Page 2 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
You shall return to me.
And I shall be waiting.
Chapter 1
Near Osmington, Dorset
Early September, 1883
“I’ve run awayfrom your father!” her mother sobbed, coming clean to Rosamund over the final third of the sherry.
It explained why her father had sent men to collect Ethan and take him back to the States.
She and her mother were hardly in a position to argue.
There was no similar summoning for Rosamund. Judged complicit, she waspersona non grata.
She poured herself a small measure from the bottle, while some remained to be had, and guided her mother to the better of the two chairs by the hearth.
The beach cottage was what the British called "cosy". If you ignored the musty odours, the spiders in the outside water closet and the dishevelled state of the furnishings, you might say it was agreeable.
Prostrate on the rug, blessedly snoozing, lay Hector—or Pom Pom. Rosamund couldn’t quite decide which suited him best. Her mother had presented Rosamund with the puppy just the evening before—one of a litter born a mere three months ago. Mrs. Appleby, who came in once a week to clean the cottage and take their laundry, had been more than glad to find a home for the ‘little terror’ as she’d called him.
Soft and white with large, dark eyes, he was the nicest birthday gift Rosamund had ever been given, though he was already proving a handful.
She’d let him sleep on her bed and, upon waking, had found the adorable terrier curled high upon the pillow, his belly pressed to the crown of her head.
Reaching down to stroke his ears, Rosamund reminded herself to remain calm. No matter how worried she was, it wouldn’t help matters to further distress her mother. Already, she was fit to be tied.
“Tell me your thinking, Ma. You had an idea, I suppose, of how you’d carry this off successfully?”
“Of course.” Her mother gave a haughty sniff. “I left a note explaining that I was taking you both to visit my sister, in Pennsylvania, and that I’d be back at the end of the month.”
Naively, Rosamund had assumed her father had sanctioned the trip across the Pond. Her mother had told her she’d be meeting ‘eligible men’: the sort with an aristocratic title, who’d take on an American if her dowry was sweet enough.
Not that her family’s wealth was the only recommendation on Rosamund’s slate, but pretty faces were ten to the dollar; even charm only got a girl so far.
She took a deep breath. “Nothing about boarding the liner and crossing the Atlantic?”
“Don’t be addle-pated.“ Her mother took a restorative sip of the sweet aperitif. “If I’d told him that, he’d have stopped us before we’d even boarded.”
Heaven and all the angels help me!
Rosamund tried to pull the threads together.
Naturally, she’d harboured suspicions.
From the first, it had seemed odd for them to begin the search for a suitable English husband by burying themselves in rural obscurity. Surely, all the bachelors were in London. Possibly Bath. Perhaps Brighton.
They were probably not vacationing in a remote, rather dull corner of the British Isles.
In fact, no-one seemed to be favouring this particular destination apart from themselves—and the eccentric Misses Everly, who occupied a cottage nearby.
Lovely as they were, Blanche and Eustacia didn’t seem the sort to have connections, and their niece (being all of six years old) was some way off from being a fellow debutante.
Rosamund had frittered away the summer, picnicking on the sands and wandering the cliff paths. She hadn’t been in any hurry to get to the part where she was supposed to hunt down some prime manhood.
As it was, she’d only seen one "gentleman", and that from afar: a gangly, bespectacled specimen rooting about at the base of the cliffs.
