Chapter 2

2 DAYS LATER

Hartleigh House

"Pray, tell me you intend to at least promenade today," Lucy Reid sighed as she swept into the library. "At the very least, might you step onto the patio or wander through the garden, so that your skin might see some sunlight?"

"To utter falsehoods is a sin," Virtue responded without diverting her gaze from the volume in her lap. "And I shall not partake in such deceit."

"Is this the grand design then?" Lucy came to a stop right by where Virtue was sitting; curled up on a plush settee, the drapes pulled shut to cast the room in a shadow and using the light from a small candle to illuminate the pages. "To sequester yourself within these walls for eternity? Truly?"

"I don't see whyever not." Virtue turned the page, purposefully ignoring the young maid. If it had been anyone other than Lucy making such remarks, Virtue might have taken offense, but she and Lucy were as close as sisters since her father had taken Lucy under his wing upon the death of old Jonathan Reid, Lucy's father and the Hartleigh family butler for nearly thirty years. When they were alone, Virtue would not have Lucy speaking to her in any other way.

"And what of the future? When age has stolen your vitality and left you old and withered—do you then plan to grace the rest of London with your presence again? Hope that by then, everyone might have forgotten what happened and you shall be free to spend your final years an old crone whose memory is so soured that she scarcely remembers the reason she locked herself up in the first place?"

"It could be worse." She turned a page.

"Oh, you're being ridiculous, V! Utterly and totally absurd, is what you are."

"I must remind you..." she replied, nonchalantly flipping another page of her book, her eyes steadfastly avoiding Lucy's gaze, "with whom you are speaking with, Miss Reid. And if you keep at it, perhaps a harsher reminder will be necessary," she added with a smirk.

Lucy snorted and folded her arms. "What will you do, then? Whip me, my Lady?"

"If I must," Virtue giggled, the sound light and teasing.

Another snort. "It will change nothing. You will remain ensconced here, and I shall still be at your side, tirelessly working to coax you outdoors. Moreover, I suspect your father might agree with me this time."

Virtue scrunched her nose as she tried her best to ignore Lucy's provocations. If it was anyone else, it might have been a simple task. Despite the unconventional nature of their relationship, Lucy was her closest confidante—now more than ever, given her dwindling circle of friends following the recent scandal. Prudence, for one, would likely not be responding to her letters any time soon.

But she couldn't ignore the maid's heartfelt pleas either. Even the book she was reading, one of her favorite romance novels that she always turned to when she was feeling blue, couldn't hold her interest. If anything, the romantic epic that once upon a time had her heart soaring whenever she read its pages, now only had it souring at what could no longer be hers.

She tried to stare at the page. She tried to forget why it was that her mood was this morose. But there would be no forgetting. And not because of Lucy, but because it seemed that fate had decided as such.

"You were not there," Virtue broke, dropping the book in her lap and looking pleadingly at Lucy. "You did not see the whole… debacle!"

"Oh, surely it wasn't all that dreadful." Lucy fell in beside Virtue and wrapped an arm around her in comfort. She was a touch taller than Virtue and made a perfect shoulder to weep on.

"It was far worse." Virtue curled up in her best friend's arm. "Everyone saw it. And those who might have been unlucky to miss it, certainly heard it. I have never been so embarrassed."

"They will forget. If I have learned anything living here this past decade, it is that London's collective memory is as fleeting as a spring shower," Lucy reassured her.

"I am not convinced of that anymore," she murmured.

"A stroll would do you the world of good," Lucy suggested gently.

"I cannot even bear to show my face."

"Just through the garden then. A bit of fresh air might lift your spirits."

"I doubt that very much."

"Perhaps just some natural light, at least?" Lucy moved as if to draw back the drapes.

"Don't!" Virtue shot up, blocking the maid's path to the windows. "Please, Lucy. Can you not just let me wallow? If anyone has earned that right, surely it is I?"

Lucy could not have looked more worried. The way her round face scrunched together. The way her lips pouted. Like a mother besotted with the ailing sickness of her daughter, it was clear that all she wanted was to help. "You deserve the world, V," she whispered as she wrapped her thick arms back around Virtue. "Not this. Never this."

"It is funny," Virtue chuckled bitterly. She picked up the book she was reading, only to regard its cover with disdain before tossing it across the room. "I once fancied my life to be akin to the tales I cherish—imagined meeting my Prince Charming, falling in love, and our story being celebrated through the ages. Now, I see these tales for what they truly are—mere tales. At best, I am the wicked witch, doomed to watch others fall in love around her while she spends her days alone and miserable. Perhaps the wicked witch was never the villain, after all, only misunderstood."

To that, Lucy did not say a word, simply because there was not much she could say. For three months now, it had been much the same as this, and where finally it looked as if Virtue was on the mend and turning a leaf toward a new tomorrow, the ball two nights ago had dashed those plans thoroughly and irrevocably.

And it hadn't always been so.

Just three months prior, Virtue's life had seemed poised for a fairy tale culmination, the kind she had whimsically envisioned as a child but scarcely dared to believe might actually unfold for herself. She was in love with a viscount. He was in love with her. They were engaged to be married. Children would follow. A life spent in one another's arms because their love was such that she couldn't fathom any other outcome but that. A touch idealistic, perhaps. But that just spoke to how perfect everything was...

