Page 54 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Disdain twisted his mouth. “Which is good enough if marriage is your sole aspiration, but you need to learn the value of commerce.”
The mirror hung limply from her hand. She turned to him, questions flooding her brain, too many to neatly organize for so startling a conversation.
“Why?”
His stern gaze cut. “Because a woman with money lives by her own rules. Remember that.”
Freedom loving and fiercely different, he taught her how to multiply profits and avoid the marriage trap. Invaluable lessons which stayed with her. Hannah, who was nearing her thirtieth birthday for the second time, knew the tale. She reached across the table, pleading with Elspeth.
“Listen to Cecelia. She has the Midas touch.”
“I don’t know what a Midas is,” Elspeth said. “Or why I should care about it.”
Hannah glanced worryingly at Cecelia. “You’ve not heard of Midas? The fabled Greek king? Everything he touched turned to gold.”
A lackluster shrug and, “His story might be in one of the books Swynford has gifted to me.”
“Start reading them.”
Elspeth’s head cocked like a costly exotic bird. “I’d rather have gifts of jewelry. Gemstones last longer.”
“Not when you sell them to cover your gambling debts,” Cecelia said gently. “Wisdom and knowledge last longer, qualities which do more for women in... our circumstances.”
Our circumstances.
This was the vague air they breathed. Young, independent women with no family, and beauty andfriendliness their calling card. The uncertain future was a monster lurking around the corner, a truth Hannah grasped with clarity.
“Cecelia is kindly telling you that beauty fades and thighs thicken. Think of your future, Elspeth, and the day when no man will keep you.”
Elspeth’s chin tilted stubbornly. “My near future is my first concern.”
Cecelia ate more of her apple, a rouged lip imprint encircling her bite. Youth and beauty were formidable cards. The folly in holding them was one’s belief that they lasted forever, but time was a cruel bawd. She diverted herself by watching the open-air tent on the south end, the one where families gathered. Delight lit their faces, their joy catching.
Two new clubs strode past the family tent. They took the pitch, the crack of the bat and ball and laughing male voices rising. Smiling, amiable men in their prime. Men with ambitions—like her.
“Why not sneak into Swynford’s fundraising event?” she asked. “He wouldn’t turn you away.”
“Stodgy men with fat coffers will be there. You should consider it.” Hannah twisted around for a better view of the pitch.
Elspeth touched the brim of her straw hat as if the breeze might steal it. “This second match. What clubs are playing?”
So that’s how it would be, Elspeth glossing over a prickly topic.
“A newly formed St. James Club,” Hannah said. “Second and third sons, I think.”
“Which means they’re fun but have no money.” Elspeth sipped her wine. “And the other club?”
“The Westminster Club.”
“Barristers and clerks.” Elspeth’s nose wrinkled prettily. “Not the high-income sort.”
“Not exactly low income either.” Hannah’s smoky alto dropped suggestively. “And they do give stimulatingconversation.”
Cecelia had gone weak-kneed over Mr. Sloane’s stunning honesty and velvety conversation. Both nights, theirs had been a fair give and take. Daylight was their problem.
Hannah turned back to the table.
“Prepare yourself, ladies. A Westminster man is coming our way.” Her mahogany gaze pinned Cecelia. “And if I’m not mistaken, he’s coming to see you.”
