A Hasty Betrothal. Jessica Nelson

      “You mock me!”

      “Nay, but I beg you to consider the benefits of your station in life. Most have not the comforts you enjoy on a daily basis.”

      “I know that,” she said hotly. Who did Miles think he was? Always needling her, acting as though she was some spoiled, ungrateful wretch. “Would you have me sacrifice myself to the cold system of our society? A system that prefers breeding over character, purse over heart? I think not, Miles. Now, if you would be so kind as to bid me adieu...” She trailed off, for Lord Wrottesley headed toward her, a disconcertingly aggressive look to his gaze. “I really must leave now. Lord Wrottesley has called on me twice since we arrived in London. I do not wish to speak with him.”

      “Who is he?”

      “A fortune hunter.” Without wasting another moment in useless conversation, she twisted to the right, desiring to dodge several patrons, but she caught her reflection in the large mirrors that gilded the ballroom: a pale wisp of an heiress, the strawberry birthmark covering her right cheekbone, glaring out from the whiteness of her skin.

      Averting her eyes from the sight, she charged toward a set of French doors she’d seen earlier.

      The exit promised solitude. A rest from the noise of congestion, the odor of too much perfume that clogged her windpipe. She dared not glance back to see if Wrottesley followed her.

      She prayed he did not. When he had called last Wednesday, it had been the most stifling thirty minutes of her existence.

      Grandmother insisted God heard prayers from every soul, and Elizabeth dearly hoped the duchess was right.

      The doors shuddered beneath the force of Elizabeth’s exit, but the damp earth welcomed her slippers a bit too readily. She sank deeply into the ground and, in her haste, almost fell. Catching her balance, she hurried forward to the garden walk, ignoring the sucking sound her slippers made in the mud. They would be ruined, but she owned at least twenty more.

      The scent of rain clung to the air. Lighted lanterns cast eerie shadows upon the path ahead, but the stones promised dryness for her feet and where they led, she would follow. Lord and Lady Charleston’s back lawn was a lovely respite, the gardens a comfortable touch for guests. Though situated in London, they’d made good use of their small plot of land.

      Oh, for quiet from this dreadful press of a ball. Vaguely it entered her mind that she risked her reputation by entering the gardens alone. Surely a brief rest could not hurt, though. She would return shortly. She reached the stone walkway and heaved a sigh of relief, for her toes squished and the sad, sodden state of her slippers reminded her of her future. Equally dark and muddy.

      She should pray. Grandmother exhorted her to do so. Glancing up at the night sky, she saw that the moon hid behind clouds, painting them shades of dark blue and gray. Lord, please guide me tonight. Give me wisdom for I am beset by worries.

      She picked her way down the path, passing a couple sharing sweet whispers on a bench. The lanterns guided her feet to a ribbon-festooned gazebo sitting on the edge of what looked to be a pond. Out here, beyond the maddening noise of festivities, she finally felt she could draw a breath. The air was sweet, humid. Crickets welcomed her, their song harmonious and gracious.

      She stepped into the gazebo, and it was as though a weight lifted from her shoulders. The half-circle bench beckoned her to sit and wait out the night. Perhaps a half hour, and then she could beg off the event by claiming malaise. A megrim, perhaps, or blisters from too much dancing. Sinking onto the bench, she watched the shimmering reflection of the now-unveiled moon on the water.

      Blessed peace descended. It was only her and the night and God’s watchful eye. He had answered her prayer and for that, she thanked Him. She sat for some time, her heartbeat lulled into synchrony with her breaths. She propped her arms on the edge of the gazebo, laying her head down, knowing she smashed the curls Jenna had worked so hard on and hoping her maid would forgive her the transgression.

      She did not wish to think of marriage nor her parents. She wanted only to rest here and pretend that their desire to marry her off could be circumvented.

      In the midst of her thoughts and the swirling anxiety that never seemed to quit, a twig snapped, cracking the silence.

      Her head lifted, her pulse ratcheted. “Who’s there?”

      More scuffling, another twig snapping and suddenly she realized just how secluded she was. Perhaps no one went missing at balls, but plenty had been ruined. She stiffened as a shadow fell across the entrance of the gazebo.

      “Alone, my lady?”

       Chapter Two

      Perhaps Miles ought to follow Bitt. He sipped his punch while eyeing the dandies who stood a few feet away, laughing within a circle of young misses.

      Who was this Wrottesley Bitt spoke of? If he was related to the earl who lived near Windermar...no wonder Elizabeth did not like him. They were a slatternly bunch who were facing a mountain of debt, if he recalled correctly.

      Elizabeth’s happiness was important to Miles. He hoped her parents allowed her to choose her marital partner. She was kind and naive. He did not want to see her married for her inheritance. Her husband had to pass muster. A Season carried all sorts of disasters of which she knew nothing. Within that time frame, Elizabeth’s future could be decided forever.

      She wanted a marriage of love, she had said.

      Well, she deserved one, if there was such a thing. She deserved something like he’d had, once upon a time.

      A frown tugged at his lips.

      He took another swig of punch to hide his mood from the group with which he stood. The ladies chatted with the gentlemen. One particularly forward lady kept sidling curious glances his way. Prospecting for a future husband.

      She did not realize that he was infinitely far from husband material.

      Miles’s displeasure deepened. Bowing, he pushed away from the wall and decided to find Elizabeth. She shouldn’t be without a companion.

      “Miles Hawthorne.” Elizabeth’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Windermar, rapped his shoulder, effectively halting his pursuit.

      He bowed. “Your Grace.”

      She nodded to him, then turned to the couple on her left. “Venetia and Adolphus, you remember young Miles? And, Miles, certainly you have been introduced to Bitt’s father, Lord Dunlop?”

      “A pleasure,” he said, bowing yet again in their direction. He had met them briefly during various stages of his childhood. Like most parents of the ton, they did not overly concern themselves with their offspring until the children came of an age to be married off or taught the family duties. As a result, they’d paid little attention to whom their son played with. Now that he was grown up, however, perhaps they were surprised that the friendship between an earl’s son and a factory owner’s son had survived the years.

      Surprised and disapproving.

      Lady Dunlop sniffed, and he detected condescension from Bitt’s mother. No doubt due to his being a man of business. For some, the ultimate black mark in the ton. Hiding a wry grin, he turned to the other man beside Bitt’s parents. His shock of white hair framed a narrow face and deeply set brown eyes. He looked familiar.

      The duchess gestured to him. “This is Mr. Hawthorne. He owns a factory in Littleshire. His father and I were great friends.”

      “Lord Wrottesley.” The earl held out his hand.

      “A pleasure,” said Miles, hiding his surprise. So this was Wrottesley’s father. Standing with her family... Did they not know of his debts? The man did possess a reputable lineage and a well-respected title. Though the family had come into hard times, possibly due to a streak of gambling that ran through their bloodlines, a well-matched marriage could fill their coffers once