Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

Chauncey felt a quivering shudder go through her body. “Thank God, Father,” she whispered at her image in the mirror, “that you have been spared this.” She tucked an errant strand of hair back into its prim coil at the back of her neck, squared her shoulders, and entered the salon.

“Elizabeth!”

She suppressed a frown. Guy could never bring himself to call her Chauncey. It smacked of a lack of breeding, she supposed, remembering when she had told him that her Irish nurse had dubbed her with the name when she was a little girl. It lacked a sense of self-worth. But Father loved my nickname. He always said it softly, a kind of caress. “Chauncey, my love,” he’d tease her in a thick Irish brogue, “what the divil do ye think ye’re doin, movin’ the king’s knight to that demned square? Be ye an angel, lettin’ me win so easylike?”

“Hello, Guy,” she said, walking into the room. “It is kind of you to come.” Chauncey allowed Sir Guy Danworth to take her hands in his and gently squeeze them.

“Of course I would come, my dear,” he said gently. How pale she looks, he thought, staring a moment at the mauve shadows beneath her expressive eyes. The black gown didn’t become her, making her face look thin and pinched. He didn’t relish the months ahead, but of course he would do his duty with patience and tolerance.

Chauncey removed her hands from his grasp and walked to the far side of the salon to stand beside the white Italian marble fireplace, her dead grandmother’s pride. She eyed him from beneath her lashes, wondering suddenly why she had consented to marry him. Certainly he was handsome, in an understated, ascetic sort of way. His thin, narrow face had once appealed to her, for she thought it mirrored his complexity, his sincerity. But no, she thought, her lips twisting briefly, seeing him with new eyes. He was a prig. Even at twenty-eight, he was unerringly pompous and rigid in his beliefs and behavior. And of course there was his incredibly narrow-minded mother. Why did I not see him so clearly before? Was I so selfish and blind that I saw no one as he really was? Why didn’t my father see him? Surely he couldn’t have been so blind as I.

“Elizabeth, please accept my condolences on this sad occasion. My mother also sends her regrets, of course.”

“Of course,” Chauncey murmured. “Thank you, Guy.”

“My mother is concerned about you, my dear. She realizes, of course, that we cannot wed until your year of mourning is passed, and wonders what you will do. I mentioned to her that you would likely remain here at Jameson Hall, but she could not allow that to be proper. Not without a chaperon, at any rate. She has suggested that you stay with your aunt and uncle in London.”

“Yes,” Chauncey said, “I must stay with them, it seems.”

“It will, of course, my dear Elizabeth, be my responsibility to work out an arrangement with your father’s solicitor and look after Jameson Hall in the meanwhile.”

“That won’t be necessary, Guy.” She looked at him straightly, seeing that he was, in fact, quite relieved that her father was dead, that he would now have everything. Must he even now eye the elegant furnishings of the Blue Salon with such a proprietary, almost greedy air? She wanted to laugh, but instead she said slowly and very clearly, “Jameson Hall will be sold shortly.”

“I . . . I do not understand, Elizabeth,” Sir Guy said, his dark brows drawing together. Lord, he hoped she hadn’t lost her wits after the past two days she’d spent in mute shock. But, he supposed, female hysterics would be worse. But no, she would never embarrass him with an emotional scene. “You are doubtless overwrought, my dear,” he said with gentle condescension. “You may leave such discussions with the solicitor to me.”

“Guy,” she said, drawing off the engagement ring from her finger, “there is no money. My father left me nothing. Jameson Hall must be sold to cover his debts, as will everything else of any value. As I said, I have no choice but to . . . live with my aunt and uncle until I am twenty-one.”

“No money,” he repeated blankly. “But that is impossible!”

She wanted to smile, for he sounded just like her Aunt Augusta, shock, disgust, and condemnation clear in his voice. He could not be so feckless!

“That is correct, Guy. Here is your ring. I have no intention of holding you to our engagement.” Oddly enough, the removal of the delicate emerald ring was like lifting a great weight from her shoulders. I must have been mad, she thought, somewhat dazed with the insight, to have agreed to marry him. I would never have been Chauncey again.

He took it, of course. She had never once expected that he would argue with her, plead with her, claim that he loved her, only her. She saw the shock fade from his face, watched his eyes narrow as he struggled to find some gentlemanly words to say.

“Elizabeth, this is unbelievable,” he began. He felt a brief moment of absolute fury at the incredible shift in his fortunes. Damn Sir Alec! “You know that I care for you, but—”

“I know, Guy,” she said, cutting him off. “Please give my thanks to your mother for her sympathy. I have many things to see to now. I must go. Good-bye, Guy. Convers will see you out.”

She left him without a backward glance.

1

Bedford Square, London, 1852

Chauncey stared at her bedroom door, her eyes narrowing in anger. The knob slowly turned until the lock held it tight. She thought she heard a muffled curse, then footsteps walking away down the corridor.

She jumped to her feet, shaking her fist toward the door. That wretched Owen! How could that toad believe that she found him anything but utterly repellent?

She sighed, turned back to the bay window, and pressed her cheek to the cold glass. It was a dreary, foggy day, and she could barely make out the figures moving in the road below. God, how she hated London! How she hated living with her aunt and uncle! Her Aunt Augusta had even sold her mare, Ginger, along with everything else, and had refused to allow her to ride any of the horses in their stable.

“You are in mourning, Elizabeth,” Chauncey could hear her saying in that sharp voice of hers. “You will behave like a lady.”

Lady, ha! During the five months she had lived with her aunt and uncle she was more like a drudge, the obvious poor relation, running and fetching for her aunt, bearing with the noise and demands of the three young daughters of the house, and trying to avoid Owen.

“Really, Lizzie,” she could hear fourteen-year-old Janine’s whining voice chiding her in the second-floor schoolroom, “all this nonsense about history. What does a girl have to know about Gibraltar, for goodness’ sake? You’re just a silly old spinster!”

And Owen, mocking s