Page 19 of The Reclusive Earl’s Scandal (Vows and Vanity #1)

But she couldn’t help herself, her words spilling out in a flurry of panic. “It was Lord Thornshire who saved me. He tore Harry away, as you saw. He has been kind enough not to only keep the whole ordeal quiet, but to ensure I was doing well afterwards. He has been very good to me.”

Her mother’s eyes became slits as she sighed, standing up, as if the conversation was exhausting to have.

“So he has watched you flirt with other suitors, as well as know you have a history with a commoner, a tutor’s son, and yet he has given you all this attention?

Heavens, Rebecca, open your eyes. You have been trained by me for this very moment. ”

“What moment?”

“That you tangle a man into marriage with you.” Her mother’s voice turned cold.

“I did such a thing with your father. I indeed fell in love with him, but I charmed him. You think you get much of it from him, that I am quieter and weak, but I simply know where I stand with him. I had the power prior to our marriage. I captured his attention, and I used that blessing well.”

You used it and have caused him a lifetime of misery , Rebecca thought, her thoughts churning.

Now, the trembling of her body was not just shivers from the cold, but fear and anxiety.

Once, she had thought about using their mothers’ approval to save herself, but now…

now that they were growing closer the idea seemed abhorrent to use him in such a way.

“Tomorrow, I wish to see you dance with Lord Thornshire at the ball.” The duchess pulled herself up to her full height, looking authoritative and regal as she gazed down at Rebecca.

She was every inch the Duchess of Bancroft like this.

It was a version of her mother she had not seen very often at all.

“And you will secure a proposal from him.”

***

Through that same night, bone-deep, violent shivers wracked Rebecca even as a fever flayed her skin.

She cried out, alerting the maids and footman, who called for her parents.

Within moments, a towel was on her forehead, and blankets were kept next to her bed, and a physician was sent for.

Her mother watched in careful calculation, as if she thought Rebecca was faking the symptoms, while her father clutched her hand tightly.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. Rebecca realized he was still in his dinner attire, and his eyes were red-rimmed. She smelled the sour scent of brandy around him, and grimaced. She feigned it as another tremor, pulling back from him.

“Go,” he said softly to Rebecca’s mother. “I will sit with her while the physician examines her.”

Her mother nodded sharply, but before she could leave, Rebecca croaked out, “Mama, the Farrens’ ball...”

“Do not trouble yourself with it.” The words should have been a comfort, but her mother’s tone left no room for any soothing.

Instead, a strange sense of guilt sliced through Rebecca, and bowed her head, ashamed.

Her teeth chattered as she waited in silence with her father.

Once the physician arrived and checked her over, he indeed confirmed she was in the clutches of a fever illness from the river’s chill.

“Rest,” he advised her. “Bedrest, that is. I am afraid you will have to halt your social activities for some time in order for your body to repair.” The physician gave her a last check before he bowed to her father and left.

Once alone, she clutched her father’s hand, despite the disappointment she felt over his return to a tavern when she had not noticed, already asleep after the exhausting day, before the tremors had begun.

“Father, I do not have time,” she whispered. “Harry Maudley...”

“I will do what I can,” he said, his voice thick, and she closed her eyes, her heart squeezing painfully.

She could only hope he remembered that in the morning.

Her body jerking with the shakes uncomfortably, she waited until her father left.

When he did, Rebecca kept her eyes fixed to the ceiling, and felt the fear in her heart grow and grow until she no longer knew what she shivered because of.

***

Not unless you secure a proposal. Darling, you have had enough visitors.

Her mother’s words and threats swam through Rebecca’s fever-addled mind over the next couple of days.

She had missed the Farrens’ ball, and nobody had yet come to visit her, not even Lord Thornshire, or even her friends.

The loneliness and realization that brought weighed heavier on her than the illness did.

“I should not have expected him to visit me,” she told herself in the quiet recesses of the day. “After all, we are scarcely friends this time around.”

But still, she couldn’t help but glance at her bedroom door, hoping with every hour that passed.

With very little else to do, other than entertain her siblings’ questions when they hounded her, Rebecca was left to her own thoughtful devices.

As much as she didn’t enjoy the balls in the same way anymore, she did miss the way they took everything away.

A dance to focus on wiped her main worries.

A glass of wine softened the sharp edges of her dread.

A handsome face could make her forget most things often.

There had not been a face handsome enough this Season so far to make her forget enough.

To make her a wife. There had been no match on any of those dance floors she had spun and flirted across.

