Chapter 6

"...and I still don't know if I should stay here," Bernadette whispered to Viola tensely. She glanced around, nervous of being heard. They sat in the drawing-room at Rothendale House, the door half-shut, the fire burning low. Viola had visited as she promised to, and it was impossible to conceal her news.

"I can't believe it," Viola repeated. She'd said the same thing at least half a dozen times since Bernadette told the story. "I still think there must be a way of remedying it. It just isn't possible."

Bernadette shook her head. "I don't think there is," she said quietly. "Father won't change it. He said so. He was quite harsh."

"But it's so strange," Viola murmured. "Someone you haven't even seen! Someone whose name you've never even heard before." She shook her head, her big dark eyes round in disbelief.

Bernadette nodded. "It is strange. But it truly is as I have said." She let out a breath. She couldn't quite recall the name of the viscount—Burnham or Barnbrook or something. She had been too deeply shocked to be able to recall it accurately. She'd told Viola all that she recalled, and Viola declared she'd never heard of the gentleman either.

"Of course, I believe you," Viola said softly in answer to her comment. "But it just seems preposterous. It would be one thing if it was someone you knew. Even if you had only seen him once. But someone you've never even seen...That's a step too far." She shook her head, her face twisted in a sorrowful expression.

Bernadette felt love twist her heart and she reached out to take her friend's hand in her own. "I'm so grateful you're here," she whispered, meaning every word. "I'm so glad to have you to talk to."

Viola smiled. "As am I," she said in quiet tones.

Bernadette's thoughts wandered distantly. Viola and she had become friends when they were just fifteen, meeting at a ball at Viola's home. They had liked each other instantly, sharing interests in poetry and music. Viola was her dearest friend.

"What if this viscount lives miles away?" Bernadette whispered, the thought just occurring to her. "Then I won't be able to visit."

It wasn't just her freedom she was losing, but her friends, too.

"I'm sure we can think of something," Viola said quietly.

"I hope so," Bernadette answered her softly. She blinked, hiding tears.

"I am sure it can't be that bad," Viola whispered. They talked quietly to avoid being overheard by Bernadette's parents, even though the upstairs parlor was well out of the way on the third floor of the house. "After all, you'll not be here. And that might not be bad." She smiled, her eyes soft and understanding.

"You're right," Bernadette whispered. "But still—this is something I understand. What if he's...well, cruel. Or horrible?" She shivered. This person to whom her father had sold her in exchange for ensuring their family status and reputation—he could be anyone. He could have the most horrid nature in the country. He could be dangerous.

Viola inclined her head. "He could be," she agreed. "In which case, write to me. We will think of something. Even if we run away to Ireland together and become holy sisters. We will do something."

Bernadette giggled, spirits lifting. "I don't think we'd be very good nuns."

"No?" Viola laughed. Bernadette felt her spirit lift. In the last day, since hearing the news, her shock had numbed her utterly. It felt good to laugh.

"Bernadette? Come here! It's half-past four." Her mother's voice echoed in the hallway. Bernadette tensed, fear making her palms suddenly damp. Her tone was brisk and insistent. A second later, she appeared in the doorway. "Viola! You ought to go back home. It's time for Bernadette to get ready for the dinner."

Bernadette felt her hands twist the fabric of the dress she'd been mending nervously.

"Yes, Lady Rothendale," Viola replied politely. She stood up and Bernadette stood too, following her to the door.

"Bernadette needs to get ready! She has an important dinner," her mother murmured to Viola. We'll certainly see you at Almack's soon."

Viola nodded politely. "We certainly shall, Lady Rothendale. I wish you a good evening, Bernadette." Her gaze held Bernadette's and her heart ached as her friend went to the door and into the hallway. She almost followed her but a brisk comment from her mother brought her back to the parlor.

"You'd better hurry and get dressed. I told your maid to lay out the blue dress for you."

