Obviously, after a coming out such as that, nothing else went according to schedule.
After two disastrous seasons marred by painfully awkward social interactions, Thea was sent abroad with her grandmother, the formidable, forbidding Dowager Countess of Desmond.
A summer's sojourn amid the dignified British society of Rome and Florence was to have imparted a Continental polish and cured Thea of nervous giggles forever.
Somehow her mother's best-laid plans never quite seemed to work out.
The only polish Thea acquired in Italy came from the waxed marble floors of as many museums and galleries as she could induce her grandmother to visit.
For Thea, the art in Italy was a revelation.
Here she could escape into new worlds, unhampered by her mother's constant rules.
She discovered the female Renaissance painters and fell in love with their fearlessness. She stood in front of Artemisia Gentileschi's Judith Slaying Holofernes in a gallery in Florence for a full hour, stunned by the luminous skill and unflinching honesty of the brutal scene.
A woman painted that.
She couldn't have articulated why, but the painting moved her in a profound way. She scoured art history books for a mention of Artemisia, but found only a few lines focused on colorful details of her personal life, with only brief mentions of her skill and oeuvre.
From which Thea determined that this powerful, masterful painter had been overlooked and brushed over simply because she was a woman. Her achievements forgotten. Her talents overshadowed by scandal.
For some reason, this discovery sparked a rebellious thought in Thea's mind.
Perhaps she didn't want to marry a duke and immediately bear his chinless progeny and be relegated to the role of ornament and broodmare.
Perhaps she could use all of that education for something more than merely capturing a duke-a husband who would no doubt expect her to remain silent while he betrayed her with every courtesan in London, as her own father had shown her was the expected way of things.
She began to make plans that did not involve propriety, elegance, or refinement. But when she arrived back in London she'd found that any choice in the matter had been stolen from her. There'd been a hasty wedding to arrange.
Her wedding.
To a duke she'd never even met.
Worse still, a duke who'd been won by her nearly identical half sister Charlene, one of her father's many unacknowledged offspring. Which made perfect sense, in a way, because Thea was never going to procure a duke on her own, so her mother had taken matters into her own hands.
Thea knew she never should have gone to the church that day, never should have agreed to marry a stranger.
But the tidal wave of filial obligation had proven too strong. It had swept her into the church and deposited her next to the tall, handsome, and very intimidating Duke of Harland.
Luckily, halfway through the ceremony she'd finally found her courage.
She sent the duke away to find his true love, Charlene, the woman who'd stolen his heart.
In retribution for her honesty, Thea had been exiled to live with her eccentric aunt Emma in a rustic cottage in the south of Ireland to contemplate her errors, repent her rebellion, and return to her senses.
Except that what was meant as a punishment quickly began to feel like the first glimpse of freedom Thea had ever known.
She blossomed in her aunt's nurturing warmth, feeling useful and genuinely happy as she helped research and implement new and more humane methods of beekeeping so that instead of smoking out all the bees, the honey could be removed while leaving most of the colony intact.
And when Thea found the painting by Artemisia in the Duke of Osborne's attic she'd known she was meant to be there to study Artemisia's lost paintings and show the world the extent of her genius and talent.
But the duke stubbornly refused to let Thea unveil more paintings.
It was maddening to know there could even be a self-portrait by Artemisia moldering in his attic, shrouded in linen and forgotten by the world. What harm could it possibly do if she were allowed to unwrap the paintings?
Thea dipped her quill into ink once again, determined to find the right words.
My Lord Duke,
I've been summoned back to London for what is certain to be another failed season. While I can never hope to fulfill my family's expectations, I fully intend to win my campaign to rescue Artemisia's paintings from your attic.
It would truly be a shame if the world, and in particular the governors of the British Institution, remained unaware of these important works.
Sincerely,
Lady Dorothea
Thea dusted the sheet with sand from the tin box on her desk to blot the ink, and folded the paper.
She'd be squarely on the shelf next summer.
All she must do was endure one more disastrous season and secure the duke's permission to study his art collection. And then she could return here to dear old Ballybrack Cottage and dear old Aunt Emma and her bees, where she belonged.