Once, she had desired to be like her parents: in love, well-matched, adoring, steadfast even through deeply harrowing circumstances.

Now she knew the truth and knew that she wanted nothing like what they had.

The book in her lap was full of romance—romance she herself would likely never see.

That was a dream she had never truly allowed herself.

Perhaps once, before the letter she had snooped through.

Had she never read it, would she feel differently?

Would she have continued searching for love instead of money?

She hated it. She hated the scheming. She despised the stress and the exhaustion of it all.

Finally, she understood why Edward had declined attendance at the Ashfordlys’ ball.

Tomorrow, I wish to see you dance with Lord Thornshire at the ball… And you will secure a proposal from him.

Rebecca really didn’t want to force him into an arrangement, but they both were tired of the marriage market.

He had expressed such a thing, and she knew he didn’t love anybody he had met so far.

Her thoughts lingered on his murmured proclamation of others not seeing when her smile was fake, but he noticed.

Perhaps he would make an attentive husband, one who would make her feel as though she mattered in a room.

Perhaps two friends could marry, and find benefits in such an arrangement, even if they never fell in love.

Did love really have to come into it? Surely life was better without the risk of such heartbreak.

There was a quiet place in her heart that did yearn for it, but was it practical enough?

The suitors she had received visits from, or dances, were simply boring, or frustrating, or far too boastful for her to endure one dance with, let alone a lifetime.

The thought curled more discomfort through Rebecca, and she closed her book over, sighing. Her eyes drifted shut.

Edward Carmichael was good and kind; he was dependable, she thought, and he noticed her.

Their conversations lifted her darker spirits, and always made her laugh.

With him, she felt as though there was little need for any sort of mask or pretence.

His wealth would keep her and her family comfortable, and although he didn’t know her predicament surely, he would understand if he did find out.

Cruelly, she thought, perhaps he never has to know.

As soon as she was well enough, she would speak to him.

She could frame it as a way out for him: avoid Lady Catherine’s advances, escape the ballrooms as much as possible, and no longer have to keep putting himself on display on the marriage market, all the while keeping his mother and sister away with their fussing.

She would be understanding of the things he did not want to do, and she would never pressure him.

Rebecca would be a good wife for him. A friendly wife. They could be truly happy together. Not in love, but happy, and that would be enough.

***

Another day passed in the same blur of restlessness into deep slumber, into a wakefulness she endured as the shivers continued.

They were getting weaker as the days passed, but Rebecca’s body ached from being bedridden.

She wanted to go for a walk in the gardens, but her mother wanted her to recover and to rest.

She was to attend the Balkans’ ball in four days’ time, no argument about it, and Rebecca was ordered to be back on her feet. She could afford no further delays.

Amelia, the eldest of her younger siblings, and Finley, the second youngest, both nudged their way into her room, their eyes wide and curious.

“Mama says you are sick,” Finley noted. Amelia was too busy looking at Rebecca’s vanity, but glanced over to see Finley clamber onto Rebecca’s bed.

“Finley, do give Rebecca some space. Mama has given her strict orders.” Her sister sighed, sinking into her vanity chair. “She is ever so stressed, sister. Please do get better so she stops harassing us. I fear she will send me out into society early should you be laid up in bed any longer.”

It was a jest, of course, but the weight on Rebecca’s shoulders only grew heavier. It was a reminder of what her family stood to lose if she did not perform her duty.

“I am certain I will be well soon enough,” she assured Amelia, who continued picking at her jewelry. “Are you excited for your debut next Season?”

Before Amelia could answer, Finley was pushing a ribbon-wrapped box at Rebecca. “Papa let me bring this up for you! He says it is from a man.”

Despite the days of exhaustion and stress she’d slept and thought through, Rebecca laughed at how bluntly her brother said it, knowing little of the games of society. “Is it now? Shall we open it together, then?”

“Yes!” Finley crossed his legs, mindless of the sheets, and peered closer as Rebecca tugged the ribbon. Even Amelia came over, then, interested.

Inside the box was a velvet cushion whereon a brooch nestled.

It was gold and, well, in truth, Rebecca found it garish.

It was a combination of striking gold with an orange jewel, too bright, and not at all a complimenting color on her.

She mustered a smile anyway, but Amelia covered her mouth with a hand, hiding her laugh.

“Well,” Rebecca managed, “I am certain it will go nice with… something.” She winced, plucking the note that came with the brooch. She recognized the writing from her childhood, except now more refined. Lord Billy.