Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The next morning, her stepmother sat at the breakfast table with red-rimmed eyes and dabbed her nose with a laced handkerchief drenched in lavender.

"Good morning, Sarah," Louisa said, dutifully planting a kiss on her wet cheek before sitting down.

Sarah did not respond, hiding her face behind her handkerchief and sobbing theatrically.

Unimpressed, Louisa sat down and proceeded to eat her breakfast.

Sarah lowered her handkerchief. "But what shocks me more than anything, Louisa…" she said, always in the habit of starting in the middle of a conversation.

"What?" Louisa continued to butter her toast.

"…is that you took your glove off in the middle of the ballroom. At Almack's. With all the patronesses looking on." Sarah shuddered.

Louisa's butter knife hung suspended in the air. "Ah, so I did." She'd done it on purpose of course, knowing full well that there could never be a satisfying slap resulting from a gloved hand. If one was to slap someone in public, one had to make sure it was done properly. She decided she'd done a good job of it.

Her stepmother moaned, "The indecency! The humiliation! It is tantamount to undressing in public. You might as well have stripped off your dress for everyone to see."

"I do think there's a difference between taking off a glove and taking off a dress," Louisa mused. "Removing a glove exposes the arm up to the elbow, whereas removing a dress exposes one's shift and corset. I dare say the latter is marginally more scandalous in a ballroom."

Sarah groaned. "How can you even mention shift and corset at the breakfast table?"

"Of course, if one were to take off one's stockings in the middle of the ballroom that would make a statement indeed. Perhaps I ought to have tried that?—"

"Louisa!"

She laughed at her stepmother's scandalised tone.

"In all likelihood, it would only have accomplished the opposite and attracted even more suitors." Louisa cut her toast into rectangular strips and dipped them into her egg, suppressing a smirk. She had lovely, shapely legs, and she knew it, too.

"Louisa!" It sounded more like a moan now. "Horrible, unnatural girl. Haven't you a grain of humility in your body? Why am I even talking to you? The shame! What on earth did that poor boy ever do to you to deserve this kind of treatment?"

It was a fair question .

"He's neither poor, nor a boy," Louisa replied briefly. "He questioned my virtue."

Sarah gasped. "How ungentlemanly of him. No doubt he must have provoked you. But to dash the ratafia into his face? Was that justified?"

"If I'd been a gentleman, I'd have called him out. We'd be having a duel right now in Hyde Park as we speak. The slap and the ratafia weren't nearly enough. I should've poured an entire bowl of punch over his head and rubbed in some cream cake on top. But alas, Almack's refreshment room provided neither," Louisa lamented.

Sarah's eyes widened. "What on earth did he say?"

"I'll spare you his exact words. It would be demeaning to have to repeat them."

After she had repeatedly rebuffed his advances, Carrothair had sidled up to her and slurred into her ear, "I must say, it's become quite a sport amongst the gentlemen to wager on your next rejection. One might think you enjoy the power somewhat too much. Or is it that no man can live up to your deluded expectations? Hm? What do you say? I wonder what it takes to melt the Ice Damsel?" He'd trailed a finger down her neck.

Louisa slapped his hand away.

"Why not just place a wager on yourself?" she'd replied in a voice that could've frosted over hell itself. "Oh, I forgot. You've already joined the ranks of the rejected, haven't you? Like leftovers of a lavishly set table that no one wants. What does one do with them, I wonder? Surely one throws them to the pigs in the gutter, where one will find oneself in good company."

Ah, that had been a sharply clever rejoinder. She'd been rather proud of herself.

He'd grown pale with fury. "It's fascinating how a lady of your … ‘experience'… still manages to maintain such an air of innocence. One would hardly guess the number of suitors who've graced your drawing room," he whispered into her ear. "Or should we say bedroom?"

She'd rolled down her glove and slapped him, followed by the ratafia.

And she didn't regret it in the least. One might even say that Carrothair had done her a favour by giving her the excuse to make a dramatic public statement to extricate herself from the suitors' dilemma.

