly polite, a gentleman in both speech and manner. But he’d hardly spoken to her. When he did, he stuck to superficial topics. He’d commented on the weather seven times. She’d counted.
It was as if he’d erected an invisible wall around himself. But why? What had changed that he felt the need to pull away? He’d been so kind and supportive when she’d told him the news of Hester’s illness.
Elizabeth moved to the fire already lit by her maid. Sally had been another disappointment. She’d failed to show up at the party.
In truth, Elizabeth hadn’t been surprised. When she’d confronted the young woman, Sally had lifted her chin at a haughty angle and repeated her earlier argument about the inappropriateness of a servant mingling with guests.
Elizabeth didn’t believe that was the reason for Sally’s
absence from the table, but she’d been insistent.
The fire cracked and popped, the flames spitting tiny sparks in every direction. Mesmerized by the golden light, Elizabeth moved a fraction closer. Desperate for the fire’s warmth, she spread her fingers wide. The chill remained, navigating a path through her bones.
With a reluctant sigh, Elizabeth turned her back on the fire to pace the perimeter of the room. On her second pass, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. The red corded sash made her feel marginally better. But when she lifted her gaze and stared at her reflection, the color instantly drained from her cheeks.
Elizabeth saw her mother in her pale-blonde hair and doll-like features, in the small waist and perfect posture. Would she turn out like Katherine St. James in other ways?
For a moment, she stood rigid and unmoving, sending up a silent prayer that she would be able to step out from beneath her mother’s shadow.
Hester had intimated that it wasn’t too late to change. The question was, did Elizabeth have the courage to do more than wear last season’s gown or fashion a belt from a shawl?
Luke had asked what rules she would break, if given a chance.
What would Elizabeth do? If she threw open the cage door and ignored the restrictions of her world, would she falter? Or would she soar?
The time had come to get serious about her next step. She would start by making her list.
Removing the shawl from her waist, she shook out the fabric and wrapped it around her shoulders. The silk felt cool on the exposed skin of her arms. Fortified with a rekindled resolve, she moved to her writing desk, sank into the velvet-padded chair, and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
Pressing her hand flat on the blank page, she let her mind drift. What would she do, if the rules didn’t apply to her? What wonderful, glorious deed could she accomplish if she had the courage?
How far would she go?
Her heart behaved strangely in her chest, an animated pulse awakening in her ears, her throat, even in the spot behind her knees. Elizabeth drew in a slow, careful breath. While she certainly wished to start with a big, bold step, she knew herself well enough to know she needed to begin small.
She reached for a pen, then opened the silver inkpot that sat atop the desk. After dipping the nib in the ink, she wrote the number one. Beside the number, she added four simple words.
Wear last season’s dress.
She’d already done that, twice now. No one had noticed.
Why would they? People saw what they wanted to see. When they looked at Elizabeth, they saw a passive girl, no longer a child but not yet fully a woman, either.
Setting the pen down, she stared at her looping, feminine handwriting. Each letter was perfectly executed, each word evenly spaced. Even the start of her list spoke of her careful nature.
She made her next entry a little off-center.
Walk in the rain.
There. Better. But not quite right. She angled her head and thought a moment. Item number two didn’t seem bold enough.
Why not? The answer came to her a heartbeat later. She added another word.
Walk in the rain, barefoot.
Yes, that was it. Oh, how marvelous that would feel. She added four more activities in rapid succession.
Splash my bare feet in a public fountain.
Attend a vaudeville show.
Play a game of chance.
Ask a man to dance.
Feeling quite scandalous with that last entry, she knew she was ready to take the leap. With a fresh dip of pen to ink, she wrote number seven.
Kiss a man.
No.
Kiss a man under the moon and stars.
Yes. Yes.
Seeing the words penned in her own handwriting thrilled her to the marrow. Elizabeth didn’t need to list the name of the man. She knew exactly whom she wanted to kiss her. Or perhaps she would kiss him. That would certainly shock Mr. Polite and Mannerly.
She smiled, having no difficulty imagining those intense tiger eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing with something far more personal. A look not dissimilar to the way he’d stared at her when she’d first arrived at the party tonight wearing Hester’s shawl around her waist.
Head bent, she continued. Now confident she was on the right track, the rest of the list came quicker. She didn’t worry about prioritizing yet. That could come later.
With fast pen strokes, Elizabeth added items as they came to her. Some were silly and not necessarily something she needed to do, such as swing on a trapeze or drive a motorcar.
