Page 4 of Wicked With You
Lucky in love.
With a soft sigh, Henrietta slipped away from the door, knowing it terribly rude to eavesdrop on a private conversation, even if she were the very topic of discourse. She was two and twenty and unwed. A great and terrible sin that she has been made aware of almost every day for the last few weeks.
“Do not take your mother’s words to heart,” a soft voice murmured behind her.
She whirled around, pressing a hand over her startled heart. “Papa!”
The viscount’s face creased in a kind smile. “Come with me, poppet.”
The cold knot in her belly thawed, and warmth filled Henrietta’s body. Her papa always seemed to know when she was out of sort, and his love faithfully eased her turmoil. She strolled with her father to a small parlor her grandmother allowed her to use for her own personal space. It had large floor-to-ceiling windows, perfect lighting, and a position for her to do what Henrietta loved the most—paint. That small parlor was mostly empty of furniture, except for a chair positioned before an easel and a chaise longue near the fire. Several large canvases leaned against the wall and the floor. It was a beautiful, chaotic mess that she alone understood.
Her father walked over to the latest piece she worked on, a glorious landscape which showed the local parish church at dawn, which colored the pale cream of the church’s stone walls in rosy and lilac hues.
“I am always awed by your incredible talent, poppet,” he said gruffly. “Have I told you that you picked up your first paintbrush at three years old? You refused to play with those little dolls your mother got for you. Only painting was your love. You loathed needlework and music. It confounded your mama, for neither of us had any artistic talent.”
Emotions clogged her throat, and Henrietta leaned her head against his shoulders. “You told me several times, papa,” she whispered.
A pleasant silence fell, and they stood there as her father offered her his stalwart comfort, which slowly eased the lingering pain and doubt in her heart. “Mama is very disappointed in me,” Henrietta whispered.
A heavy sigh came from her father. “She is not, poppet. Neither am I. I believe your mama is more worried about your future. She wants to see you settled and happy, as any mother would desire for their children.”
“I am happy to paint, papa, and I do believe I could sell my paintings and…”
“Henrietta,” he said firmly. “We have spoken about this. Ladies of your station do not work…orselltheir paintings. You do not need to pander to clients for any money to prepare for a comfortable living. That is what your husband will do. Take care of you.”
A wave of rebellious anger and dissatisfaction surged inside her, but she tamped it down. Still, it hovered on her tongue to confess that Cousin Jeremey had helped her sell several pieces through his galleries in London and Bath, and she had a tidy sum set aside. Over five hundred pounds. Not a small sum to frown on. Henrietta was determined to carve a future that would not be dependent on her finding a husband. Especially when that seemed dismal.
“Yes, papa,” she murmured lifting her head from his shoulder. Though he loved her and admired her talent, he too did not think if she remained unwed that she could possibly care for herself. It was appalling that if a lady did not marry she must only live by the grace of her parents or extended family. “I believe I shall join the others on the lawns. I am certain Zeus misses me.”
“Go,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I will speak with your mother. We shall plan for another season and forget all these talks about you or your cousins never finding a good match. Another season in prettier dresses will do the trick, I am certain of it.”
Exiting the large country manor by one of several doors to the gardens, Henrietta smiled to see her cousins Lilli and Eva running in the distance. It seemed as if they chased Henrietta’s little pug—Zeus. Henrietta, Annabelle, Lilliana, and Evangelina had traveled up to Lancashire to lick their supposed wounds and recuperate from another disastrous season. The rambling estate near the Irish Sea was the perfect place to hide from their mutual disappointment.
Since they had been small girls, the Lancashire countryside and their dear Gran was always the perfect place to visit and see each other. Gran always accepted them without any sort of reproof and allowed them the freedom to be themselves. They could walk barefoot in the halls of her manor, and she did not frown or castigate them for being unladylike. They could run and scream across the lawns like hoydens, and she laughed with them. And even better, if they were ever sad or disappointed, her arms were always open to enfold them.
As cousins and dearest friends, Henrietta, Lilli, Annie, and Eva had truly followed an all-or-none philosophy, especially in their hopes to marry for love. Still, surely they had not all intended to remain unmarried and now retire to be buried in the countryside.
Despite the disapprobation that hung over their heads for their failure to ensnare suitable suitors, Henrietta was glad of their company. Her cousins had made each season as they paraded before so many gentlemen like fatted calves tolerable. Henrietta fatter than most, with her generously rounded body, a dowry of twenty thousand pounds, and a small manor in Derbyshire. No one had nibbled at her lure, and while she had been relieved, deep inside her heart, there was a mortified wound.
No one had wanted to marry her from dozens of eligible gentlemen.
Am I so unsuitable in their eyes?
Henrietta thought Annabelle, who had announced her attachment to the duke and married him last week, was lucky in love. It had taken everyone by surprise, but they had all been delighted with her good fortune and the happiness with which she had glowed. Of course, Annabelle credited her remarkable happiness to the charm stone their grandmother said had been gifted to her by a gypsy. Gran had said that the gypsy lady, Madame Beannaithe, knew that she searched for a love match and had gifted her the stone because Aphrodite herself was responsible for the existence of the stone, and it was imbued with love.
That stone had led Gran to their grandfather and a love that had lasted for many years. Over fifty years, to be precise. And now presumedly, that same charmed stone had guided Annabelle to the duke.
A rose quartz with the power to bring about true love. Such silliness.
“Surely itcannotbe real,” Henrietta whispered, an ache centering inside her chest. “Could it?”
Yet Annabelle had worn it and met the man she was to marry. Annabelle had handed over the jewel to Henrietta being convinced the charm had worked for her in finding her duke.Perhaps it was a mere coincidence. That silent reassurance did not make Henrietta feel any better. She felt a sensation of drowning creep upon her, and whirling around, she dashed inside the manor and ran up to her bedchamber. Once inside, she went over to the small vanity, opened the small jewelry box, and searched out the stone with trembling fingers. The attached chain slid through her fingers, startlingly warm to the touch when she’d anticipated it being cold.
Henrietta stared at it for a long time. The rose quartz was rather beautiful.
“This is just a stone…a piece of jewelry,” she said in the silence of her chamber.
Closing her palm around it, she pressed it against her chest and shut her eyes. What harm could there be in wearing it? Henrietta wanted marriage and children. A beautiful and happy family to call her own. That she could feel that hope slipping from her with each season felt unbearable. The reminder that at least she still had her paintings and a measure of security from selling them, provided little comfort against those hopes fading like ashes tossed away by the wind.
