Mrs. Henley's expression softened. “My dear girl, you underestimate yourself. You have kept this family alive on next to nothing. You have raised three younger sisters while mourning a father you adored. You are loyal, intelligent, and good. Any man of sense would be fortunate to have you.”
Lydia wanted to believe her. She really did. But she had learned, over twenty-five years of being overlooked, that wishing did not make a thing true.
“I will consider it,” she said, because Mrs. Henley was kind and Lydia did not have the heart to refuse her outright.
But that night, as she sat mending a tear in Charlotte's only petticoat by the light of a single candle, she found her thoughts drifting to the Viscount. She had heard stories, of course. Everyone in the county had. He was charming, handsome, notoriously unmarried, and rumored to have broken at least a dozen hearts without ever appearing to notice.
He was the sort of man who glided through life untouched, while women like her scraped and struggled just to remain upright. He would never look twice at Lydia Barnes. And yet, when the night of the assembly arrived, she found herself standing in front of that cracked mirror, wearing her faded gown with Charlotte's unsteady hands pinning flowers into her hair.
“You look beautiful,” Charlotte whispered.
Lydia smiled, though her heart was pounding. “I look like a woman who is about to make a fool of herself.”
But she went anyway.
Chapter 2: The Arrangement
Briarwood Hall was ablaze with candlelight. The assembly rooms had been decorated with garlands of ivy and holly, and the local musicians were tuning their instruments with the enthusiasm of men who knew they would be paid in cider. Lydia stood near the edge of the room, a glass of lemonade in her hand, watching the dancers whirl past in a blur of muslin and tailcoats.
She had been there for an hour. No one had asked her to dance. She told herself she did not mind. She was not the sort of woman who needed the approval of strangers.
She had come because Mrs. Henley had insisted, and because a small, stubborn part of her had wanted to prove that she could still hope for something more than mending petticoats and stretching porridge. But hope, she was discovering, was a cruel companion.
And then she saw him.
Viscount Henry Ravenshire stood near the fireplace, surrounded by a small crowd of admirers. He was taller than she had expected, with dark hair that fell carelessly across his brow and eyes the color of winter storms. He was dressed simply, dark coat, cream waistcoat, no jewelry, no ostentation. But there was an ease to him, a quiet confidence that spoke of a man who had never had to wonder where his next meal was coming from.
He was laughing at something. The sound carried across the room, warm and genuine, and Lydia felt something twist in her chest. He was not just handsome. He was alive in a way that made everyone else seem dull by comparison.
She looked away. There was no point in staring. He would never—
“Miss Barnes.”
She turned. The Viscount was standing directly beside her, his head tilted in polite inquiry. Up close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his gaze swept over her face with an attention that felt almost unnerving.
“I am Henry Ravenshire,” he said. “I believe we have not been introduced.”
Lydia's mouth went dry. “We have not, my lord. I am Miss Lydia Barnes.”
“Miss Barnes.” He said her name slowly, as if testing the weight of it. “Mrs. Henley pointed you out to me. She spoke very highly of you.”
Of course she did, Lydia thought wryly. She is trying to marry me off.
“Mrs. Henley is kind,” she said aloud, “though I suspect her judgment is occasionally clouded by enthusiasm.”
His lips twitched. “That is a diplomatic way of saying she is a meddler. I admire your restraint.”
Before she could respond, he extended his hand. “The next dance is a country reel. Would you do me the honor?”
Lydia looked at his hand. She looked at the dancers, the swirling couples, the laughing faces. She thought of her faded gown and her uncurled hair and the porridge that had tasted like paste.
“My lord,” she said carefully, “you do not know me. I do not know you. You have no reason to ask me to dance except that a meddlesome vicar's wife pointed me out. I think you would prefer a partner who can actually dance, rather than one who will likely tread on your toes and apologize for the entirety of the set.”
Henry blinked. Then he laughed, a real laugh, not the practiced one he had used with the crowd by the fireplace.
“Miss Barnes,” he said, “you are possibly the most honest woman I have met in a decade. I find that extraordinarily refreshing. Now, will you dance with me, or must I stand here holding out my hand until my arm grows weary?”
She took his hand.
The dance was awkward. She did tread on his toes twice, but he did not seem to mind. He talked to her as they moved through the figures, asking about Willowmere, about her family, about the books she had read, and the places she wished to see.
He did not ask about her gown, or her hair, or why she was unmarried at twenty-five. He asked about her, as if she were a person worthy of curiosity.
When the dance ended, he did not return her to the edge of the room. Instead, he led her toward a quiet alcove where a potted fern offered a semblance of privacy.
“Miss Barnes,” he said, and his voice had changed. The charm was still there, but beneath it she heard something else, something careful, almost vulnerable. “I am going to say something unforgivably forward. I ask only that you hear me out before you slap my face and walk away.”
Lydia folded her arms. “That is an ominous beginning, my lord.”
“My grandmother died three weeks ago,” he said. “She left me her estate, Ravenshire Court, the lands, everything, on one condition. I must marry within six months. A real marriage to a woman of good character and practical sense. If I do not, everything goes to a linen draper named Reginald Pounce.”
Lydia stared at him. “You are joking.”
“I wish I were. My grandmother had a peculiar sense of humor and a deep distrust of my bachelor habits. She believed that marriage would make me a better man. I am not certain she was right, but I am certain that I cannot allow Ravenshire Court to fall into the hands of a man who once tried to sell my great-aunt a bolt of inferior muslin.”
Despite herself, Lydia almost smiled. “And you believe I am this woman of practical sense?”