“She does eat!” her mother bellowed again, hazardously close to Sara’s left ear. She wouldn’t be surprised if she were close to being deaf in both ears. Years of living with her mother had not been good for her health. She winced as her mother yelled again “I know! We’ll just give her more meals and have her eat before bed! If she lies down, it is bound to stay in her belly and make her softer!”
Sara wanted to scream, but she had always been even tempered, always. But even those who are even tempered can be pushed beyond the brink of sanity. If only her sisters hadn’t eloped, leaving their family in utter ruin! What respectable girls elope with twin brothers to Gretna Green? They weren’t even titled for crying out loud! It meant her family had nothing, absolutely nothing. Her two sisters were the only hope for riches, and now they were gone, along with their measly dowries. Nobody would want them now, even if they could get the marriages annulled.
Her thoughts had gotten away with her somehow. Before she knew it, her aunt kissed her mother goodbye, and pushed Sara into a black plush carriage waiting outside.
“Oh, and Sara,” her mother ran toward her, “Aunt Tilda will explain what needs to be done to secure a husband; you listen to everything she says. Do not embarrass us! Your father has, well, he has some debts, dear, and you’re our only hope of securing a man rich enough to take care of us. Do you understand?”
Was that a rhetorical question?
Her mother droned on, “And, dear, I know you are…well, you’re wicked-looking, but if you could please swallow your pride and do whatever it takes, we would be grateful. After all, this is your one and only chance for any sort of affection from another person. And we all desire affection. Even ugly children desire acceptance.”
Hearing enough, she bit her lip to keep from talking. Sara nodded her head and closed the door to the carriage. Her body felt numb. She knew all about emotional rejection; it was her cross to bear, but to be reminded by one’s own mother time and time again was the worst pain imaginable. Turning her head toward the window, she pulled her knees up to her chest and sighed. Aunt Tilda reached across and patted her hand much like a stranger would do to comfort a small child.
“No fear, my girl, I have a grand plan. A plan even you can’t ruin.” She smiled cheerfully before putting a covering over her eyes and going silent, most likely to sleep.
It’s an adventure, it’s an adventure, Sara kept repeating over and over again in her head to keep herself from crying. Being mortified in front of her family because of her looks she could handle, but being humiliated in front of the ton was quite another. “Dear God, if you can do miracles, I ask for one right now. Make me pretty; make me loveable. I don’t care if I let my family down, I just don’t want to feel this way ever again.” The stress of the day overwhelming her, she drifted off to sleep..
Chapter Two
Nicholas Devons, seventh Earl of Renwick, was exhausted. Though only a measly thirty years of age, at this moment he felt ancient, as if his name should already be appearing in history books. One always did at debutante balls—how many had he seen in the past few years? And how many more would he have to endure? His title demanded he do his duty by attending. Not only was he required to attend, but he also must dance—and dance he would, because it was expected of him.
Overbearing mothers clad in glitzy dresses stared at him heatedly, leaving him feeling like he was in the fires of Hell itself. Actually, at this moment he wished he were anywhere—no matter how hot and torturous—but here. It was a nightmare fit for one of those fairy storybooks his nieces so often begged him to read at bedtime.
He rolled his eyes when yet another mother approached with daughter in tow. “My lord,” she bowed lower than her dress should have allowed, considering her bosom nearly fell straight out of it, and smiled, revealing yellowish teeth better suited for a horse. “Allow me to present to you Lady Alisa.” The young girl, who looked barely old enough to be out of the schoolroom, was complete with the new French style of dress which hardly left anything to the imagination. Her hair, pulled into tight ringlets around her head, was dusted with so much powder, he couldn’t actually tell her real hair color. Her lips were large and painted with rouge, and her eyes had so much kohl on them, she looked like a raccoon.
Bending over her hand, he cursed his rotten luck and brought her shaking fingers to his lips. Her ‘look’ was probably a ruse. Her hair must be some disdainful color for her mother to go to so much work to cover it up. A pity, really. If she wore less face paint and powder, she might be attractive. Might being the key word.