London, 1780
Desiree stood alone in the gloaming, her forehead
resting against the windowpane. The street lamps were being
lit, one by one; the shop owners had closed their doors
before the last rays of the setting sun disappeared. She
stared at the people walking by on the filthy cobbled
street below and wished she were one of them, a nameless
faceless woman in the throng. Silent tears slipped gently
down her cheeks. Her bottom lip quivered with the greater
need to wail out her anguish at the cruel world passing her
by without a backward glance.
The door to her chamber in the Black Swan Inn opened
behind her with an audible click. She pulled her
handkerchief from the lace edged sleeve at her wrist and
hurriedly erased the telltale signs of her tears before
turning to face the room. It wouldn't do for her
step–uncle to catch her crying again. Every one of
his hateful words was a lance piercing her heart and she
didn't have on the armor necessary to deflect the pain.
""I told you to keep your mouth shut."" His
disgust–filled voice was a never–ending
waterfall of misery to her ears. ""That man would have
taken you off my hands had you shown one iota of
intelligence. As usual, you sat there unable to utter one
intelligible sentence.""
""I–I am s–s–sorry."" Desiree bowed
her head to hide her flush of anger. Why did her mind form
each word perfectly, yet her tongue stumbled? There was no
answer for why she couldn't speak normally. She turned back
to the window. As the door slammed shut, she flinched. No
man on earth wanted her the way she was.
If only her uncle would let her live a quiet life in
the country, alone with her books and her dreams, she would
somehow find contentment. Being paraded before one
gentleman after another—and some not so
gentlemanly—she felt like a deformed lamb up for
auction with no one willing to bid. The Season was long
over. Most of the nobility had retired to their country
estates for the winter, but her uncle was desperate to find
a man, no matter how lowly, before the year was out.