Others were serious pursuits that, hopefully, would help her become a better person. She needed to stop relying on other people’s advice. This wasn’t about winning approval but about breaking free.
Thinking bigger now, beyond her own wants and needs, she wrote down item number twelve.
Live the life of a servant or factory worker for a day.
Walking in someone else’s shoes would open her to the needs of people living without the advantages she enjoyed.
Mind reeling with all the adventures awaiting her, Elizabeth’s hand flew across the page. Whether she chose to sail to London or stayed home, by accomplishing the items on this list, she would become a woman of substance and prove to herself she was destined to live life on her own terms. She would know how far to go and when to pull back only if she pushed to the very edge of propriety.
She reached the end of the page.
There was room for one more item. This time, her hand shook as she wrote.
Confront my mother.
The list was complete.
Elizabeth set down the pen and stared at the piece of paper. As she read through each item, she became aware of a feeling she’d had earlier in the night, a sort of tingling in her limbs that urged her to be cautious going forward.
The sensation intensified. It took several deep pulls of air to modulate her breathing. Of course she was experiencing a rush of trepidation. Everything on her list would require daring and no small amount of pluck.
She read through the items again.
The order was a bit chaotic, with no real attention to priorities. No problem—she would revise as needed.
Satisfied at last, she placed the lid back on the inkpot and returned the pen to its holder. Once she’d restored order to her desk, she picked up her list and folded the paper once, twice, three times, then hid it in the pages of her Bible.
Straightening, she secured the shawl around her shoulders. Elizabeth St. James had spent enough of her life being passive.
With her list as her guide, she would do more than she’d ever dared. She would know more than she’d ever known.
Most of all, she would be more than she’d ever been.
Chapter Ten
Shrouded in the gray light of dawn, Elizabeth pulled the hood of her cloak down over her face and dashed up the steps leading to the four-story house. Made from brown bricks and sand-colored limestone, the building had a masculine elegance similar to its owner.
The early-morning mist swirled around her, nipping at her cheeks. She huddled deeper inside her cloak and watched her breath plume out in front of her. Regardless of the cold temperature, this was her favorite time of day, when night surrendered to dawn and everything began anew, when unrealized possibilities hovered within reach.
From somewhere in the distance, the muffled creak of a wagon wheel contrasted with the boom-spit-boom of a motorcar coughing to life. The world was awakening, and so was Elizabeth.
She felt vibrant, alive, ready to conquer the next phase in her plan to become a woman of substance.
Her first adventure was but one knock away.
Slipping a hand beneath the edges of her cloak, Elizabeth touched the red shawl she’d tucked inside. The silky garment’s presence reminded her why she’d alighted from her bed at such an early hour. Seven days had passed since she’d agreed to go to England, and nothing had changed in her life. She had seven weeks left to discove
r what lay beneath her carefully constructed veneer.
From the safety of her hooded cloak, she contemplated the pair of mahogany double doors. Hand rising, she paused mid-reach and stabbed a glance to her right, then to her left, then back to her right. The street was sufficiently deserted.
Satisfied she wouldn’t be seen entering the house of an unmarried man, she lifted the brass knocker. Let it fall with a hard bang.
Nerves reared. She battled them into submission and made another slow, comprehensive study of her surroundings. Alone still.
She knocked again.
No answer.
Had she arrived too early? It wasn’t yet seven o’clock, but undoubtedly someone in the household was awake. She lifted her hand to knock again. And met empty air.
“Oh.” She stumbled forward—straight into a pair of strong, muscular arms. “Luke.”
He smelled of soap, coffee, and some sort of intriguing spice.
“I . . .” She shoved to a standing position, pleased at how quickly she found her balance. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Who, exactly, were you expecting, Little Bit?” A muscle shifted in his jaw, the only sign of his agitation. “This is, after all, my home.”
“Well, yes. I am aware of that.” She made a grand show of straightening the hood of her cloak, tugging it lower over her face. “I thought your butler would answer the door.”
“I don’t employ a butler.”
“Oh. Well.” She hadn’t expected that. “Oh.”
He glanced over her shoulder. “Where is your maid?”
“At home.”
A moment passed, just a tiny one, when everything seemed to slow down and wait. From the glint in Luke’s eyes, it was clear he was not happy to see her. The man was a study in masculine impatience. Refusing to break the silence first, Elizabeth lifted her chin.
Several tense seconds passed. Her hands began to shake. She clasped them in front of her and counted off the next few seconds in her mind. One. Two.
Three.
“You are alone?”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, but the man actually hissed out the words.
“I am, yes.”
