Tom was not usually a stickler for getting names, but tonight he was. Tonight, he would have every last name because he was never going to allow a single one of them to know triumph again.
And he did not wish Lady Elizabeth to suffer at their hands.
Given that they were all likely lords of the land, he might not be able to throw them into the Thames with stones weighing down their pockets.
But there were ways a man of his skills could make certain that a lady did not come to harm at the hands of such devils.
Chapter 2
“The flowers in your hair are asymmetrical. Adjust them immediately.”
Lady Elizabeth jumped at the sound of her father’s perfectly enunciated tones filling up the foyer.
The sound was so cold.
That voice could cut through the warmest of days and turn all those around it frigid. It could steal away spring, that voice. Of course, over the years she had grown accustomed to it, but even now, she leapt occasionally.
She did her best to hide her flinch, for he hated when she showed any weakness or feeling.
No, he’d raised her to be implacable, even under the harshest cruelty.
So, she drew in a slow breath, one subtle enough that he wouldn’t notice, and she swung her gaze to the mirror hanging in the foyer.
She caught sight of her perfect reflection and fought a frown. She’d already spent hours at her appearance this evening, making certain she was up to his standards of female beauty.
Much to her amazement, she dared to reply as she swung her glance towards him, “Papa, I do not see how they’re asymmetrical.”
He arched a silver brow then drawled as if her lack of observance tried him beyond all relief, “The left red flower is slightly higher than the right white one, and I do not understand why you have a red flower and a white flower in your hair. Is this the bloody War of the Roses? Have you taken sides with the Lancastrians or the Yorks?”
She blinked, knowing he wouldn’t tolerate her backing down from him. Oh, she couldn’t be openly defiant, but he loathed quivering. So, she held her head up and said, “No Papa. Neither. Though you know I do enjoy history, I have not decided to show a visual representation of the houses of medieval England’s monarchy in my coiffure.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he spat out, adjusting his own emerald stick pin in his perfectly pressed cravat. “One doesn’t want the gentlemen of the ton thinking you’re intelligent. It’s damn galling that you are. You had to go and inherit your mother’s intellect as well as her looks.”
Her father shook his head with irritation. “It would’ve been far better if you had inherited your grandmother’s lack of ability to reason.”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, swallowing back an acidic reply. He did not tolerate that. She couldn’t wilt, but nor could she fight back.
But in truth, what could she say to his hideous comments? He had never liked his own mother and had found her lack of intelligence to be something that he frequently commented upon and disdained.
But he had imparted to her over and over to hide her intelligence until marriage.
As her mother had done.
She could barely remember her mother. There was only the soft glow of a woman laughing, swinging her around, bouncing her.
And even today, she had her most dear memory… she could still remember her mother kissing her face, tickling her, and… the most important of all? The feeling that all would be well with the world in the golden glow of the nursery.
That had been seized from her abruptly, harshly, and she had been left with the cold blade of her father’s wit, who wished her to make a great marriage and to be perfect in society without being herself.
“You may one day be a wit my dear,” he said fiercely, “but you must wait until the ring is upon your finger and the new title upon your head. Do you understand?”
She gave a tight nod. “Of course, I understand Papa. You have made it clear enough many times.”
And the truth was he had.
Daily almost. He had ground into her the same way a diamond is ground from a rough stone into a polished gem. He wanted her to be perfect, absolutely perfect. Nothing could be out of line. Not a hair, not a thread, not a glove, not a look.
She walked through rooms with so much calculation she could barely sleep at night. She rehearsed constantly how to be, what to say and how to appear elegant but not overly intelligent, polite but not absent.