Page 1 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)

Chapter One

The Burn Book: Property of Lady M

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“But Moria, I need you.”

Moria shrank back, removing the vacuous nobleman’s clammy grasp from her cream stitched, pink satin glove. The desperate words of the man before her converged with the sounds of a party: music, laughter, and enjoyment.

Moria had been enjoying herself for a few moments earlier in the salon, surrounded by friends, family, French pastries, and the whining strings of the sisters Montmorency at their musicale.

She’d been performing as well; unaffected debutante again, the staid routine she knew as well as any piece of music.

“It’s Lady Moria, and you don’t need me. You need three wishes.”

Her voice came out harsher than she meant it to, and for a moment she feared how Lord Adderton, the suitor still on his knees, might react to the sting of her rejection.

Perhaps this man before her was right, he did need something from her.

Although Marcus had never found what she could offer quite tempting enough to make her his wife despite giving him her girlhood, her heart, every promise she could make.

Bloody Marcus, why was she suddenly thinking of him again now? He wasn’t the man she wanted either.

“There isn’t another woman for me.” Lord Adderton shook his head for emphasis.

“How can you know? Have you met them all?”

Before he could mutter a reply, the sound of impending footfalls reached them, and Moria fought the clamor of rising panic in her chest. If it were the duke who had courted her briefly and then buried himself in his parliamentary crusades, or one of the ladies who called her a friend…

would she have no choice but to accept the proposal, however unappealing it might be?

But it was Moria’s sister and brother-in-law who joined them on the terrace.

Moria’s suitor found his bearings and rose to his feet.

Moria wanted to collapse against her sister Noelle’s taller form in relief; but instead, looked over her shoulder at the event inside, hoping no one else had followed them outside.

Before Moria could speak, Fitzwilliam Pomfrey, Viscount Ludlowe cut through the tension. “Lord Adderton,” her brother-in-law gave the other man a grave nod. “I presume you were attempting to propose?” The tall, blonde-headed viscount looked between the two of them.

“I suppose this has nothing to do with an article about Moria in the gossip sheets last week,” Noelle spoke, pushing her spectacles up further on her nose as she peered up at the man. “Resulting in an insurgence of bets at White’s on a forthcoming proposal from the Earl of Drysdale.”

At the mention of Drysdale, Moria felt a shard of guilt.

He’d clearly been trying to gain her attention with his performance earlier on the flute, he’d even tried to get her to play his sister’s pianoforte, but thoughts of him hadn’t stuck around.

She’d been thinking of a man who was outside of her reach, or she outside of his.

Noelle cleared her throat, waiting for Moria to pick up the thread and continue.

Moria was struck by how her sister could look both sagacious and stunningly beautiful in the same moment, but she would never have given voice to the thought, and instead crossed her arms, turning to Lord Adderton to tap her chin with a finger.

“I heard it on decent authority you owed Drysdale a good deal of money.”

The suitor made a step toward her, reaching again placatingly for her gloved hand. “My lady, it’s presumptuous to bring up such matters of honor between men-”

Moria had heard enough, so she cut him off. “Is it also too ‘presumptuous’ to suppose that you meant to steal Drysdale’s pick for a wife?”

“And then use your dowry and his winnings from the betting at White’s to settle his debts,” Noelle finished with a scoff, shaking her head.

Moria made a mental note; this information was definitely going in her little book of observations, a catalogue she kept on all the scandalous misdeeds of high society.

Lord Adderton raised a finger in Noelle’s direction. “You know not of what you speak, my lady. Maybe you should hold your-”

Fitz took a step toward Moria’s would-be suitor, speaking in a lowered tone. “If you tell my wife to hold her tongue, someone will need to hold mine. As well as my fists.”

With a huff, Lord Adderton bent to retrieve his hat, tipped it in Moria’s direction, and strode toward the row of hedges concealing the mews on the other side of the garden.

The society matrons from the musicale chose that as the moment to disperse themselves and the lingering crowd onto the terrace.

In the throng of old guard and new alike, she spotted her usual companions eager to be seen with her, as well as The Duke of Andover, with his mother, the dowager, on his arm.

Dukes weren’t supposed to look like him, or be nearly as tall.

He commanded even more attention than she did when he entered a room.

Perhaps that’s why there was so much speculation that they’d make a match.

He turned curious and expectant eyes on her that made her feel a little warm.

Had he seen her exchange with Lord Adderton or her earlier attentions from the Earl of Drysdale?

Just in case, it was to be a performance, then. That’s what they all wanted from her. Moria usually knew what people wanted from her, they often told you if you paid close enough attention.

“It’s nearly impossible to keep up with your growing menagerie of men, sister,” Noelle added in a whisper. Moria didn’t respond. Instead, she painted on a smile that was almost indistinguishable from falsehood.

“Ladies, Lords, I’m so glad you’ve joined us. We were just partaking in the view of the artists on the lawn.” Moria gestured to said painters with easels set up creating still lifes of Lady Bertram’s flower garden and peacocks, then continued her charade. “But I’d like to issue a challenge.”

She felt fickle partygoers' eyes train on her as she trailed down the terrace stairs to the great lawn, many curious pairs of well-heeled feet traipsing behind her. Moria turned to face them, removing a bow from an urn and knocking it with a fresh arrow. The leather of the string and the wood of the bow felt right against her gloved hands. Ladies weren’t expected to be adept at manly pursuits, but Moria had found pride and purpose in such rote and repetitive tasks while she’d been in mourning. Why not use them as an advantage now?

She widened her shoulders and spread her feet apart.

“All that music has me in the mood for some competition. A chance to stretch my limbs. The partygoer who can successfully hit more bullseyes than my own, I’ll personally purchase the painting of your choice.”

Moria pulled back the string, hitting a practiced, near perfect bulls-eye several yards ahead in front of a row of hedges.

She turned over her shoulder to gauge the reaction of the assembled crowd.

Her friends Lady Gretchen and Carina were clapping appreciatively, the Earl of Drysdale was smirking as if he knew she was up to some scheme. He didn’t know the half of it.

Moria picked up another flecked arrow, knocked it, let it lose.

It whistled its way to a perfect bulls-eye.

That wasn’t good enough. Moria stepped to another target, another bulls-eye.

The murmuring continued, four bulls-eyes in rapid succession by a lady in finery wasn’t the kind of accomplishment they’d been expecting.

The ladies looked envious or fearful, while simpering and complimenting her; half the men looked as if they’d like to take her to bed.

And with that, Moria’s distraction had once more kept the fashionable crowd from looking too close.