by Darcie Wilde
“I don’t understand you.”
“If I am never going to be married, then there’s no need for me to remain a virgin.” She might be an aging spinster in the world’s eyes, but she was far from an innocent. She knew perfectly well why some men went sneaking down the corridors at night during their stays at certain houses, and she knew why the women who were not their wives opened doors. More than once she had looked on some of the youths and men who vied for the attentions of the girls with less watchful relations. She’d wondered, if she had been alone, and if it was her door they knocked on, would she open to them?
But, clearly, she had passed the limits of Fiona’s daring. “Caro, are you mad?”
“No, I am speaking quite coolly. I am free. Absolutely and completely free. Why should I not enjoy all that freedom allows?” Including the freedom to open the door, to say yes to whatever one I choose . . .
“All right, Caro. You’ve had a great deal of excitement. I’m going to make some allowances.” For a moment Fiona looked exactly like her mother at the height of her displeasure. Caroline decided now was not the time to mention the resemblance. “But when you’ve had time to think, you will understand what you’re suggesting. There are plenty of words for that sort of woman. ‘Adventuress’ is the most polite.”
Caroline knew Fiona was only trying to look out for her best interests, and now was most definitely not the time to argue this particular point. “I’m sorry, Fi. And I’m making a mess of your happiness, and I don’t want that, not when I’m able to be your maid of honor after all! And I might need your help. I’ll need to rent a house in London, and Mrs. Ferriday doesn’t know the town. And this Mr. Upton . . . he can be my man of business, but I don’t know him personally, so can’t rely on his judgment for this. You could help us find a good place, couldn’t you?”
“You know I’ll do anything I can to help you. And so will Mother and Father, of course. And Harry . . .”
“Oh, no, Fi. You mustn’t tell them. At least not yet.”
“Why on earth not, Caro? When have they done anything but try to help?”
“I know, I do. But . . . they are such good people. They’ll wish for me to try to reconcile with Jarrett. They might even, quite accidently, of course, delay things . . .”
Fi nodded solemnly. “I do understand, Caro. Very well, I’ll tell no one if that’s what you want.”
“Just for now. If all goes well, I’ll be in London in plenty of time for the ceremony, and once you leave on your wedding trip, I can take my own leave for the Continent and never have to worry about Jarrett, or anyone else ever again.”
But still Fi seemed hesitant. “Just . . . just don’t do anything reckless. Give yourself time to get used to your circumstances. Money and freedom and London can be a strong combination.”
Having Fi turn so uncharacteristically cautious stung Caroline harder than she would have believed possible. “Fi, I never expected to hear you agreeing with Jarrett.”
“Say that again and I will have to be cross with you, Lady Caroline. I’ve been out for three seasons. I’ve seen more than one girl let London go to her head. You might be free, but you must be careful.”
“Or I’ll fall into the coils of this Lord of the Rakes you keep talking about?”
“I don’t keep talking about him,” replied Fi with a fine imitation of being piqued. “I mentioned him exactly once. But yes, Caroline, you might fall for him or someone like him and then—”
But Fiona was unable to finish her sentence. Heavy footsteps fell against the hall carpet and an even heavier hand knocked at the door. Caroline sprang to her feet again, and just in time she thrust her letter into Fiona’s hands. A bare heartbeat later, the door opened, and Jarrett Delamarre, Earl Keenesford, walked in.
