Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Eleanor could not sit still. She was about to fall off her seat from a mixture of excitement and impending doom. Her shoes had been discarded somewhere under the settee long ago, and one leg dangled over the edge where it swung back and forth in agitation. Her tea, cold with a little milky film on top, sat untouched on the mahogany table beside a plate of biscuits. They were likely soft from sitting in the air for the last hour, but Eleanor couldn't pull herself away from the book in her lap.

Impatiently turning the next page, she devoured the scene with all the desperation of a reader fully invested in the heroine's plight. Adeline had just escaped through a window after the marquis kidnapped her and locked her up with his harem of mistresses. Eleanor was surprised Adeline did it without crying or fainting, but her hysterics were undoubtedly to come.

"Why must women cry and faint about everything?" she muttered.

Perhaps her loveliness allowed it. The author's description of the heroine was the usual—a delicate beauty who made men fall in love with her with just a look. Eleanor was enjoying the story, but it would be nice to have a heroine who wasn't defined by her beauty alone. Perhaps she needed to be pretty to get away with all her tears and swoons. Eleanor certainly wouldn't get away with hysterics every time life grew challenging. She was too plain-looking for that.

"How long is she going to run around before she stops and thinks of a good plan?" said Eleanor, tsking at the heroine.

Another prerequisite for beautiful heroines was apparently not having the ability to plan, although escaping through the window had been a surprising and much-needed change from her usual maiden-in-distress character. At any moment, someone would rescue her because her self-preservation skills were nearly non-existent. If someone didn't save her, the next possible option was the dastardly marquis finding her and dragging her back to the house. Eleanor, of course, wanted a happy ending for the heroine, but it would be more exciting if the marquis caught her. She would never admit this to anyone—not even her best friend Julia—but she loved powerful men and danger. Fictional, of course. Or perhaps not—she wasn't entirely certain yet. Not that she had a choice either way because no one was truly interested in her.

At twenty-three, Eleanor had been on the marriage mart for several years. She had received a few proposals over the years but on account of her handsome dowry rather than her appearance. In all honesty, she wasn't much to look at, although Aunt Helen often said her golden curls were her crowning glory. They fell to her knees in a thick and curly mass that always took an entire day to wash, dry, comb, and set. She detested hair arrangements that forced her lady's maid to pile her hair atop her head, so she usually got away with plaiting it and having a few of those plaits surround her head like a wreath. The rest were secured into a rolled and tucked coiffure at the nape of her neck.

Eleanor's hair was the only thing she shared with her beautiful mother because everything else on her face was very much her father's distinct features. Her moss-green eyes, a light smattering of brown freckles, dimples, and overly plump lips made her unequivocally her father's daughter. Some relatives had described her lips as ‘ethnic' because they were not the delicate petal lips associated with English beauties. The ethnic comment was merely an indirect stab at her father's colorful heritage. Besides French, Spanish, and possibly Russian (some relatives still denied this heritage), someone had hinted that his great-grandmother was half Romany, hence Eleanor's thick lips.

Frankly, Eleanor loved the idea of having such an exotic relative. Her mother's side was English, with perhaps some Scottish somewhere along the line, but they certainly had nothing interesting in their bloodline.

Another page-turn elicited a toe-curling squeal from her. Theodore, a soldier in the marquis's employ, and Adeline's love interest, had appeared to save her.

"Awfully coincidental, isn't it?" she murmured.

The marquis sent Theodore away after discovering the soldier's budding love with Adeline, yet he had somehow gotten away and found her, despite not knowing where she could be. Certainly, it made sense to assume she was under the marquis's roof, but running into her while fleeing her captor...well, it was quite the coincidence.

Sliding lower in her seat, Eleanor planted her dangling foot on the plush carpet and flexed her stocking-less toes. She hated wearing the cumbersome things and much preferred loose breeches when she could get away with them, which was hardly ever. Aunt Helen was very particular about dressing appropriately, even when at home. Her motto was, "One never knows when the right gentleman will come calling." Eleanor had to wonder if her aunt was merely optimistic or pityingly hopeful about the right gentleman wishing to marry her niece. The few proposals Eleanor had received were rejected because the suitors were everything she didn't want—money-hungry men who would stifle her until she became his footrest.

