Page 140 of A Heart of Bluestone

“Did it not come with a card?”

I shake my head. But Mother can’t see the gesture, so I mumble the word, “No.”

I just figured it came from her.

Sometimes she does that. When my father is too hard on me, by her standards at least, she’ll sneak treats into my room, or buy me a new dress, or even chide my father, which somehow strikes him silent and pale.

Just a word from her is enough to make him question his whole fucking path in life.

I aim to have that level of power over my husband.

“Well, I have to go,” I lie, because I can’t stand the stiff silence on the call. The hesitation from Mother means she wholeheartedly sides with my father on this matter.

When Father punishes me, I want to cry—but from fear, anxiety, mostly.

When Mother is quiet with me, turns her cheek to me, I want to cry—but because I feel like she doesn’t love me anymore, and that wrecks me.

So both of them against me isn’t the warmest feeling.

“Wait,” Mother starts. “Your father wants a word.”

Fuck.

Fucking Mr Younge.

He did what I asked alright. He connected my call to Mother, then went and ratted me out to Father.

Hope he slips down the stairs with a tray of hot tea.

I draw in a long, steadying breath, then discard the wrapper of the protein bar on the phonebook. Sure, I could use it in myinventiveway of disconnecting the call.

But I doubt that’ll go very well for me today.

I tug at a loose strand of hair, the piece I deliberately left out from my ponytail. I tug it so hard it hurts.

The fumble of the phone passing is gentle.

Then the fumble stops, and I know Father has the receiver now. Doesn’t mess around with greeting me, nohow are you, not even a hello, he gets right into it.

Father’s tone is stiff. “There have been a dozen gentry offers since I opened your contract.”

My brows raise, but only slightly. A lazy surprise, one that doesn’t dare to spring up with too much energy, what withFather’s crip tone and icy energy spearing through the receiver at me.

He adds, “I expect more after the debutante season is closed.”

“They are after my dowry,” I mumble.

“Yes, I do believe so. All but one, perhaps.”

“One?”

“An eager offer that came with a personalised letter,” he tells me, and by the clipped nature of his tone, I could almost believe he’s telling me about his latest golf game, or something equally as unimportant, not discussing my whole future.

“A letter to me?”

“No, Olivia.” He scoffs the words, and I feel like a puddle of idiocy. “Addressed to me,” he clarifies, and my cheeks are hot, “a letter detailing the affection this suitor has for you—and why he believes he will be a fair husband for you.”

I sit up straight. “Who is it?”

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