Page 4 of The Earl’s Hoyden

They all looked to Amy, whose cheeks were scarlet beneath her rag curlers. She opened her mouth, closed it and opened it again.

Though only fifteen, Amy was a woman destined for motherhood. She was exactly the sort who could tolerate shrieks and cries of infants with a pleasant disposition and was filled with sweet patience that even a saint would covet.

“You don’t have to sign,” Hannah said.

“And abandon you lot of spinsters in that manor without someone to properly look after you?” Amy reached for the book and added her signature, one she had practiced to loopy perfection. “Besides, I should like to bake confections in a kitchen without judgement.”

“Then it is done.” Jillian folded the book closed, sat back on her heels and beamed at them all. “None of us will ever marry.”

“Wallflowers to the end.” With that, Hannah helped herself to one last sip of brandy, secure in a future she could finally face.

1

January 1816

York, England

* * *

Hannah opened the old leather journal from her days at Lady Finch’s Finishing school and touched the paper where the signatures from The Vow of the Wallflowers were written in five different scripts. The opposite page was dotted with ink as well, imprinted there all those years ago when the book was closed too quickly before the ink had fully dried.

And sealed all their fates with it. Thank heavens!

“Hannah,” her mother’s voice came from the other side of her bedroom door, pitching higher on the last syllable.

Hannah shrank deeper into the plushness of her bed, wishing it would swallow her up. Her maid, Mary, had delivered the message her parents desired to speak to her half an hour ago. It was not difficult to know what they wished to discuss with the start of the season looming ever closer.

Preparations to depart their country estate would begin sooner than later. Gone would be the days of ambling about in hardy boots and breathing in the crisp morning air during walks. There would be no driving her own carriage or reading up in trees with her legs dangling over the rough branches.

She would be back in shoes that pinched her toes, her hair pinned and curled, enduring insufferable niceties with people her parents wanted her to meet and gowns that made breathing difficult. Desperation welled up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her.

“Did Mary not tell you we want an audience with you?” her mother persisted from the other side of the door.

That startled Hannah upright. “She did. I…fell asleep. Forgive me.”

She could hardly allow her dearest Mary to suffer because of her own disinclination to be subjected to this awful discussion. Again.

With a huff, she pushed up from the bed, nudging the old journal under her pillow as she did so. A weight settled on her shoulders like a cloak as she went to her door.

Lady Westwich’s smiling face met her. “Ah, my beautiful daughter. I’m well aware of how much you dread this, but it must be done.”

“Perhaps it would be advantageous to forego it this year?” Hannah suggested hopefully. “After all, I’ve been well informed from our previous discussions, and I—”

The tuck of her mother’s lips downward stifled her futile argument.

Hannah’s shoulders drooped in defeat. It would be better simply to have the arduous chat and be done. Resigned, she followed her mother down the curving staircase into the library, where the family spent most of their time. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, beating back the worst of the winter’s chill. It had been an extraordinarily cold winter and had even snowed several times.

But now was not the time for thinking of the crunching of snow beneath her boots or how it dusted the world like finely sifted powder. Now was for enduring the worst lecture of the year.

Lord Westwich looked up from the high-backed sofa by the hearth. “Ah, our darling daughter.”

“Your only daughter.” Hannah approached and sank into the plush chair she favored on the nights she whiled the hours away with a good book, a habit she’d picked up from Elizabeth.

“Our only child.” His dark blue eyes, so like her own, met her mother’s and they both frowned.

And here it came…

“Which is why we want to see you wed,” Lady Westwich began.