Page 1 of In Compromise with the Earl
Prologue
“Iam not going.” Aphrodite was a second away from stomping her foot, but she would have to get up from the dining table for it to make an impact. “And what is the sense of going to a matchmaker anyway? I can find my own husband.”
Her father, William Newfield, Viscount of Kingsley lazily reached for his wine goblet. “The past three-and-a half-years have not proven that. You are two-and-twenty, Aphrodite, teetering on the edge of spinsterhood. If you do not marry soon, you will be on the shelf forever and become a laughingstock in theton.”
“ButLady Pandora Ravenswood?” Aphrodite exclaimed.
William put his goblet down and leaned on the arm of his chair. “You two were friends from finishing school, were you not? What is the problem then?”
Huffing out a breath, she dropped her utensils. The once delicious stuffed pheasant held no enticement for her anymore. “She peddles gossip for a living and has managed to fool thetonthat she is a matchmaker with a perfect success rate in her matches. How can you believe that?”
“It matters not if I believe it or if I do not,” her father poured more wine in his goblet. “At this point I must try everything to get you married as your efforts are proving themselves fruitless.”
“But Father—”
“No buts!” His blues eyes, mirrors of the same ones Aphrodite saw in the mirror every day bored into her, but now were as sharp and cutting as ice shards. “This is not a negotiation, Aphrodite. You are going to her tomorrow and will stay at her country Estate until you are matched. It is April now and the season ends in June. You have two months to find a suitor and marry. That is all!”
With her stomach roiling and anger lancing through her heart, she gazed at the plate and again felt no sign of hunger. Plucking the napkin from her lap, she dropped it on the table and stood. “I suppose it would benefit me to start packing.”
“It would,” William agreed.
She paused to twist her head and saw her father gazing into his goblet with a frown, as if someone else had drank his wine instead of him. He was still in his silk robe, and it could be that mere hours ago, some young woman had been discreetly sent away from the Manor after…servicing him.
Though her quarters were a wing away from his, Aphrodite was not foolish; she knew her father indulged in women. She could not count the times she had taken her horse out for a ride and spotted a woman in the window of her father’s room, just before the curtains were dropped.
After her mother had died seven years ago, he had mourned her for the requisite year, but then had begun to take lovers. He had been discreet at first, but in the last two years, the guise had been dropped. Her father did not give a whit who knew and had continued to keep his activities ongoing.
Leaving Aphrodite to bear the shame of it as well. Countless times had she seen Lords smirking licentiously at her and women sneering at her in disgust, as if she were an implicit part of her father’s actions.
Entering her suite in a huff, she found her maid, Lydia Barns, already packing up her trunks. Gritting her teeth she muttered. “I see Father told you before he even uttered a word to me.”
Pinking, Lydia looked up. “I’m sorry My Lady, if I—”
“No, no,” Aphrodite sighed as she went to her wardrobe. “It’s fine, you’ve done nothing. I just wish he had told me about this matchmaking nonsense beforehand.”
Pausing in her packing, Lydia, a young woman two years Aphrodite’s senior, came to sit beside her. “Are you unhappy about this?”
“Yes,” Aphrodite said. “And I think it’s useless. Matchmaking is a silly science. What is she going to do? Wave a magic wand and decide who is best for me? What if this perfect match is man in his sixties who only cares about cigars and hunting? What if he is a bore?”
Lydia cocked her head to the side, “Did His Lordship express that you must marry the man you are matched with?”
Blinking, Aphrodite said, “No.”
“Well, isn’t that your answer?” Lydia said. “You might match but you won’t have to marry.”
“Oh, I will marry,” Aphrodite said. “But on my terms. Matchmaking is humdrum and I plan to prove it.” A sly smile curved her lips. “Lydia, do you remember how Father kept saying I am a hoyden and that no one would marry me with those wild ways?”
“Yes? Why?”
“I think I might show him how impudent I can be,” Aphrodite said. “How many dresses have you packed?”
“About…” Lydia’s brows creased with thought, “about a dozen day dresses, the same number of evening wear and a few ball gowns.”
Aphrodite grinned, “I think we have some repacking to do.”
* * *
The foul taste in Oswald’s mouth woke him, and he grimaced. Blandly he noted not to drink sweet wine and then gulp Blue Ruin again. As he sat up from the bed, he silently thanked whatever powers above that the drapes were closed because he could feel the tenderness in his eyes and the thrumming headache at the base of his skull.
