Frederica looked down her pert nose at Guinevere. “Do not ignore the question. Does the duke still affect you terribly?”
“Absolutely not,” Guinevere fibbed.
“She’s lying,” Frederica announced in her typical no-nonsense manner.
“I am not,” Guinevere sputtered.
“You are,” her youngest sister returned, focusing her gaze on Vivian. “Did you hear how her voice went up an octave?”
“I heard,” Vivian said, her blue gaze latching onto Guinevere’s with a sympathetic look. Though Vivian was five years younger than Guinevere and one year older than Frederica, she was more like Guinevere than she was Frederica. Vivian and Guinevere were both naturally soft and mushy on the inside. They were prone to feel too much too strongly, which was why Guinevere had been especially proud that she had gotten over how Asher had ripped her heart out of her chest, but it seemed now she was not actually quite as over it as she had convinced herself she had been previously.
“‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’” Guinevere’s eyes widened as she slapped a palm over her mouth at the words that had just escaped her treacherous lips.
Both her sisters’ gazes collided with hers at once—Frederica’s horrified and Vivian’s filled with wisdom beyond her years. It was the sort of wisdom Vivian had because she had been ill for many years as a child. Her insight was born of patience, endurance, and a deep understanding of the struggle it could take to overcome the past.
“She’s quoting Shakespeare again,” Frederica said with a shake of her head and a worried look at Vivian.
“I can hear you, you know,” Guinevere snapped, more irritated at herself than her sisters. It had been years since her annoying and embarrassing habit of blurting out Shakespearean quotes when she was vexed had occurred. She gnashed her teeth at the thought that she might be beset with the problem again. It had started when she’d made her first appearance in Society at Almack’s and had been, she believed, a large part of why her first Season had been so disastrous. Well, that and her penchant for talking politics. And perhaps that she’d been about as graceful as a newborn colt. She supposed her inability to feign her dislike of gossipmongers and men fawning after her for the coin her dowry could add to their coffers had been a factor, as well. Oh, and old, eagle-eyed, tight-lipped matrons who looked down on any woman with an ounce of life in her.
Her mother had been beside herself at Guinevere’s miserable start to the Season, and then he had appeared and turned it around before he had flipped it upside down. He was a Scot but also a marquess, so he was allowed to court her. The blurting of quotes had stopped as the courtship had begun. But…
There was always a but, wasn’t there? She despised the word.
She nibbled on her lip as the memories assaulted her. He had made her feel womanly, graceful, interesting, and understood. He had filled her with hope that a real love match was possible. She had fantasized they would be wed by the end of the Season and have their first child by the end of the next. Their grand love would fall from the aged lips of gossipmongers for years to come. She actually had been giddy at the prospect. Giddy!
The story would have gone like this:
Once upon a time there was a misunderstood, overlooked, slightly plump young lady who was wrongfully ignored at worst, tolerated at best. Then one day, a handsome, mysterious Scot appeared in Town, and of all the women he could court, he chose her because she was like no other. An undiscovered diamond of the first water. He was irrevocably and hopelessly besotted by her, and he got down on one knee in the middle of a field of lilies, her favorite flower, and asked for her hand! She’d always wanted to be proposed to in a field of wild purple lilies, just as her grandfather had proposed to her grandmother.
“Guinevere Darlington!”
Frederica’s exasperated voice, as well as her fingers snapping in front of Guinevere’s face, jerked her back to the moment. A flush immediately covered her from her yet-to-be completed hair all the way down to her slipperless feet. She curled her toes at her embarrassment.
Frederica pointed an accusing finger at her. “You were daydreaming about Carrington.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Guinevere replied in the most unaffected tone she could muster. “Viv, please repair my hair. You know Mama will call on us to depart for the Antwerp ball at any moment, and she will have a fit if—”
“Girls!” came Mama’s shrill voice. It shot up the stairs, down the hall, and straight under the door of Guinevere’s bedchamber to pierce their ears, as only their mother’s voice could do. Each of them winced. “We must depart! We do not wish to be late. Let us all pray, especially you, Vivian, that Guinevere will finally concede to make a match this night.”
Guinevere rolled her eyes as her sisters gave her sympathetic looks.
Vivian patted Guinevere’s hand before she moved behind her to finish her hair. “I do not mind, Guinnie, that you have not wed yet,” she said in a soothing voice.
“I know you don’t, darling,” Guinevere replied, smiling at each of her sisters in turn with true affection. Only sisters who truly loved her would not be bothered that their mother had declared that Vivian, who their mother had finally allowed to be presented this Season, could not be courted until Guinevere was betrothed. Their mother was very clever. By allowing Vivian to come out, she was effectively forcing Guinevere’s hand.
And it would work.
What choice did she have? If she did not get herself betrothed, then Vivian could not be courted, and if Vivian could not be courted and become betrothed, then Mama would not allow Frederica to make her appearance at Almack’s to find a suitable husband.
Guinevere bit the inside of her cheek to quell her desire to scream. She’d been trumped by her mother. But Guinevere was determined to take back as much control as she could. If she finally must wed, she would do so on her own terms. Somehow.
“There!” Vivian said. “Guinevere, I swear you are too beautiful for your own good.”
Guinevere stared at herself in the mirror. Brown hair. Green eyes. Yes, her hair did shine, and her eyes were bright. Her lashes were dark and passably long. A straight nose and teeth helped the overall appearance. The years had been kind to her looks, she supposed, and had been good for her backbone. Heartbreak did give one a spine of steel, but her heart had not mended properly. The most important piece was missing—the one that still believed in true love.
She sighed.
“Girls!” Mama shrilled again. “Your father is becoming impatient.”
Guinevere scoffed. That was an untruth if ever there was one. Papa tolerated balls for Mama’s sake. Guinevere slipped on her shoes, rose to her feet, and the three of them stood there for a moment, Guinevere’s secrets unspoken and swirling between them. She had once been completely in love with Asher. Perhaps it had been a young, foolish love, and surely it had been one-sided love, but it had been love for her part.
Vivian surprised Guinevere by taking her hand and squeezing it. “If I’m near Carrington tonight, I’m going to elbow him sharply in the ribs.”
Guinevere grinned at her sister. “He’s not worth it, dearest.”
It wasn’t lost on her that she’d not always thought that. Why, she had ridiculously believed for a full sennight after his betrothal was announced that it had somehow all been a horrible mistake. She had kept telling herself he would not do that to her, and Elizabeth would not do that to her. They both had done exactly that to her.