Page 12 of Is This Real or Just Pretend?

It was still rather early when Alex returned to the house.

Since Mother’s party had gone on into the wee hours of the morning, she hadn’t expected to see anyone else until closer to noon, but there was Aunt Winifred, her sister’s namesake and her mother’s favorite aunt, tucking into a plate of kippers at the breakfast table.

“Ah, good morning, Alexandra,” she said brightly.

The previous evening’s festivities had clearly not dampened the older woman’s usual vivaciousness.

“Join me, will you?” She held up a forkful of fish.

Alex managed to hold back a grimace. No one else in the family dared touch the stuff, but her mother always made sure to have them on hand whenever Aunt Winifred stayed with them.

“I’m afraid I have work to do.”

Aunt Winifred raised an imperious eyebrow. “At this time of the day? No, I don’t think so. At least have a Bath bun.”

Given that it would take longer to convince Aunt Winifred than consume the bun, Alex relented and took a seat.

“Are you enjoying your visit?”

“Oh, yes,” Aunt Winifred said with an easy smile. “I love my solitude of course, but it’s always great fun coming here.”

She lived on a rambling estate in Cornwall and had largely retired from society since the death of her husband nearly a decade ago. “As a matter of fact, I’ve decided to extend my visit. Last night your mother asked me to come to London to help with planning Phoebe’s engagement ball next month.”

“It’s to be a ball now?” Alex groused as she slathered her bun in butter. “So much for a small family party.”

“Well, she is marrying a duke, dear,” Aunt Winifred said gently. “Even if it is only William. Still, society will expect something rather grand.”

Alex avoided balls whenever possible. Unfortunately, her usual excuses would not work here. “I suppose.”

“We’ll find you something beautiful to wear. And you can even borrow my sapphire necklace,” her aunt said. “The one my dear husband gave me when I turned forty, bless his soul. It will go quite nicely with your coloring.”

Gowns and necklaces weren’t exactly motivators for her, but Alex still appreciated the gesture. “Thank you.”

“Amanda will be furious,” Aunt Winifred said gleefully. “She never misses the chance to ramble on about the importance of living a virtuous life, but I see the covetous look in her eye when I wear it. That woman is just as insufferable as her husband.”

Alex smiled. “You mean your son?”

Aunt Winifred had married Mr. Terrence Bailey, a wealthy older gentlemen who was regarded as something of a libertine.

At the time of their marriage there had been a good deal of whispers regarding his ability to remain faithful but, by all accounts, he absolutely doted on his wife and together they made their mark in both London and the burgeoning arts scene in Paris.

But while Aunt Winifred and her husband enjoyed being the vanguard, their only son, Mortimer, had rebelled by becoming a tiresome country vicar—and a spectacularly judgmental one at that.

He and his wife, Amanda, took great pleasure in looking down on every person they met, but especially his Atkinson cousins, whom he regarded as godforsaken hoydens.

“He really is the most ungrateful child,” Aunt Winifred huffed.

“But I am looking forward to helping Phoebe with the ball and the wedding, seeing as my own daughter-in-law refused any such assistance.” She punctuated this with a roll of her eyes.

From what Alex recalled, Mortimer and Amanda had wed in a very small, very simple ceremony in his own parish, to which neither she nor any members of family had been invited.

Aunt Winifred had been terribly embarrassed by the entire ordeal.

“It is their loss,” Alex said honestly. Aunt Winifred was one of the most generous people she knew and had always doted on her and her sisters.

Aunt Winifred reached across the table and patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.” Then she hesitated and gave her a searching look. “Your mother also mentioned that you might need a chaperone, as she rather has her hands full with Freddie.”

Alex balked. Lucien was right. Word had spread. “That won’t be necessary.”

Aunt Winifred didn’t look convinced. “I know you’re used to going about on your own, but things will be different now that you are being courted.”

Alex’s stomach sank. As a spinster who spent most of her time working while ignoring society, she had enjoyed a certain amount of freedom. But her aunt was right. Courting couples were supposed to follow a strict set of rules. Alex didn’t even know all of them.

Aunt Winifred must have read the terror on her face.

“It’s all right,” she began. “I have an excellent reputation. I was Cecily Beauford’s chaperone years ago when she was being courted by three different men, including Earl Havisham’s son.

The chit didn’t even make it to Ascot before he proposed to her.

And I also know when to give couples a little privacy.

That is the key to bringing about a quick engagement,” she added with a wink.

Alex’s stomach sank even further. “We aren’t getting engaged,” she blurted out. This was quickly turning into more than she could manage.

Her aunt blinked in confusion. “Don’t you want to?

Lucien Taylor is such a handsome young man.

And the coachman’s son! It will cause the most delightful stir,” she added with a waggle of her brows.

“Oh, if my dear Terrence was still with us he would be beside himself with excitement. You know how he loved to rile up those stuffy society matrons.”

Alex didn’t, given that she had still been in the schoolroom when the man died, but she certainly had no desire to mix with society or rile matrons.

She pushed her chair back and stood. “I have to go.” Because she couldn’t discuss this anymore. Luckily, her family was used to her abrupt exits.

“We’ll talk more later,” her aunt called out as Alex hurried from the room.

Unfortunately, this put her straight into Freddie’s path. And her sister was ready to pounce.

“Is it true?” she demanded. “This absolute rubbish about you and Lucien?”

This morning had been filled with a number of irritations, which made Freddie’s scornful tone particularly grating. But Alex carefully hid her anger behind a mask of indifference and crossed her arms. “I’d thank you not to refer to our courtship as rubbish.”

Freddie let out a huff of disbelief. “What on earth did you do to get him to agree to this? Are you blackmailing him?”

“No.” Alex drew the word out in a bid to control her temper. “He simply enjoys my company.”

She managed to say this with a straight face, but Freddie narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. The sudden resemblance between them caught Alex off guard. If this was what she usually looked like, no wonder people found her so intimidating. The effect was unnerving.

“You’re just doing this to put me off Lucien so I don’t ruin your little deal with the Ericsons. That blasted business is all you ever care about.”

“Freddie—”

“No,” she snapped. “This is low. Even for you .”

Alex pursed her lips. Her sisters were forever criticizing her ambition, but not once had they ever lobed the accusation at their father. And they seemed to have no issue spending the money Alex brought in. Well, she was damned tired of their hypocrisy.

“If you’re so convinced that I’m standing in your way,” she began coolly, “then why don’t you end things with Hank Jr.? Go knock on his door right now and tell him it’s over. That you will never marry him.”

Predictably, Freddie balked.

Alex huffed. “See? You don’t even know what you want. But I do. So stay out of my way,” she tossed off as she stormed down the hallway.

“Whatever is really going on here, it won’t matter,” her sister called out just before she turned the corner, not sounding the least bit cowed. “No one will ever believe he wants you.”

Alex didn’t stop. She outran the cresting wave of anger that nipped at her heels until she reached her bedroom. Then she shut the door soundly behind her and pressed her back against it.

It was the absolute certainty in Freddie’s voice that rankled the most. Along with the faint whisper in her own mind.

She’s right.

But before Alex could be swallowed up by doubts, she pushed away from the door and stalked over to her closet.

Then she pulled out her valise and tossed it onto the bed.

If she hurried, she could be back in London for tea, where she wouldn’t have to answer any insipid questions or explain her behavior.

Where she was gloriously invisible—until someone wanted something from her.

She threw in clothes, stockings, and shoes without really seeing them. All that mattered was getting out of here. The country had grown tiresome. And she had a train to catch.