Page 43 of A Virgin to Trap the Earl of Thornhill
“As much as I admire Lily’s charm, Mother,” Eris began, keeping her voice steady, “one might argue that it has led to certain complications.”
She swallowed down the bitterness of the words left unspoken — the scandal, the heartache, and Lily’s teary-eyed confession. Eris would not wish that fate upon anyone, least of all her own sister.
Viscount Blackwell, usually the mediator in such disputes between mother and daughter, sat quietly next to his wife. Eris turned toward him, only to see his eyes closed and his head tilted against the plush seat, a faint smell of alcohol clinging to him. His absence from the conversation filled her with a sense of sadness. His silence was as loud as a tolling bell, echoing the magnitude of the crisis that threatened to consume them all.
The journey to London seemed much longer than usual, the carriage ride marked by silent contemplation and stifled conversation. On their arrival at the Blackwell residence, Eris used the dusty travel as an excuse to retreat to the solitude of her bedchamber, citing a headache that needed nursing.
Within the confines of her room, she called for Nanette, asking her to bring a pot of chamomile tea. Eris knew she wouldn’t find the solace she craved in sleep, and the calming aroma of the brew offered a comforting alternative. Spotting the neat pile of letters on her vanity, her heart fluttered with anticipation. She recognized Lily’s elegant script immediately. With a soft sigh, she broke the seal and let her eyes dance over her sister’s words.
Dearest Eris,
My heart yearns for home and your comforting presence. Lieutenant Hudson has been such a solace during this time, his letters filling the void of our distance. He is an exceptionally caring and delightful man, and I cannot help but wonder if his brother, William, mirrors his kindness. Has he shown any interest in you? Is he as handsome as they say in the gossip sheets?
Eris read on, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. As she did, a tumult of emotions washed over her stirring memories of William and stirring a flurry of questions about her own heart’s desire.
With a deep sigh, Eris took her own pen and began to write her response to Lily, her heart spilling into the ink that slowly spread across the parchment.
Dearest Lily,
I find your correspondence a delightful respite from the whirl of society. Your curiosity about Lieutenant Cassian Hudson is understandable. From my personal encounters, he is indeed as charming and handsome as the gossip sheets suggest with a dash of humor that will surely keep you entertained. I am glad to hear you two are enjoying each other’s letters.
As for me, I find myself caught in a web of attraction and conflict. The Earl of Thornhill is a puzzle I struggle to piece together. He is as brooding as he is handsome and as obstinate as a mule, yet there is something about him that quickens my heart. However, I am not one to trap a man into marriage with feminine wiles. We shall see what destiny has in store for us.
Missing you dearly, Eris
Closing the letter, Eris felt a sense of relief washing over her. Confiding in her sister had eased her mind, at least for now. She sealed the letter and handed it to Nanette to post. Then she sank back into her chair, her thoughts once again swirling with the image of William.
Over the course of the next few days, the Blackwell residence was filled with a whirlwind of activity. Eris found herself being whisked into the drawing room, a beautiful golden ballgown spread out before her. It had been Lily’s the previous season, a confection of satin and lace, but it was being given new life for Eris.
“The Duchess of Hartville’s ball is one of the premier events of the season, Eris,” her mother, the Viscountess, began, her tone didactic as she perched on the edge of a plush chaise lounge, eyeing Eris and the seamstress with an appraising eye. “You must remember, my dear, not all men are suitable to be our future son-in-law.”
Eris nodded obediently, trying not to wince as the seamstress, a plump woman with rosy cheeks, pricked her with a pin. The woman’s mouth was full of pins, yet she somehow managed to lift and lower her eyebrows dramatically with each proclamation made by the Viscountess, her silent commentary more entertaining than the actual conversation.
“Lord Finchley, for instance, is quite wealthy, but he has a predilection for gaming,” her mother continued, ignoring Eris’ pained expression. “We would not want to risk our future on the turn of a card, would we?”
Eris merely hummed noncommittally, her hands gently tracing the lace embroidery on the gown’s bodice.
“And then there is Sir Percy Caldwell. He is a baronet so quite respectable, but his fascination with insects is, well…” Her mother wrinkled her nose, leaving the sentence unfinished. The seamstress’ eyebrows shot up to her hairline, her muffled chuckle vibrating through the pins in her mouth.
Eris laughed softly. “Yes, Mother, I remember his conversation on beetles at the Season’s debutante ball. It was quite interesting.”
Her mother’s blue eyes, so like her own, softened for a moment. “I just want you to be happy, Eris. And security, respectability — these are the things that lead to happiness in a marriage.”
Eris met her mother’s gaze. The weight of the expectations was heavy in the air. She nodded, not trusting herself to respond. Instead, she focused on the feel of the satin beneath her fingers, the rustle of the fabric as the seamstress worked, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the Earl of Thornhill would be at the Duchess’ ball.
The very next day, Eris found herself stepping out onto Bond Street, the hub of society shopping. The air was heavy with the scent of horse and the faintest hint of the river, a reminder of the bustle of the city. The thoroughfare was awash with color and sound: the cries of vendors hawking their wares, the gossiping whispers of well-dressed ladies, the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages.
Eris’ mother guided her toward a reputable millinery, the window display adorned with the latest trends in headwear. “We must find a tiara or feathers to match your gown, dear,” she said, excitement twinkling in her eyes.
Eris nodded, her gaze drawn to a small hairpiece of feathers of a similar golden hue as her gown. It was decorated with artfully arranged tiny silk flowers, and delicate wisps of tulle, and held together with glittering beads that caught the sunlight streaming in through the shop window. It was a perfect mix of elegance and flamboyance, much like the society she found herself part of.
The preparations for the ball were extensive and, at times, overwhelming, but as Eris left the cobbler’s, a pair of golden slippers in hand, she felt a strange sensation of hope flutter in her chest. Perhaps the upcoming ball, filled with expectations and unknowns, might also hold an opportunity for something wonderful.
After the whirlwind shopping spree, Viscountess Blackwell suggested they retire to a well-known teahouse on the corner of Bond Street. With its gilded mirrors, lush green plants, and dainty blue china, the establishment was the epitome of London elegance. The aroma of freshly brewed tea mixed with sweet pastries hung pleasantly in the air as a pianoforte was played softly in the corner.
Eris and her mother settled into plush chairs at a window table. They were in the midst of discussing which dances were Eris’ strongest when a familiar voice interrupted their conversation.
“Lady Blackwell, Miss Eris,” drawled Viscountess Chatsworth. Beside her stood her daughter, a golden-haired debutante named Penelope, her lips curved in a feigned smile. The pair, both impeccably dressed, exuded an air of superiority.