"Why am I not surprised?"

Eleanor bolted upright, her book hitting the carpet with a soft thud. "Aunt!" she cried.

Aunt Helen entered the parlor with a disapproving air and hawk-like brown eyes that saw everything, even the things one tried to hide.

"If you're going to spend your time reading instead of doing something worthwhile, at least do it properly," her aunt said. "Slouching in your seat is not only unladylike but also bad for your posture."

Eleanor didn't have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times she'd had this conversation with her aunt. While she loved Aunt Helen to bits and pieces, especially after she sprang into action to take care of her after her parents' deaths, she was just too set in her ways. She didn't have the adventurous spirit of her late brother or the teasing manner of her late sister-in-law. Everything was black and white—color was prohibited unless it was pale and unlikely to draw too much attention.

"Sorry, Aunt Helen," she said as she felt around with her toes for her shoes. "I'm just so invested in this book by Ann Radcliffe."

"Oh, that woman who tells all those dark, horrific stories?" said Aunt Helen. She gracefully sank into an armchair and moved her feet to the side like the perfect lady. "I would rather eat raw liver than read one of her books."

"She's a good author, Aunt Helen," said Eleanor.

"Good authors will not get you married," her aunt replied. "You're now twenty-three, dear. The last thing I want is for you to become a spinster. You're such a lovely girl."

"You know why I'm not married, Aunt," she said.

It didn't take a well-learned man to know that wallflowers were not a man's first, second, or third choice. They were more of a means to an end, especially if the man's family coffers were low or empty.

Aunt Helen sighed and left her seat to sit beside Eleanor. She took Eleanor's hands and looked into her eyes with all the compassion and affection of a doting aunt.

"Dear," she began, "you're a special woman."

Eleanor laughed mirthlessly. "Special? That is as terrible as saying I'm an ogre. Or is that ogress? Troll is just as good. Or bad—I don't know."

"Oh, Eli-bear," said Aunt Helen, using her childhood nickname. It brought back many wonderful memories with her parents. "You're just different, that's all."

"If this is your way of making me feel better that I'm at the bottom of every barrel, then you're going about it the right way."

"You're putting words in my mouth," her aunt accused. "What I mean is that you're a different kind of beauty, one that isn't appreciated in a country of people as dull and mundane as plain-boiled potatoes. Look at all this hair," she said, lifting a heavy lock and rubbing it between her fingers. "And your skin!"

"Is partially covered in unsightly brown spots," Eleanor added.

"Those spots make you look youthful and fresh," her aunt said. "You also have lovely beauty spots highlighting your beautiful green eyes and luscious lips. I wish I had those lips."

Eleanor laughed, this time with sincerity. "You lie, Aunt Helen!" she said. "No one wants these lips, but thank you for being so complimentary. It's nice to hear nice things once in a while."

"Then I'm not doing my job as your aunt if it's only once in a while," Aunt Helen claimed. "I have plenty of wonderful things to say about you, like your brilliant wit, intelligence, kindness—I can go one if you need more."

Eleanor smiled. "No, that isn't necessary."

"But you believe me, yes?" her aunt asked. "You're too good for the men of the ton, but unfortunately, they are the ones you're expected to marry. If I were God, I would create a man just for you. He would be handsome, intelligent, affectionate, and obsessed with everything about you. Most importantly, he would love you just as you are because he recognizes an amazing woman when he sees one."

Eleanor appreciated her aunt's efforts to make her feel good about herself. However, it wasn't really a matter of raising her spirits and self-confidence but addressing the concern that unless she magically transformed into an acceptable beauty or married a blind man, she was still as undesirable as a wart on a woman's face. If being a wallflower was unattractive, one could imagine how much more unwanted a woman was when she enjoyed discussing literature, sharing her opinions, and needing more in life than balls and having tea and biscuits with other women.