she was old. Before she became Haselby’s wife.
“I don’t know when,” Richard said, looking down at her with…was it regret?
Why would it be regret?
“Soon, I think,” he said. “Uncle Robert seems somewhat eager to have it done.”
Lucy just stared at him, wondering why she couldn’t stop thinking about dancing, couldn’t stop picturing herself, in a gown of silvery blue, magical and radiant, in the arms of—
“Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth, as if that could somehow silence her thoughts.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. Her daydreams did not have a face. They could not. And so she said it again, more firmly, “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”
Her brother stooped to examine a wildflower that had somehow missed the discerning eyes of Aubrey Hall’s gardeners. It was small, blue, and just beginning to open.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Richard murmured.
Lucy nodded. Richard had always loved flowers. Wildflowers in particular. They were different that way, she realized. She had always preferred the order of a neatly arranged bed, each bloom in its place, each pattern carefully and lovingly maintained.
But now…
She looked down at that little flower, small and delicate, defiantly sprouting where it didn’t belong.
And she decided that she liked the wild ones, too.
“I know you were meant to have a season,” Richard said apologetically. “But truly, is it so very dreadful? You never really wanted one, did you?”
Lucy swallowed. “No,” she said, because she knew it was what he wanted to hear, and she didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. And she hadn’t really cared one way or the other about a season in London. At least not until recently.
Richard pulled the little blue wildflower out by the roots, looked at it quizzically, and stood. “Cheer up, Luce,” he said, chucking her lightly on the chin. “Haselby’s not a bad sort. You won’t mind being married to him.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“He won’t hurt you,” he added, and he smiled, that slightly false sort of smile. The kind that was meant to be reassuring and somehow never was.
“I didn’t think he would,” Lucy said, an edge of…of something creeping into her voice. “Why would you bring such a thing up?”
“No reason at all,” Richard said quickly. “But I know that it is a concern for many women. Not all men give their wives the respect with which Haselby will treat you.”
Lucy nodded. Of course. It was true. She’d heard stories. They’d all heard stories.
“It won’t be so bad,” Richard said. “You’ll probably even like him. He’s quite agreeable.”
Agreeable. It was a good thing. Better than disagreeable.
“He will be the Earl of Davenport someday,” Richard added, even though of course she already knew that. “You will be a countess. Quite a prominent one.”
There was that. Her schoolfriends had always said she was so lucky to have her prospects already settled, and with such a lofty result. She was the daughter of an earl and the sister of an earl. And she was destined to be the wife of one as well. She had nothing to complain about. Nothing.
But she felt so empty.
It wasn’t a bad feeling precisely. But it was disconcerting. And unfamiliar. She felt rootless. She felt adrift.
She felt not like herself. And that was the worst of it.
“You’re not surprised, are you, Luce?” Richard asked. “You knew this was coming. We all did.”