Phibbs, their butler, entered at this moment with a mournful expression on his face, carrying a letter on a salver.

Sarah wiped her nose, took it, read it, and promptly burst into tears again.

Louisa patted her shoulder. "There, there. I'm certain it can't be as bad as all that." She took the letter from Sarah's shaking hand and perused it.

It was as bad as all that.

A crumb of toast stuck in her throat as she read it. She coughed, took a sip of her tea, reread the letter, folded it, and replaced it on the salver.

"They've revoked your Almack's voucher!" her stepmother moaned when she was capable of talking again. "It was a unanimous decision made by all the patronesses. Oh, the shame! I vow, I shall not survive this day."

Well, that was what she wanted, was it not? To be banned from the hallowed grounds of Almack's, the temple of the ton. As certain as the amen that followed a prayer, this would be irrevocably followed by further withdrawals of invitations to other major balls and events. The doors to the ton would close in her face, one by one. Gossip would grow rampant. People would shun and snub her in the street. No one would ever speak to her again.

Her reputation was tarnished. Her ruin complete.

Well done, Louisa. Well done.

Her teacup shook slightly as she set it down.

"Phibbs, where is my hartshorn salt?" Sarah asked with a weak voice.

Phibbs rushed to fetch it.

The door crashed open, and her father burst into the room, whip in hand. "Where is she?" he roared.

Like a flash, Louisa shot from her chair to the other side of the table.

"Come here, Louisa, and I will give you the thrashing of a lifetime." He raised his whip.

"Hector!" her stepmother cried out in alarm. "Surely you cannot mean to whip the child with that brutal instrument. She is not a horse!"

Her father flexed the whip in his hands. "Why not? If nothing else, it will get through to her. At least my horses are more obedient than she is. At least they win races! And my daughter, what does she do? She rejects all her suitors, all perfectly fine men, and slaps a lord in the middle of a dance."

"We were not dancing, Papa," Louisa corrected. "We were standing in the refreshment room. "

"Bah! I am done pampering this spoiled, self-indulgent, proud and hard-hearted creature. Nothing good has come of it, as one can very well see."

Louisa ducked behind the footman standing by the sideboard and held him in front of her like a shield. The poor man gulped and trembled with fear.

"Come here!" her father roared, smacking his whip on the table, causing the porcelain cups to jump.

"Calm yourself, Papa." She lifted a beseeching hand. "I'm certain things will blow over soon."

"Not this time it won't," her father huffed. "You insulted Lady Jersey's nephew. It was as if you had slapped her personally."

Goodness. Oh, that was well done, indeed! But why did Lady Jersey have such an ill-bred nephew?

"You've made yourself a mortal enemy for life. Which is fine. Fine!" He tossed the whip on the table, to Louisa's great relief. "If you choose to make the most powerful society hostess your enemy, so be it. But that also means that her husband is withdrawing his invitation to a hunt that I've been looking forward to all year. And why? Per his wife's request. And following that, Mounteroy withdrew his invitation to his personal race, and you know"—he wagged his finger in the air—"you know how important that was to me."

Her father had a passion for hunting and horseback races. He'd been waiting the entire year for Mounteroy's invitation, and when it finally came, it was all he could speak of. With no title of his own, it meant a great deal to her father to receive invitations from the peers of the realm. Too many looked down on him, claiming that the fabulous glitter of his wealth smelled of the shop and was tarnished by the soot of his coal mines and textile factories. None of her father's business acumen and wealth made up for the fact that he was not a titled peer and therefore not seen as an equal. But they did rather desperately want to marry his daughter, hypocrites that they were.

"I'm truly sorry, Papa." She did sincerely feel sorry.

Her father, out of steam, had slumped into a chair, hunched over, both his hands on his head, looking like a crumpled bundle of misery. She hadn't considered that her disgrace would also affect her father and her stepmother. It had been short-sighted of her to not think of that.

Louisa bit on her lower lip. How foolish of her. Perhaps she should have given Carrothair his set-down in private after all. But now it was too late; what was done was done.

