For fear of offending you I have hesitated to write another letter, but my ardent admiration overwhelms the bounds of propriety. Herein I intend to contemplate a question that has haunted me for some time: How could I not have fallen in love with you, Miss Maudsley?
Her admirer needed to have a chat with Thomas. Thomas could advise him on this question. For that matter, Lord Trent could as well.
What was wrong with her? Jilted twice!
She laid down the letter and stared blankly at the window. Some awful flaw lurked inside her. That was the obvious conclusion.
But the obvious conclusion made no sense! It was not immodest to acknowledge herself passably pretty, reasonably charming, and very well liked. Moreover, she had done everything right. Everything! Obeyed every rule. Smiled at insults. Charmed all the snobbish gorgons who’d caviled at her lowly background. Refused every second glass of wine! Forgone cycling because it required split skirts, refrained from singing in company, declined all wicked parlor games. Cheered up sourpusses and swallowed retorts, forgiven ill tempers, and never—not once!—taken the Lord’s name in vain. Embroidered thirty handkerchiefs in three weeks! Why, she’d been stitching in her sleep by the end of that!
And for what?
Not for this.
The lump was forming in her throat again. Very well, if she wanted to cry, she would cry for her parents. They had given up so much to ensure her prospects! They had given her up. After she’d gone to school, all she’d had of them were letters and the holidays—so brief, never enough. They’d claimed to want a different fate for her than their own. Having come into wealth as adults, her parents had lost their old friends—some of whom had no longer felt comfortable with them, others of whom had sought to take advantage. But new friends of equal fortune had not lasted, either. Their manners, customs, attitudes and interests had been too different to support true friendship.
In these tribulations, her parents had seen a lesson for her. A girl dowered so richly would have to associate with her peers—the best and wealthiest members of society. But in such circles, a girl raised in Leeds, with a northern accent and rustic ways, would never flourish. Thus they had sent her to school, and after their deaths, according to their wishes, Richard had found a well-born family to raise her during holidays and guide her successfully through her debut.
And she had succeeded. She had! For her parents’ sake as much as her own, she had tried her best and triumphed in every way.
Every way but one.
A choked laugh escaped her. Only one matter remained outside of her control. And Thomas had seemed such a safe choice for it! So gentlemanly, so reliable, so . . . desperate. Oh, the monster! The sight of him bounding away from the altar was stuck in her head; in her half-sleep, it had unfolded over and over, as taunting as a snippet from some irksome song. He loved her, did he? She’d prayed it to be true, but had feared that he loved her fortune better. And in the end—how odd!—neither idea had proved right.
Three million pounds he had left at that altar! It was beyond a fortune. And he was dead broke! What else could he want from a woman?
It was very difficult not to believe that something was wrong with her.
Some flicker of movement caught her attention. She realized it had been her own reflection in the looking glass, as she’d shoved her fist against her mouth. Why, she looked like a madwoman—chignon collapsing, eyes wide and crazed, her simple green morning dress rumpled beyond repair.
She lowered her fist, exhaled, and forced her attention back to the letter.
Of course, I do not need to mention your kindness. Your benevolence to the orphanages is legendary; you are a bosom friend to all who have the good fortune to know you. The entire town praises your chaste, moral rectitude and your unshakable good temper. Even the wicked columnists in the newspapers can find no wrong in you.
A wild feeling tightened her throat. Yes, any number of anonymous journalists had testified in print that she was a paragon. How would they describe her now? Not only “dreadfully disappointed by the treacherous Lord T——,” but also “abominably abused by the perfidious Lord P——.” They would run out of ink for her, maybe. Or adjectives.
But no, of course they wouldn’t. Pitiable: that was the word they would use. It was the next step up from beleaguered; it conjured a more permanent condition. One broken engagement was shocking. Two spelled damaged goods.
She pushed the letter to the floor. Anonymously penned—what did it signify? It was only another piece of cowardice from another penniless blackguard.
Men! All of them, spineless.
Springing to her feet, she began to pace. Well, she had no use for spineless curs. In fact, she pitied the poor girl who purchased Thomas. That girl would not get value for her money! When Gwen thought of all the objections she had swallowed during their courtship—his habit of leering at ladies’ bosoms, which Elma had persuaded her was natural for a man; his execrable fondness for bad puns, which she’d told herself she found charming; his taste for gambling, although the roof on his country estate had fallen in for lack of funds to repair it; his snobbery toward the lower classes, as if her parents hadn’t once belonged to them—why, she felt quite lucky that he’d jilted her!