But then, without warning, her idyllic world shattered around her. Lord Prescott, her betrothed, a man whom she had surrendered her heart to fully after a year of courting, tore it from her chest, crushed it in the palm of his hand, and callously announced an end to their betrothal. With a mere letter, he terminated their engagement, offering no explanation, denying her any appeal, and leaving her without a semblance of closure.

To say it caught Virtue by surprise would be an understatement. Yet her astonishment paled in comparison to the collective gasp of the ton. And with no reason given for why he had acted so rashly, it was only natural that rumor and conjecture would follow. Those whom Virtue had once considered friends now gossiped in shadowed corners, theorizing why the viscount had ended things so suddenly. What grievous misstep could Virtue have possibly committed to warrant such a harsh rejection?

She didn't do anything. She was the perfect lady. But to ask anyone's opinion of the matter today, it was agreed that she had slighted him in some way, likely by seducing another or being caught in a heinous act of amorous desire. She was a destined spinster, it was claimed. She was a woman of loose morals! The rumors swirled and gathered like a raging storm, and although her family vehemently denied them, Virtue soon learned there was little more she could do to placate the torrents but hide and wait for them to go away.

Which was precisely what she had done until the fateful ball two nights prior. Finally, sensing her moment, convinced that the ton might have moved past the scandal, she braved the outside world in a way that seemed unimaginably impossible mere months earlier.

As to the result? The less said, the better—though Prudence could furnish the most lurid of details.

"Here is what we are going to do," Lucy murmured, her soft voice breaking the silence.

"What?" Virtue sniffed, feeling herself come undone.

"We shall do precisely… nothing."

"Pardon?" Virtue pulled back. "Pray, what sort of counsel is that?"

"The wisest," Lucy declared with quiet confidence. "You are correct, last evening was a travesty."

"Most kind of you to note," she replied drily.

"Yet, it was not the end of all things," Lucy spoke over Virtue. "Do you remember where you were three months ago? For I remember it well. Very well. We were here, having this precise conversation."

"And I am still here!"

"Yes, indeed you are," Lucy agreed. "But two days ago, you were not. Two days ago, I seemed to remember how aglow with anticipation you were at the prospect of attending a ball once more—despite your efforts to hide it. And the way you looked in that dress..." She sighed wistfully. "Stunning and elegant, as I've ever seen."

"And look to what end it brought me," Virtue fell back on her settee with a thump and a sigh.

"One misstep," Lucy said. "That's all it was. You were convinced before that you'd never leave the house again. That you wouldn't want to. But time heals all wounds, makes people forget. You are still young, Virtue. You still have so much time."

"They won't forget," Virtue mumbled bitterly.

Lucy tittered. "We will see about that. Why, I bet that before you tripped and fell, there was more than one lordling whose eye you caught. Your Prince Charming is out there, you just need to be patient."

As was her mood lately, Virtue opened her mouth to argue, only she caught her tongue when she remembered what had happened just before she had embarrassed herself. Lord Tarrow... the handsome marquess whose attention she had captured from across the room. He had stared at her in a way she hadn't expected possible, a manner which suggested he either didn't know what had happened to her, or he didn't care. Was it possible that the ton might forget about her constant shortcomings? Was it possible that come time, she might find someone?

Since she had been a little girl, all Virtue had wanted was to fall in love. The idea that it might never happen was enough to break her, but the thought that there was still a chance... it gave her a sense of hope that she so desperately needed to cling to, lest she truly become the crude old witch from her novels, bickering at all the young couples passing her way.

"Maybe you are right, Lucy," she conceded softly.

"I almost always am."

"Careful now, Lucy," Virtue snickered. "Someone is becoming a little too pleased with themself."

Lucy moved to respond, but then shifted and sat up suddenly. It took Virtue a moment to realize why, until she looked back from the room and caught the housekeeper lingering by the door.

"Yes?" Virtue asked of her. "What is it?"

The housekeeper's name was Miss White, an elderly woman whose honey cakes held a special place in her father's heart, as did her inclination to gossip about anything and everything that occurred within the walls of Holmfield. So much so that she scarcely left his side, lest it be for emergencies. That had Virtue panicking a little.

"It is Lord Holmfield," Miss White said carefully. "Your father, he wishes to speak with you... Now."

Virtue felt her stomach churn. As well as avoiding the outside world, she had also been avoiding her father and done a great job of it. No doubt he was furious with her for the way she behaved at the ball, and no doubt he wanted to reprimand her for it. His aspirations for her marriage were even greater than her own after all. Given the disastrous events of late, his displeasure was all but guaranteed.

"Alright..." Virtue sighed deeply before pulling herself from Lucy's arms. "Let him know I am on my way."

"I shall make some tea," Lucy offered hastily. "In case you need it."

"If you intend on mixing in some laudanum," Virtue murmured as she skulked across the room, preparing herself for the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. The last two days had been a travesty, and she sensed it was only going to get worse.