Chapter 1
Twickenham Hall, Surrey, England, 1817
Lady Cordelia Pelham ran down the long staircase at her home, her feet clattering loudly in the silence. Papa was expecting her in his study. The summons had come unexpectedly while she had still been dressing. Minnie, her lady’s maid, had been forced to hurry the morning toilette. Delia was out of breath and a bit flustered. Her father rarely summoned her like this.
What did Papa want?
To her dismay, Delia realised that one of her hair ribbons had worked itself loose and fallen on the stairs. Hastily backtracking, she snatched up the ribbon, stuffing it in her pocket. Her father would just have to put up with her hair falling down.
As she scurried down the hallway towards the study, she gazed around, noticing how the plaster on the cornices was flaking. She frowned. There was also substantial water leaks from the roof, which were snaking down the walls towards the row of oil portraits.
She had recently become aware of how many maintenance issues were being ignored in the old manor house, which was unusual. Papa always prided himself on keeping their ancestral home in tip-top condition. Twickenham Hall was their ancestral seat. Her father, the Marquess of Delacombe, passionately loved their home. Delia couldn’t understand it.
But all thoughts of the rapidly deteriorating condition of the house fled her mind as she opened the study door and saw her father’s face. The Marquess of Delacombe looked grim. And that was unusual for Papa, who was always happy-go-lucky and often boasted he had never suffered a day of melancholy in his life, apart from his grief when Mama had died, of course.
Delia gaped at him. “Papa. Is something wrong?”
He grimaced. “Delia, please sit down. I must discuss something with you.”
She sat down on an upholstered chair near the fireplace, leaning forward to warm her hands. The fire was lacklustre and needed more wood. Winter was here, and it was freezing. She suddenly realised that all the fires in the house weren’t being built up well anymore. Her father usually had them roaring throughout the long winter months.
He sat down opposite her. Delia stared at him, waiting for him to speak. She was growing increasingly uneasy. Her father was not acting like himself at all.
“You have grown into such a beautiful, accomplished young lady, Delia,” he said eventually. “You know how very proud I am of you, do you not?”
Her face softened. “Of course I do, Papa. You tell me constantly.”
“Yes, yes,” he said absently, gazing into the fire. “I do my best, my dear. I have tried to make up for the lack of your dear mother, but it is challenging. Your Aunt Verity is the only lady in your life now, and we do not see her very much.”
“I know you do your best,” said Delia, frowning slightly. “I have no complaints.”
He got up, pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Delia’s frown deepened. Something was wrong, and she wished he would just get to the point and tell her what it was. Not knowing was somehow worse. It allowed her imagination to run rampant, envisioning all manner of terrible things. Was her father ill?
Abruptly, he stopped pacing, turning back to her. “Delia…I have brokered a marriage for you. A betrothal. It is going ahead immediately.”
Delia stood up, all the blood draining from her face. Had she misheard him?
“A betrothal,” she stammered. “Who are you betrothing me to?”
He looked sheepish. “To Lord Stanton, my dear.”
Delia felt like she was going to faint. Lord Stanton was a friend of her father’s and not a particularly close one. A widowed gentleman who was the same age as her father, with two grown daughters, one of which was her own age—barely two and twenty.
She hardly knew him. Papa and Lord Stanton caught up perhaps once a year. She hadn’t paid the gentleman any attention. To her, he was just another acquaintance of her father’s, a middle-aged man who held no interest for her at all.
And her father wanted her tomarryhim!
“I will do no such thing!” she said, so outraged she could barely spit the words out. “He must be at least fifty years old, Papa! For the love of our Lord, how could you do this to me?”
He sighed heavily, looking pained. “Lord Stanton is a good man, Delia. In fact, he is a fine man. An upstanding pillar of his community. He will treat you very well.”
“I do not care that he is a pillar of his community!” she cried. “You always promised me that I could choose my own husband. You said you would wait until I found a gentleman who I loved.” She took deep gulps of air. “You know how important choosing my own husband is to me.”
He looked shamefaced. “It is true. I did make that promise.” He hesitated. “But I must break it now, Delia. There is simply no choice.”
“Why?” she cried, not understanding at all. “Why must you do this?”
He was silent for a moment. Delia’s heart was beating erratically, and she felt sick. The betrayal was absolute. She and Papa had discussed marriage many times since her debut. Hehadpromised that she could pick her own husband. He had promised that he would never force her into a marriage of convenience with someone she didn’t love. He had told her he knew how important love was in a marriage, for his own marriage with her late mother had been a love match.