Page 57 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

Julia turned over onto her back. “What I want is for a gentleman to love me like a hero in a story. Someone who doesn’t care about my dowry or my pedigree or whether or not I can give him an heir. I want a gentleman who’ll take me in my underclothes, exactly as I am.”

Mary scoffed. “You can’t compare your life to one of them novels. Haven’t I told you? None of that’s real.”

“I know it isn’t real. If it were, I wouldn’t have endured nearly three seasons only to receive an offer from a man like Lord Gresham. And now I must accept him because Papa has said I must.”

And because no one else wants me.

Her vision blurred in spite of herself. “I suppose I am sick. Pray leave me alone, Mary.”

In the absence of her friends, Julia had so far refrained from claiming illness to avoid her responsibilities. It was an unsustainable excuse. But Mama was arriving in the morning. There would be Lord Gresham’s suit to contend with. And then, as if that weren’t enough, there was to be a picnic in Richmond Park. Everyone who was anyone would be in attendance. Miss Throckmorton, certainly. And if she was there, Captain Blunt was sure to be present as well.

Julia couldn’t face him. Not after that kiss. She couldn’t face any of it.

She’d rather stay in bed, safe and secure, huddled within the draperies of her four-poster. If the price of that security was a visit from the odious Dr. Cordingley, then so be it.

Julia was awakened in the morning not by her maid but by her mother. Seated on the edge of the bed, Lady Wychwood was clothed in a black silk carriage dress, as if she’d only just arrived from the railway station. She stared down at Julia with an expression so severe Julia was tempted to close her eyes again and feign sleep.

Once acknowledged as handsome, Mama’s face had long since been etched by unhappiness and infirmity. Her features were drawn, her skin sallow, and her eyes prone to watering—a consequence of the camphor oil she used to alleviate the aches in her limbs.

“Awake at last,” she said in tones of deep disapproval. “Would that I had had the luxury of sleeping late this morning.”

Julia made no effort to sit up. She remained tucked safe in bed, her white cotton nightgown rumpled and her long unplaited hair tangled about her shoulders.

Mama’s gaze narrowed. “Nothing to say for yourself? Very well. You can listen.”

Julia’s stomach sank. Her mother’s lectures could be as dismal as her father’s.

“My journey’s overtaxed me,” Mama said. “I must retire to my room before I do myself a permanent injury. But know this: Your father may have tolerated your obstinate carrying on, but I will not. If a gentleman as illustrious as the Earl of Gresham has indicated an interest in you, you will do your duty, or by heaven you’ll feel the consequences for it.”

A rare flicker of defiance sparked in Julia’s breast. “I’d rather take the consequences.”

Mama’s eyes kindled. “Ungrateful girl! To think of how I suffered to bring you into this world, sacrificing my health, very nearly my life, and all so you could defy me in this fashion. Have you no sense of what you owe me? Of what you owe your poor father? That I should have birthed such a thankless child!”

“Why did you?” Julia asked. “You needn’t have married Papa. You had a fortune in your own right.”

“I did my duty,” Mama snapped back. “I did what my family required of me. And so shall you.”

Julia regarded her mother in silence. Mama had been but seventeen when she’d been betrothed to Papa, the coddled only son of a wealthy family, decades older than his young bride, and prone to prolonged bouts of illness.

In the aftermath of Julia’s birth, his perpetually frail condition had seemed to rub off on her mother.

Julia could scarcely remember a time when Mama hadn’t been the victim of megrims, the vapors, or the ague. Her list of ailments had grown over the years, leading to a great deal of time spent alone in her rooms, or away from home, cloistered in a luxurious hotel in one of the fashionable spa towns.

As Julia had grown older, she’d often wondered if her mother had used the excuse of poor health as a means of securing her privacy and independence. She and Papa had never had another child. They kept separate rooms and maintained largely separate lives. It was the closest thing to Mama being a widow. And Papa couldn’t complain, not when his own health was in such a precarious state—though he regularly lamented his lack of a male heir.

Women had so little power in life to control their destinies. Julia had experienced the lack of it firsthand.

She was experiencing it now.

If claiming illness could offer her a fraction of the same freedom it had given her mother, Julia didn’t see why she shouldn’t take advantage of it.

“I can’t do my duty in this condition,” she said. “I’m not able to do anything.”

Mama’s lips thinned. “Maidenish nerves, I don’t wonder.”

“It isn’t that.”

“What is it, then? Mrs. Major claims you were indisposed last night, but she failed to report the specifics of your complaint.”