“You are a smart and beautiful young girl. Don’t you ever change, Livvie,” her papa had told her several times, when she’d lamented she was not the daughter her mother desired. She’d loved him dearly and had been broken when he took his life. She had held on to the lessons he’d taught her in life, but his final lesson, the one he taught her in death, was the most profound.
“I want to concentrate on being the best painter I can be. I’ll choose a husband when I am ready.”
“You are naive, my dear. I do not criticize you harshly for it, but it will not serve you well in the world you were born to.” A deep sigh issued from the viscount. “You will go to my cousin and she will help launch you into society.”
“Father—”
“No, my dear, Livvie. Heed me in this, for I shall accept no compromise. You will be married within the year. Do not force me to make a choice for you.”
She swallowed her protest. The last thing she wanted to do was upset him when he was finally on the mend. The entire bed jerked then as he was consumed by a fit of coughing. She murmured soothing nonsense, stroking his knuckles, watching keenly as he rallied.
“Forgive me, my dear,” he said hoarsely.
She offered him a smile. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“I’ve already spoken with William. If I do not recover as is hoped, you are to receive a Season and a dowry.”
She squeezed his hand, unable to speak past the lump growing in her throat.
Her stepfather nodded, relief settling on his face, before allowing his eyes to drift shut. She stood and drew the drapes open, allowing a measure of light to fill the room. She hurried into her room and collected the book she had been reading earlier. Then she went back to her stepfather’s chamber and sat in the chair closest to him. Livvie hoped the somewhat gothic and mysterious stories of In the Service of the Crown by Theodore Aikens would be soothing.
She skipped to her last read page and leaned closer to her father. She started to read. “Danger rode the air, the hum of it sliding across his skin like a sharp cutting blade. Wrotham slowly lowered the hidden floor panel into its proper place and rose with fluid grace to face the man who had discovered him. A low vibration of warning thrummed through his veins. He recognized Jasper, one of the deadliest assassins of the sixth order. A surge went through Wrotham, and he realized it was the thrill of the hunt, the inherent danger in facing off with a man that might even be more merciless than he. He slid a dagger from the cuff of his sleeve and slipped into the shadows, allowing icy resolve to flow into his veins. Only one of them would make it out of this encounter alive…” Livvie paused from reading to glance at the peaceful look on her father’s face.
“Father, are you sleeping?” she whispered.
A smile tugged at his lips. “How can I when I must discover how Wrotham will fare against an assassin from the fearsome sixth order?”
With a chuckle, she continued reading. For now, her father seemed as if he was on the mend, and she quieted the fear in her heart. She would immerse them into the exotic cloak-and-dagger world of danger and espionage the author had created, leaving their fear behind…even if only for a few hours.
An hour later, Livvie strolled with her mother, Lady Helena, Viscountess Bathhurst, down the winding staircase of the elegant manor that had been their main residence for the last eleven years. Her mother had once been an extremely beautiful woman, and in middle age retained traces of the fragile flower she had once been. Even now, she walked gracefully and was dressed elegantly.
“How was your visit with your father?” her mother asked, her voice cracking with grief.
“Father won’t die,” Livvie said firmly. “Dr. Greaves has said he is on the mend, and we must do all what we can to improve his spirits.”
“Your optimism is wonderful, my dear, but my husband has summoned his heir from Town.” Her throat worked. “To do that, he must believe there is a chance of relapse.”
A loud crash sounded from the parlor and they faltered. Her stepbrother’s wife, Lady Louisa’s, voice filtered through the heavy oak door of the drawing room. “You would deprive your family for…for that—”
Livvie winced. “Come, Mother, we can take a turn in the gardens and have tea later.”
“No, we must hear what is being said.”
“Mother, please—”
“Upon my honor my father asked me to provide a dowry and Season for Livvie if he dies,” William snapped. “It is a sickbed wish, how do I ignore it with good conscience?”
“She is not your real sister! Why should we deprive our son and daughters of a sum of two thousand pounds, for people who are not real family? I have never heard a more ridiculous notion. The only person we have some obligation to is dear Ophelia and she has years before she will be out of the schoolroom. When the time comes, you can sponsor her Season.”
A heavy sigh sounded. “Louisa—”
“No, William, a dowry and a Season would be wasted on Livvie. Some may call her beautiful, to be certain, but are you forgetting the stain on her name? Her father killed himself,” Louisa said furiously. “For years we have had to suffer such an undesirable connection because your father took it upon himself to wed Lady Helena and her…her improper and soiled daughter came with her. Our name was brought into disrepute, and surely, surely, my darling, you cannot think to continue with such ill connections after your father passes. I assure you, he will not know if his wife and stepdaughter are in Derbyshire, where they belong, or in Town.”
Her mother swayed.
Improper and soiled? Anger burned through Livvie, and she took a step toward the drawing room only to be halted by her mother’s hand on her arm. The torment on her lovely features had fury beating in Livvie’s breastbone. She wanted to storm the drawing room and provide Lady Louisa with the tongue-lashing she richly deserved. To be so heartless!
“Mother, let me speak with Lady Louisa. I will be mindful with my tongue—”
“No. What she says is true,” her mother said through bloodless lips. “It is painful to acknowledge, but William does not need to honor his father’s wishes.”
“He most assuredly does. We are—”
“I have been married to his father for years, and you have tried to be a good sister to him, but we have never truly belonged.”
Livvie clasped her hands, hating to acknowledge the truth of her mother’s words. Her stomach dipped at the idea of their future becoming so uncertain again, but she would ensure they weathered this as a family. “Father is mending, our worries are for naught,” she said, hating the doubt snaking through her.
Her mother’s eyes were dark with sorrow. “And if he does not?”
It was such an unbearable thought, but she had to be strong for her mother. “Then we will mourn as a family, and then do what is needed. I am most content to retire to Derbyshire with you and Ophelia. I am fluent in three languages, and as you know, I paint rather well. I will seek jobs—”
“Hush, Livvie! There shall be no talk of you working. You are a gentleman’s daughter, a lady, and I will hear no talk of you acting beneath your station. We will find you a husband.”
“Mamma, I am truly not averse to working.”