Far from glittering ballrooms.
And far from arrogant dukes.
Chapter 1
London, Spring 1819
Thea had made an error of epic proportions.
A tall, broad-shouldered, duke-sized error.
From the safe distance of her quill and foolscap her courage had been indomitable.
She'd planned to approach the Duke of Osborne at the first ball of the season, scatter his entourage of fluttering females with a quelling stare, and say something brilliantly persuasive and businesslike.
Something along the lines of Your Grace, hiding Artemisia's lost paintings in your attic is akin to General Hutchinson abandoning the Rosetta Stone to Napoleon's forces in Egypt.
Well, maybe that was a trifle dramatic, but it would deliver her point.
Knock over that first ivory domino piece and the rest in the formation always followed. And before she knew it she'd be back in Ireland, free to be imperfect at last.
But that first piece . . .
Of course she'd observed Osborne during her first two seasons, when he was still the Marquess of Dalton.
But tonight was different.
Tonight she needed something from him.
And he was so large. So very powerful and male.
A lady could feel all that maleness across a cavernous ballroom.
He didn't walk-he strode. He didn't ride-he galloped.
And when he wanted something-it was his for the taking.
He would not be easily toppled.
Even his cravat had a defiant air of carelessness that made the other gentlemen seem garroted by starched linen, while he roamed free.
Candles hissed overhead.
The sugary almond smell of ratafia punch triggered a sloshing of the old familiar panic in her belly, and the weight of the pearls her maid had threaded through her upswept curls sat heavy with the promise of a headache.
"Lady Dorothea, if you please." Lady Desmond snapped her fan shut in front of Thea's nose.
Thea blinked. "Yes, Mother?"
"This constant woolgathering simply won't do. You must at least try to appear sufficiently transformed. Must I remind you that this is your final chance to make a good impression?"
No chance of that. She was too thoroughly ensconced in the collective mind of the ton as Disastrous Dorothea. Which was quite convenient when one wished to remain a wallflower veering into spinster territory.
"Are you listening to me?" Lady Desmond asked, narrowing her pale blue eyes.
"Yes, Mother."
"Now I'm going to leave you on your own soon so the gentlemen won't be . . . dissuaded from asking you to dance."
Terrified away from it, more like.
Thea had a bad reputation, but her mother's was atrocious, since half of society suspected the deception to which she'd stooped in her ill-fated attempt to secure a duke for a son-in-law. Although it had never been proven.
"Do try to smile when a gentleman draws near," Lady Desmond urged. "You look as though you're at a funeral."
In a way, she was. The final wake for her mother's dreams . . . and Thea's marital prospects.
To hasten her mother's departure, Thea fastened a bright smile across her face. If she grinned any wider her head would split in half.
"And not one sliver of a giggle tonight, do you hear me? Not one little snort."
"Yes, Mother." Frustration simmered, but Thea refrained from a sharp retort. She needed her mother to leave so that she could find a way to corner the duke. "Of course I hear you. You're standing right next to me."
"Humph," Lady Desmond responded. "And stop staring at the Duke of Osborne. It's most unbecoming."
Thea started guiltily. "I'm not staring at him."
"You're practically salivating, girl." Lady Desmond tapped her fan against her palm. "I'll grant you he's a fine sight, but he's not our target. Foxford will do nicely, I should say." She glanced around the room. "Hasn't arrived yet."
Thea suppressed a shudder. Foxford would not do.
Not in a million years.
She'd been dutiful and obedient her entire life. Except for that one time. In the church.
But she had absolutely no intention of marrying a gentleman of her mother's choosing.
The Duke of Osborne now commanded the exact center of Lady Thistlethwaite's ballroom, his long limbs anchored to the marble floor, as if he were a ship's masthead.
Widows in daringly low-cut satin eddied around him like frothing waves, and debutantes glowing with youth and optimism cast blushing glances, while their mamas plotted to entice the duke away from his aversion to marriage.
What had she been thinking? She couldn't march right up to such a notorious rake. Every gaze in the room was fastened upon him.
She'd just have to write him another letter. Yes, that's exactly what she'd do. A nice, safe letter from her desk.