It was not self-pity speaking. It was not defeat. Prim liked to think of it as pragmatism. If she wanted something badly enough, it was up to her to get it for herself. She had long ago realized that. If Mama denied her, she simply went around her.
Ever since she was a little girl, if Mama said no more biscuits, Prim merely stuffed them in her mouth when she wasn’t looking. If Mama said no to a walk in the park, Prim would wait, bide her time, and slip out during Mama’s afternoon nap. When Mama insisted she was finished with her education, Prim would claim she was making a social call to Olympia and instead visit one of London’s well-stocked bookshops. There, she would use what little pin money she possessed to acquire new books, at times trading some of her own well-read ones with the proprietor. A difficult thing always, deciding which books to part with, but she would not have new books to read otherwise. Sacrifices had to be made for the improvement of her mind . . . and to stave off boredom. There were days she was convinced she would perish from lack of stimulation.
Mama called her defiant. Difficult. Hoydenish.
Perhaps.
Prim was all about circumventing her parents to get the things she wanted. Nothing too radical or outrageous, of course. She wasn’t that brave or bold or foolish. These were merely little rebellions to help maintain her sanity. If she did not at times defy her parents, she feared she would shrivel up inside and die.
“I don’t understand how you can tolerate such a situation. It’s your blasted birthday!”
Prim twisted her shoulder in an awkward shrug. It wasn’t the first time Olympia had voiced criticism over the way Prim’s family treated her, and she never knew how to respond.
Mrs. Zaher tsked her tongue, the sound rife with disapproval. “Olympia, dearest. Don’t persuade Primrose to go against her family.”
“Of course, Mam,” she said humbly. Her friend was all fire and boldness, except when it came to her mother. Olympia doted on her and never went against her. And why should she? There was no need for rebellion when one had their way in almost everything.
“That’s a good girl.” Mrs. Zaher’s face brightened as their tea and scones arrived, and once again Olympia took advantage of her mother’s inattention to shake her head violently no at Prim. Then she mouthed words Prim could not entirely decipher. She said either: “Your mum can stuff it” or “I like rum buckets.”
Primrose grinned and shook her head at her irreverent friend. She certainly made the drudgery of life bearable. It was in the midst of admiring her audacious friend that her gaze cut again to the man-boy seated across from them. How could she not sneak another look at him? If for no other reason than to assure herself that he was real and not a figment of her imagination.
Only now her scrutiny was not unnoted. Indeed. It was returned in full, stunning measure.
Prim froze, looking at him looking at her with those deep brown, too-shrewd eyes of his.
He was looking at her. Not over her. Not around her. Not through her. At her.
That was a wholly new sensation—to find herself the center of such avid attention.
She felt his gaze touch her everywhere, as palpable as the stroke of a hand: from her unfortunate carroty-red hair and spotted nose, which her mother despaired of, to the profusion of flowers cradled in her lap.
The three gentlemen rose from their table, finished and ready to depart.
They came abreast of where Prim sat with Olympia and Mrs. Zaher.
Man-boy, as she had dubbed him in her mind, still watched her closely.
Her cheeks flushed hot. She should tear her gaze away from him. It wasn’t appropriate. She should be blind to it—to him—and not be thinking of foolish Shakespeare lines. Ladies did not hold prolonged stares with strange gentleman. Even if they were handsome. Even if they were very likely peerage.
She should feign ignorance of his regard.
Except she could not. That would require steelier resolve than she possessed.
Suddenly, man-boy paused, stopping directly beside her table. His friends moved on ahead, but he lingered, unbelievable and awkward as that was.
He inclined his head politely to each of them, murmuring, “Good day, ladies.” To Olympia’s mother, he added, “Mrs. Zaher. I heard you sing at Haymarket. Allow me to say, your performance was inspirational.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Zaher inclined her head, regal as a queen. She was accustomed to such lavish praise. “You’re too kind.” Accustomed to it, but still gracious.
His gaze returned to Prim again. “And happy birthday to you, miss.”
She blinked. He was speaking to her.
He wished her happy birthday . . . which was more than her own family members had done today. She blinked again, struggling to find her voice and not appear a tongue-tied ninny.
With a nod, she finally mumbled something that might have been a thank-you. She was not sure. She could not be certain. Her mind was awhirl.
Then, with a polite inclination of his head, he was gone.
The door rang out at his departure.
“Well,” Mrs. Zaher exclaimed. “Isn’t he a handsome lad? Such lovely teeth.”
“Who is he?” Prim murmured, stretching her neck and still staring at the door as though he might return.
Mrs. Zaher amended, “I suppose it’s not very correct of me to call him a lad. He is clearly of age.”
Olympia lifted a scone to her lips. “Agreed. He’s like no lad I’ve ever seen.”
“Who is he?” Primrose asked again.
Olympia answered, “No idea, but he’s clearly Quality.”
Clearly. And he spoke to her. To Primrose.
He had wished her a happy birthday.
Her mother would likely lift both eyebrows to the sky in disbelief if she knew that Primrose had been singled out by a Gentleman of Quality. A gentleman who was very likely a peer.
Violet and Begonia were considered the beauties. Mama did not have much faith in Aster or Primrose to charm anyone. Still, she would savor the memory of this exchange. Whether he was charmed by her or not—the memory of his deep voice wishing her happy birthday reverberated through her mind and made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Until she realized it would be the last time she heard that voice.
The last time he would ever speak to her.
The last time any handsome and exciting young man would likely ever speak to her if Prim looked to her sisters as examples of what to expect once she entered Society. Mama would watch her like a hawk. There would be no conversing or flirting with gentlemen of Prim’s choosing. Potential suitors would all be curated by Mama, and would all be perfectly dull, no thought given to age or attractiveness, just the depth of their pockets.
Prim’s shoulders slumped. The warm fuzziness faded, replaced by a tangled ball of knots in her stomach.
Even once she entered Society, she and the man-boy with alluring eyes and perfect teeth would likely never cross paths again. They moved in different circles. She could tell that at once from his manner and the company he kept. Unless she spotted him strolling on the street or in the park, he would be in his world and Prim would be in hers—a world regulated by her mother.
She pushed aside the unaccountable disappointment, determined to enjoy her outing with Olympia.
They finished their tea and scones amid happy chatter. Even full as they were, they ordered ices. Primrose managed to take down every last spoonful of the melon-flavored deliciousness.