Chapter One
The Peak District
England, 1818
Deborah Percival should have been on her guard from the
moment she had first received an invitation to Dame
Alodia's Spring Afternoon Soiree.
After all, although her sister was married to the dame's
favorite nephew, it had been years since she'd been
included in their social circle. However, Deborah had been
so pleased to be out of mourning and reinvolved in
society, she'd forgotten how Dame Alodia adored using her
soirees as an opportunity to arrange the world to her
liking.
That is, she forgot until the dame singled her out.
"You're mourning has passed, hasn't it, Mrs. Percival?"
The dame's gravelly voice resounded in an unexpected lull
in the conversation. She was a tall, rawboned woman with a
ruddy complexion, gun metal gray hair, and a love of the
color purple. Her pug, Milton, sat on her lap licking his
nose.
The magpie chattering of gossip came to a halt. The twenty
or so other women guests, the "acceptable" members of Peak
District's cloistered society, sat perched in ornate
chairs set up in a circle in the center of the dame's
cavernous drawing room. They turned as one toward Deborah,
their eyes bright with surprise...and interest.
Deborah shifted her cup and saucer from one hand to
another. "Well, yes, Dame Alodia, I am three months out of
mourning."
"Then isn't it time you should be thinking about a new
husband?" the formidable dowager said.
For a second, Deborah couldn't breathe, let alone answer.
Eleven years ago, shortly after her father's untimely
death and at exactly such a Spring Afternoon Soiree, Dame
Alodia and the others had decided a too-young, too-naΓve
Deborah should marry Mr. Richard Percival, a man almost
thirty-three years her senior. He had been feuding with
his adult children. He had asked for Deborah's hand with
the intention of starting a new family and putting their
noses out of joint.
Like any sensible young woman, Deborah had shuddered at
the thought of being wed to a man so much older, but the
women of the Valley, these women, had insisted her duty
was to marry in order to support her widowed stepmother
and two half sisters.
Her duty. Deborah always did what was expected of her. Her
overdeveloped sense of responsibility had been honed to a
keen edge over the years, sharpened by the knowledge that,
even all these years after her death, her mother was still
considered an interloper. Some even considered her
immoral. First, because she'd been French, and second,
because she'd upset the village's plans for their favored
bachelor.
In turn, Deborah had learned early on she must walk the
straight and narrow lest she be accused of her mother's
perceived sins.
Now, she glanced around the room. Every one of them
waited, eager to hear her reply -- all, that is, save for
her sister Rachel. Seated next to Deborah, she had
acquired a sudden fascination in the curve of her teacup.
Since Mr. Percival's death, Deborah had been forced to
live with Rachel and her husband Henry. Her widow's
portion had been a pittance, which Henry found humiliating
and a blow to the family pride. The fact Deborah worked
harder than his wife and servants held no sway in the face
of his resentment, and she couldn't help wonder if Henry
now played a part in his aunt Alodia's questioning.
"Have you naught to say for yourself?" Dame Alodia
demanded, with a haughty lift of her brows. She sniffed to
the others. "I ask a question and don't receive an answer.
Do young women not use their ears anymore?"
Oh, Deborah had an answer: Ambushed by the Dowagers of
Ilam. Again!
As her late husband would have said, double damn.
But she couldn't speak in such a manner in front of the
cream of Ilam society.
Instead, she cleared her throat self-consciously, and
admitted, "I had not thought on the matter, ma'am."
"No thought on marriage?" Dame Alodia emphasized the last
word to show her astonishment. "Every woman should be
married."
Deborah could have pointed out that Dame Alodia was a
widow and happy for it, but she bit her tongue. "It is
still too soon--"
"Nonsense!" Dame Alodia interrupted. The purple ribbons
and lace of her cap bobbed with her enthusiasm for her
topic. "You've done your mourning. How old are you? Eight-
and-twenty? Almost thirty? No longer in your prime
breeding years and no children."
"No, no children," Mrs. Hemmings reiterated. She was Dame
Alodia's constant companion, a colorless, nondescript
woman and a warning to Deborah of what might become of
her. Life was not pleasant for a genteel woman forced to
depend on the mercy of relatives.
"Actually, I'm seven-and-twenty," Deborah corrected,
feeling hot color stain her cheeks. She did not like
confrontation.
"Twenty-eight, seven-and-twenty, what difference?" Dame
Alodia said with a dismissive wave. She picked Milton off
her lap and unceremoniously handed him to Mrs. Hemmings.
The dog growled at being moved from his comfortable
position. "Take him out of the room for his walkie-walk,
Hemmy," Dame Alodia ordered "while the rest of us talk
sense into Mrs. Percival."'
"Yes, sense," Mrs. Hemmings echoed, and left the room.
As soon as the door shut, Dame Alodia came directly to the
point. "Every woman needs a husband and children unless
she is barren, and then she is not fit for a thing.
Whatever your age, Mrs. Percival, you are not growing
younger. Furthermore, those dark looks of yours are not in
fashion. Blond hair and blue eyes, like your sisters have,
is the style. Black hair and black eyes are too foreign-
looking. Too Continental, and no one likes the Continent
anymore. Not after the war."
Deborah felt the heat of scrutiny as the...
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