How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

Chapter Three

Mud and bones were always better than being stuck in a drawing room full of Society’s finest.

Persephone loitered, hoping the other antiquarians would leave once the rain started but instead her grandmother sent another footman down to fetch her, as predicted. She was, perhaps rightly, terrified Persephone would show up at dinner dressed in her mud-stained field apron.

“Grandmaman, what do you know of Lord Northwyck?” she’d asked, as soon as she was safely back in their shared sitting room. She’d lectured herself all the way up the stairs that she shouldn’t bother. Men like Conall didn’t look twice at women like her. He probably didn’t even remember her, not truly. She was one of the duke’s many goddaughters, the faceless Cinderellas. She was setting herself up for disappointment. She knew better.

But here it was, the very first thing out of her mouth.

Her grandmother was preoccupied in a plate of jam biscuits. “You’re dripping, dear,” she sighed. “Adelle will murder me if you get mud on her carpets.”

“The earl of Northwyck,” she repeated even as she told herself to stop talking.

Her grandmother looked up, sufficiently diverted. “Do you have designs on the earl?” she asked eagerly. “Oh, splendid, Percy. It’s past time you married like other girls.”

Persephone burst out laughing. “Grandmaman, earls don’t marry ruined girls. I only ask because he’s changed.” She remembered the quiet young man who played the violin at every opportunity. His music had filled Pendleton House over many a holiday. She found she missed it.

“Pshaw,” her grandmother waved that off. “An indiscretion. You were young. Your biggest problem is that you were caught.”

She’d meant to be caught. And had been grateful for her tattered reputation every day since. Every day until today.

“The Northwycks have always been a trifle eccentric,” her grandmother admitted.

If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black.

“But he fought the French,” she continued. “Allowances must be made.”

“Did he sell his commission?”

“He must have done.”

“Was he a captain? A lieutenant?”

“I’m not sure what his role was, but I am certain he was very dashing. He is an earl, after all.”

“He never used to be a rake.” Persephone squeezed water out of her hair. He’d always been handsome but there was a leashed power in him now. A confidence that had nothing to do with his title or his wealth. It sent a thrill through her despite her internal lectures on earls and expectations. “Is he as wicked as they say?”

“Best hope so,” she winked. “I’ll make inquiries.”

“Grandmaman, no!” she said, horrified. The last thing she needed was for everyone to think she was setting her cap for him. A woman could only shrug off so much humiliation.

“I’ll be discreet.”

This from the woman wearing a gown in such an aggressive shade of tangerine that she may as well have been wearing marmalade. Persephone kissed her cheek. “Don’t you dare. I’ll go and get dressed.”

“Wear something cheerful. You want to be noticed, don’t you?”

And so here she was, wearing a dress accented with virulent lime green ribbons because her grandmother was persistent if nothing else. At her pointed glare, Persephone shifted closer to the group of women chattering with several of the antiquarians over champagne flutes. She’d promised to socialize, even though her grandmother would never understand that it wasn’t a matter of trying harder. Sometimes trying harder made it worse.

Lord Fairweather smiled at her. “Ah, Lady Persephone. Do tell us what you think of this piece.”

The group turned toward Persephone blankly, as if she’d materialized out of nowhere. Sweat immediately began to gather under her stays. She did not enjoy the attention. Not from anyone but especially not from the very same people who had turned their backs on her at her last Society ball. Years did not erase that kind of humiliation and anger, even when you were prepared for it. The whispers and snickers, the shoulders turned her way as she moved through the glittering crowd. The sniffs of disdain and then the eventual silence until she had fled, despite her determination to be brave and resolute.

She turned her concentration very deliberately onto the Egyptian funerary mask in question. It was painted black and old, the profile eye inset with a diamond that glinted menacingly as it watched over the ballroom. She knew exactly what she ought to say: it’s lovely. Or, judging by the faint shudder of distaste from the gentleman beside her: it’s ghastly.

“It’s a forgery,” she said instead.

Barton, who led Fairweather’s many expeditions, sucked in a breath.