A Hasty Betrothal. Jessica Nelson

      He shifted on his feet, remembering an episode when she was fifteen and he’d been visiting John at Windermar. He’d heard crying in the stables one evening, the quiet kind of weeping designed to mask deep distress. Not one to ignore someone in need, he listened carefully and finally pinpointed the source of the sound coming from behind a bale of hay. He walked over, unexpectedly finding Elizabeth, who covered her mouth in a desperate bid to hold in her sobs. Even now he remembered the pain that had lanced through his chest at the sight of her tears, and the frustration he’d felt when she refused to divulge the reason for her weeping.

      Discomfited, he retreated, but he determined to find the cause of her pain. The information came quickly enough from a foolishly loquacious groom who lost both his job and several teeth on the same day. The lad had broken Elizabeth’s heart. Told her he could never love a woman who looked as she did.

      Miles had never divulged that he knew what had happened. He would do anything to never see her cry again.

      “Enjoy the rest of the ball, for I shall be doing my utmost to leave immediately.” She offered him a saucy wink. Taken aback, he followed her into the ballroom but stayed near the wall, watching as she tracked through the crowd to find her mother. People turned to look at her. Then they looked at him.

      Rather odd.

      He pushed away from the wall, passing a familiar face as he headed for the doors. “Good eve, Lady Swanson.”

      The countess did not glance at him, but gave him her back. A cut direct. The first he’d ever received. How very strange. Surely there could be no rumors already. He tried to remember exactly how disheveled Bitt looked, and how quickly he’d entered the ballroom after her. Casting the countess a befuddled look, he continued to the door, where he gave instructions for the bringing of his rig.

      Lord, watch over Elizabeth. God could certainly do a better job than Miles. As for Wrottesley, Miles planned to take care of him.

      * * *

      Elizabeth rose late the next morning, almost missing the array of food on the sideboard. She meandered by the eggs and finally decided on a generous helping of porridge coated with sugar and fresh cream. Her stomach rumbled. Last night’s dramatics seemed a distant dream, slightly disturbing yet infinitely less important than the demands of her belly. She inhaled the rich scent of sausage as if she had not eaten the very same thing yesterday.

      There were a great many toils associated with being an heiress, but having an abundance of food was not one of them. Pushing the events of the previous evening to the back of her mind, she forked two sausages onto her plate and decided to scoop up eggs, as well. Thus fortified, she found a seat at the little table where she’d placed a gem of a book she’d checked out from Hookham’s Circulating Library. The novel promised the wonder of an adventure.

      The Arabian Nights.

      It was a classic she had not yet explored, but passing the Season by delving into it seemed a pleasurable way to avoid the haute ton. She opened the book, relishing the thick texture of the page and the sweet smell of leather binding that rose to greet her. The endearing scent almost surpassed her desire to eat, but her stomach quickly rebelled against such an inane thought. She managed to hold the book open with one hand and fork food into her mouth with the other.

      She was deep in a riveting scene between the merchant and his wife, who were arguing over his laughter, for he’d heard animals talking, when the morning’s gossip rags were slapped over the words of her book.

      Startled, she dropped her fork on the plate. She looked up. Mother stood above her, cheeks scarlet and lips pressed tightly together. A most unnerving sight. Elizabeth pressed her napkin against her mouth. Unlike Grandmother, her mother did not give in to fits of emotion. The obvious anger in her eyes torqued a nervous clench in Elizabeth’s belly.

      She preferred avoiding conversation with her parents. Four years ago, during her first come out, she overheard them expressing their embarrassment at her visage to callers. It was a conversation that, at the oddest times, repeated in her mind like an unceasing headache. Old, familiar pain palpated within. She tightened her posture and looked her mother in the face.

      As usual, Mother’s eyes skittered to an invisible speck upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. Far be it that she must see the shameful birthmark upon her daughter’s face.

      She wet her lips. “Good morn, Mother.”

      “Read the gossip.”

      Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the paper lying atop her book. The front page headline filled her with dread: Heiress Returns Disheveled.

      The writer did not name her, but it became obvious as the story progressed that it was about her, Lady Elizabeth Wayland. An heiress returned from Lady Charleston’s gardens disheveled, hair almost undone, followed by a notable factory owner. The writer then speculated that a rendezvous had occurred... Elizabeth tore her eyes away, appetite dead.

      Worry raced through her in uneven clops, like a startled horse galloping without restraint.

      “You understand how close you are to being ruined, do you not?” Mother slid into the chair opposite Elizabeth. “If this becomes fodder for the gossips, it will damage John’s position in the House, his career aspirations and our family’s reputation. This is disgraceful.” Mother took a shaky breath and Elizabeth wondered how she could breathe at all when a steel vise had tightened around her own ribs, making inhaling almost impossible.

      She did not want to marry, but that did not mean she wished to be ruined. Not to mention the damage she might cause to her family’s reputation, sullying all that they’d worked for... She squeezed her eyes tight and tried hard to think.

      “Are you sure it is me they refer to? There is no mention of—” the words hurt to emit, but she forced them out “—my birthmark.”

      “There will be. Soon enough.”

      Elizabeth winced at the defeat lacing Mother’s answer.

      Venetia rubbed her brow. “I must ask—are the rumors true? Was there a dalliance with a man last night? Who could it be? Is that why you claimed a headache and practically forced me to bring you home early?”

      Elizabeth pushed her plate away. “Dalliances are the furthest thing from my mind. Trust me, I want nothing more than to return to Windermar and take care of Grandmother. This Season is a farce. I’m an heiress, not a fatted calf.”

      “Elizabeth.” A sharp edge tipped her mother’s tone. “Every young woman deserves a home of her own, children and a stable future. Accept your responsibility as the daughter of an earl, the granddaughter of a duke. We will have to decide what to do with this.” She tentatively tapped the edge of the paper as though it were a hot plate. “Your father must be told at once.”

      Her lids fluttered as if the colossal import of the situation weighed upon her. “Have you perhaps considered Lord Wrottesley? He has expressed interest in you.”

      Elizabeth flinched. “He is the last person I’d ever marry. Besides, he is a fortune hunter.”

      “You do not know that.”

      “I suspect it.”

      Mother sighed in a way that suggested Elizabeth was a great drain on her energy. “You cannot afford to be picky now. I shall speak to your father. Perhaps we can arrange terms.”

      Elizabeth swallowed back a retort, for she knew no way of escaping the rumors that had forced her into this situation.

      Despite her brave words to Miles, she found that deep within, she truly could not subject her family to such a scandal. A betrothal might put the gossip to rest, but could she put aside her own happiness for the sake of her family? Every fiber of her being shouted no. Martyrdom lacked appeal. Especially with Lord Wrottesley.

      Who else would want to marry her, anyway? A reclusive heiress with an unsightly birthmark?

      She was going to have to give up her dreams of love because of one foolish action. After