"Be that as it may, you've danced your final waltz in Almack's or any other ballroom." Her father lifted his weary head. "You might as well pack up and take yourself off to a nunnery."

"Not such a bad prospect." In a nunnery, they might actually leave her alone. She'd have her own room where she could read all day, and sew, and pray, and work in the garden, and whatever else it was that nuns did, and not be bothered by the rest of the world. It was a pity that Henry VIII had disbanded all convents and rid the country of nunneries. It had been a highly inconsiderate move on his part, she decided.

"Why, Louisa. Why? If you hate the prospect of marriage that much, why not just pick the best of the bunch—preferably a titled one who likes horse racing and hunting—and just marry the chap and then ask him to leave you alone? You can send him off to some island. I'll buy you one specifically for that purpose."

Indeed, her father could afford to do so, for he owned more than one island in the West Indies.

A deep, dark streak of despair ran through her. A grief so old, buried in the farthest recesses of her soul, that she'd almost forgotten it existed.

How could she ever explain this? He would never understand. No one ever would. He would merely have another fit of anger if he discovered that she still hadn't forgotten the past.

"Let me turn the question around, Father. Why do you want me to marry so desperately?"

"Why do we want you to get married?" Her father and her stepmother exchanged speaking looks. "What kind of question is that? Our daughter did not just ask that, did she? It is simple. It's what any good parent would want for their child in this day and age. Marriage is a great blessing," he said eagerly, falling into a preachy tone. "In fact, it is the greatest blessing life can offer, especially when the union is crowned with children. And what greater joy is there to have than children?" He sighed.

Sarah's eyes glittered brightly as she nodded. Alas, her father's union with Sarah had not been blessed with children. Louisa was an only child and would also have dearly loved to have half-brothers and sisters, but it was not to be. She knew how much that pained them, even though Sarah put up a brave face. She awkwardly patted her stepmother's hands.

"I have always said I wanted you to experience the same kind of union I have had with your mother, and now with your stepmother." He grabbed Sarah's other hand. "I was lucky twice, which is why I gave you the freedom to choose your husband. I want you to experience the joy of marriage as well. And lastly, you are not just anyone, Louisa. You are an heiress of considerable fortune, burdensome as it is." He heaved a sigh. "Our family needs to secure this legacy. We deserve to become a dynasty. The Highworth dynasty. Which is why I keep saying a titled gentleman would be an asset. But you have taught me to lower my standards to such a degree that I will take anyone who will have you—provided you agree to him. And provided he takes on our name if he wants to inherit the business."

"The Highworth Dynasty." The words fell from her lips bitterly. "You have reminded me of this every single day for my entire life. Although, Father, let me ask you one question: this family legacy, this dynasty. Is it your dream or mine?"

"It is our collective dream, of course. As a family." Her father lifted a weary hand to wipe his forehead. "You know what? Forget the title. Forget the name. Just one chap. Any chap. It really doesn't matter who or what he does. Just get married. Have children. Be happy. That is all."

She stared at her father, wondering how it was possible to simultaneously love and hate a person so.

"Just one chap? Any chap? Very well, Father," she drew herself up proudly. "I take you by your word. If that is your wish, I vow that I shall marry the first man who crosses my path. And I mean this very literally. I'll marry John the footman if he's the first."

The footman she'd just used as a shield earlier jumped back three feet away from her with a horrified expression on his face.

Her father pushed the chair back that it fell over with a crash and pointed a trembling finger at her. "Mark my words, if you do that, I will personally drag you to the altar, even if it is the lowest scum of the rookery you come across, if it is the last thing I ever do," he roared. "You will be married. And, just to be clear, you won't receive a single farthing from me." He slashed his hand in the air. "As of today, you are no longer an heiress." He stormed out of the room.

Sarah rushed after him, wringing her hands.

In the silence of the room Louisa remained sitting by the table, erect and pale, and sipped her tea as if nothing extraordinary had happened.