Page 30 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
He would have her marry, even if it meant his riches fell to possession of an undeserving man.
How could she live with that?
Chapter 7
“Will that be all, my lady?”
Jane had fidgeted and fussed over Esme with as much nit-picking as Esme could stand.
“Of course, Jane. I look…”Terrified? Perplexed?“Wonderful for this ball. And you have made me so.”
The girl stared at her with round wary eyes. “Yer certain there’s no more I can do for ye?”
“Nothing, Jane. Do go. Enjoy yourself in the servants hall. Mama hired a flutist and a violinist for the servants to dance.”
“Ring for me to unlace you, Miss.” Often so tired after a night of dancing, Esme had sunk into her bed, laced up like a Christmas goose. She’d let Jane sleep through the night.
“I will.”
“Must get yer rest to look best for the morrow,” Jane said, fussy as Mama.
“Right you are. Thank you.” Esme gave a small smile in dismissal.
The girl bobbed and disappeared.
Esme flapped her arms at her sides and sighed.
What am I to do?
Caught between the destruction of two men whom she respected and loved more than any others in this world, what was she to do? She would not permit her father’s hard earned money to flow to the greedy fingers of the Duke of Brentford. No matter if her father died tomorrow or the next day, next month, next year! Or Giles did. Or she did. Why should the duke profit from the careful investment of her father?
The Viscount Courtland had inherited thousands of pounds from his mother estate when that lady died in seventeen-seventy-five. Placed in trust for him by his father because he was only eight, the funds had gained one-third more in value. At his majority, her father had taken advice from his friend, George Smith who was a banker familiar with trade issues and the East India Company. Breeding the finest sheep on his lands in the Cotswolds and investing in cotton mills, he had grown his wealth beyond his imaginings. With no son to give it to and loving his only child, a daughter, better than many men did, he’d fixed his wealth on Esme.
He’d provided well for her, including an education in feminine arts at Miss Shipley’s. But he’d also showered her with his own instruction in the indelicate arts of fishing, hunting with bow and arrow and the precise skill of aiming her own tiny French pocket pistol.
The result? Esme could sit for hours to wait for a fish. She could also draw back her bow and pierce a wild boar through the guts at thirty yards. Her finest art he’d taught her over the objections of her mother who declared that a lady of thetonneed never know how to plug a hole through the belly of a crow.
Yet Esme did do all of that with a glee. These skills made her mother seek her headache powders and her father chuckle that if only he could teach her how to drink like a man, that would be the making of her. Esme had never told him that she could hold her liquor…to the tune of three glasses of wine, and one of port. After that, her eyesight got a bit blurry…but more than that, she’d never had reason to imbibe.
Until now.
She gazed at herself in her full-length cheval mirror. She’d badgered her father to have one made for her and this one showed every detail of her body. From her large feet in her new pink slippers, to her new ball dress of India Sacarallie, trimmed round the skirt with six rows of white satin coquings with silver tassels. The over dress of silver lama sloped in front, trimmed with a full quilling of Vandyke muslin, edged with silver. She looked a princess, sparkling and serene.
Other aspects of her appearance gave her pause, such as her shoulders (broad really), her breasts (healthy, she preferred to call them), her neck (long enough to make her look taller than she was), and her hair, a tawny shade of honey (not the pale blonde fluff that denoted a Diamond). She had a round face and plump cheeks, while her nose had grown much too long. Her eyes were her best feature, being wide-set with thick lashes and brows that made her appear haughty. To herself, she passed as ordinary. To some who counted her rich attire, she’d heard many declare her Incomparable. Though that term could never define her, she understood envy. Had tried to counter it in those young women she met.
As a girl, she had desperately aspired to be included in all actions of her schoolmates. She’d acted poorly.
But she had changed. Become less aggressive. Kinder.
Over the years, her friends had forgiven her much of her childishness. Even without an apology from her. For they had been children, too, half-formed and searching for the fullness of themselves. If she excused their foibles, they had excused hers. So many of them had come here for the past few years to her parents’ May Day Frolic and proven that they were indeed her friends.
She had grown. Matured. Prospered. Fallen in love. And now…
Now she had to decide how to spend the rest of her life.
Would she marry on the morrow?
Allowing her father to see his wealth grasped by an unprincipled derelict.
