Page 39 of To Break the Rules

Words crowded in her throat. The desire to tell him that she’d thought of nothing else was almost overwhelming, but that would be as cruel as pretending an interest elsewhere.

“No,” she said, though she could not disguise the sadness in her voice as she turned away from him to survey the room, just as Mrs Manning returned with the last of her guests… the Marquess of Montagu.

Chapter 11

Why must I always want more than is good for me? I ruined a perfectly happy home by falling in love with a man I ought to have known was not for me.

His promises to love me and keep me safe no matter what all crumbled to dust the moment he knew the truth. He couldn’t get free of me fast enough. Why would I believe another man making the exact same promises?

Why am I such a fool as to even consider repeating the same mistake? Yet I dream of it, all the same.

―Excerpt of an entry from Señorita Lucia de Feria, to her diary.

14th July 1814. The home of Mrs Edwina Manning, Old Burlington Street, London.

There were twelve guests, and Lucia’s worst fears were realised as the marquess led Mrs Manning into dinner.

Mrs Manning sat at the head of the table, with her brother—a florid man in his forties, with a jovial manner—assuming the role of host at the opposite end. The marquess naturally took the position of guest of honour to Mrs Manning’s right, and the Countess Culpepper—wife of the Earl of Culpepper—sat opposite him on her left. It appeared her husband was off in the country on business. She didn’t look like she minded.

Beside her sat Lord Cavendish, and beside him, Lucia. Poor Matilda was little better off and looked flushed and rather like a hen cornered by foxes at finding herself between Montagu and the adoring gaze of Mr Burton.

Well, this should be entertaining, Lucia thought, with her stomach tying itself in knots at the idea.

To her surprise, she found a Mr Henshaw on her left, who turned out to be Kitty’s uncle, and Kitty herself sat beside Mr Burton. The poor girl looked anxious and out of her depth, and as if she wanted to exclaim with relief on seeing two familiar faces. The far end of the table was completed with a beaming Mr Richards—he who had so kindly rescued Matilda when she’d hurt her ankle—and a rather sour faced Miss Craven.

Something of an heiress, Miss Craven had been heralded as one of the diamonds of the season and was usually a vivacious young lady, but Lucia had heard it whispered that she had designs on catching herself a grand title—like perhaps a marquisate. Seeing Montagu at the far end of the table with Matilda at his side had to be sticking in her throat somewhat.

It was by no accident, however. The young woman had been heard a few nights ago to utter an unguarded and spectacularly stupid slight directed at Mrs Manning. She had disparaged the woman as being old and worn, and no kind of rival to her youth and beauty.

No doubt the lure of an invitation to a dinner where the marquess was to attend had been too good to refuse. Being seated as far away from him as it was possible to get, and beside Mrs Manning’s good-natured bore of a brother—who would monopolise the conversation all night—was likely not what she’d had in mind. Miss Craven looked sulky and embarrassed by the arrangement, having realised too late her hostess’ intent.

Mrs Manning, by contrast, looked to be thoroughly enjoying the evening.

As revenge went, it was subtle enough, but effective. Lucia felt a little sorry for the young woman, who was no doubt spoiled and indulged and didn’t know better, but would bounce back and, perhaps, watch her tongue a little in the future. Besides, Mr Richards was a charming companion and—if she had any sense—one she would enjoy.

The meal began, and the table—already groaning under the weight of dazzling crystal and silver and the finest Limoges porcelain—soon looked ready to buckle as a bewildering array of dishes were brought in. Herb soup, tongue and turnips accompanied breast of veal and a platter of roast chickens, neck of venison, mutton, stewed red cabbage, and a boiled trout.

Lucia, who had felt unequal to swallowing anything from the moment she’d set eyes on Lord Cavendish, suppressed a sigh of dismay. Taking a small portion of soup and praying she’d not be accused of insulting her hostess if she didn’t finish it, she hoped for the best.

“How have you been?”

Lucia looked around to find Lord Cavendish watching her.

“Fine,” she replied with a tight smile, wishing her usual capacity for small talk would return to her. Under normal circumstances, she’d always been able to laugh and flirt and pretend enjoyment even when she was bored to tears. The ability seemed to have vanished ever since she’d met the infuriating and intriguing man at her side.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Despite her best intentions, Lucia rolled her eyes at him. “Well, of course I have,” she muttered, before sighing and softening her tone. “It’s for the best.”

“For whom?” he demanded, his frustration evident though the question was mild enough.

“Both of us.”

“I won’t give up, Lucia.”

The words slid under her skin, warming her, easing the pain in her heart, which was ridiculous. He was the one causing her pain. She’d had a perfectly good plan. Make her mark on the ton so she was too well known to disappear without remark, and survive until her twenty-first birthday. On that day a scandal the like of which the ton hadn’t seen in a generation would unfold, and anyone associated her would get burned.

She’d told herself she didn’t care, that this was about her and no one else, but people kept insinuating themselves into her life and her affections, no matter how hard she tried to keep them at a distance.