"The blue silk?" Bernadette's heart sank. "The new one?" It was a lovely color, but the fabric and cut were showy and bold, and she felt uncomfortable even thinking about wearing it.

"Why yes! Of course. It's modish and becoming. And you'll look every inch a baron's daughter in it."

Bernadette felt her heart twist painfully. Was that all that mattered? Her ability to reflect the family's status? Maybe she could escape. But even as she planned wildly, her heart fluttered with a strange mix of fear and interest, and she found that part of her felt too curious to run.

Maybe Viola's right. Maybe he won't be that bad.

"Come on, now. He'll be here any moment," Mother chided, interrupting her thoughts. "And we need to look polished and elegant." She led her to her bedroom and then turned in the hallway quickly. "I need to dress too. I also need to look the part."

Bernadette felt her stomach twist with a mix of indignant anger and nerves. She said nothing, but stood in the doorway, fighting her indignation and fear, until Judy appeared in the hallway with a pair of white silk dancing shoes.

"Miss Rowland! Come. We should make ready. Your mother is all in an uproar."

"I know," Bernadette said sadly.

She tried to sit still as Judy brushed her hair over a boxwood cylinder to try and bring out some ringlets, and when that didn't work, Judy used the heated metal rods and curled Bernadette's hair into tight curls in the front.

"It's the fashion, milady," Judy said brightly, despite the fact that Bernadette was in pain, eyes watering from the tugging on her hair and the sulfurous smell of the curling process. "I did see it in a book once and I learned specially to make them. See what fine curls you've got?"

Bernadette stared in the mirror, barely recognizing herself in the image she saw there.

The blue dress was sapphire, rather than blue, and the color, she had to admit, did bring out the greenish tone of her eyes—they were huge, round and frightened in her pale face. Her hair was a mass of honey-colored curls in the front, thick and fluffy. The length of her hair was drawn into a chignon that was decorated with pearl pins. A silver necklace hung about her throat, the low oval neckline of the gown a little too low to be comfortable. The sleeves were puffs of blue silk, the skirt hanging from a high waistband of silk in a darker shade. The effect, she had to admit, was lovely, but she didn't look like herself at all.

"Now, you're ready, milady," Judy said warmly. "I declare! You look lovely. Go and show Lady Rothendale, do!"

Bernadette inclined her head politely. "Thank you," she said softly. She wasn't altogether happy with her appearance—the image in the mirror didn't even look like her—but she had to acknowledge the effort Judy had made for her.

"Daughter!" Mother declared as Bernadette approached her boudoir door. "Why! Look at you! You look like a future Countess already. You see? Your hair suits you well. And so modern."

Bernadette felt her stomach turn over nauseously. She turned around as the butler came up to the door.

"My lady? Miss Bernadette? The guests have arrived. Should I tell them to wait in the anteroom?"

"Here? Already? Show them into the drawing room, of course!" Mama's voice was nervous. "Bernadette! Hurry. No, wait. Don't run. Take a deep breath. Remember, be composed, and comport yourself well."

Bernadette took a moment to gape in confusion. What was she supposed to do? Hurry, or stroll? She followed Mama to the top of the stairs, as fast as she could.

"Now, remember. You're a lady. No answering back, no racy talk, no..."

"My lady?" The butler spoke from up ahead of them. They both froze, Mama stopping her hectoring instantly. There were three men standing on the landing halfway up the stairs. One of them was Papa. He beamed at Bernadette and her mother; his face nevertheless tense.

"Amelia? Daughter?" He began, his voice tight and clipped. "May I present the Earl of Lockwood and his grandson, Viscount Blackburne."

Bernadette stared up at the two men. Both were tall. The earl was vast and white-haired with broad shoulders and a big mustache, his eyes seeming dark and angry, even though he was beaming. But it wasn't him who held every inch of her attention, making her root to the spot in a mix of amazement and fear.

It was the viscount who stood beside him. He was tall and blond, and he looked at her with his pale brows creased in confusion above wide, surprised blue eyes. It was the man with the scar.