her revenge.
Raven warmed her hands on the cup of hot chocolate as she stood by a window, staring out at Brook Street and a very dreary day. It did not feel much like May today— more like February. An eternally damp February from which there could be no escape.
"Your anger is misplaced, mama. There was never any promise between Matty and I. We are friends, as we always have been, and that is all. It is harmless."
"A young, unwed woman and an eligible bachelor cannot be friends, Raven. No. He let us believe he had serious intentions, and I allowed him to escort you about the place in full expectation of an engagement. He has betrayed my trust, and he shall not see you unaccompanied again."
This made her want to laugh. Her mother's interest in the men she went about with had never extended far beyond the state of their finances. Now, quite suddenly, she became the concerned "Duenna". All because the interfering Earl of Southerton brought it to her attention.
"It is despicable that Bourne should run about with you while sneakily becoming engaged to another. He took advantage of my kind nature and generosity."
Now that was truly fudging the facts.
But her mother rambled onward, "You, young lady, have terrible taste in men."
And where did I get it from , she mused darkly, watching lines of rain wriggle down the window, racing each other. One of the larger drops swallowed up another and then went merrily on its way.
Behind her on the chaise, her mother sought for a thread of something to preserve from the wreckage of their evening. "At least Guy Hammond seemed very keen last night, despite your offhand treatment of his attention."
Guy Hammond. Raven sighed, her breath misting the glass. Hammond was another boy who could not stand up to her, let alone stand beside her. Another leaf in the wind, she thought listlessly.
"I shouldn't be surprised if he calls upon you today. He may have been put off by Bourne's attentions before— they have, after all, been very marked all these weeks. But now he will see the field is clear. And despite Viscount Faulkner's title, Hammond is worth far more."
Both Hammond and Felix Faulkner had sent Raven flowers that morning— gaudy, beribboned bundles that clogged the room with a pungent, sickly cloud. She had never been fond of cut flowers and thought them much prettier when left to grow in a garden. It seemed cruel to her that they be chopped down and brought inside, just to shrivel and die for the selfish pleasure of a few people, for a sad day or two.
Matthew Bourne had also sent her a note, although she kept that from her mother. He wanted to see her today, but in this rain she would be hard pressed to find a believable reason to go out. In truth, she didn't want to see him. What would he say to her today? Make silly promises he could not keep? And which she would not want him to keep?
Hale had sent nothing.
But he would not leave her mind. Although she blamed her mother for continually bringing his name up, Hale had been just as constant in her thoughts all night long as he was in their conversation this morning.
With those strong, firm hands and a low, steady voice that suggested he never encountered an argument, he had lurked in the shadows of her dream. He'd woken her a few times, too, in a manner she didn't care to think about.
So he was a widower. Since she had never heard that fact before last night, how could she have known to hold her tongue? But when she thought of the things she'd said to him about putting women in their graves to keep them safe...no wonder he had looked at her the way he did.
Her stomach hurt.
"Everyone at the ball was talking about Hale," her mother continued.
"What about him? That he was so inappropriately attired for a ball?"
"A man like Hale can dress however he chooses. There isn't a soul alive who would question it, when merely to have him attend an event is a social coup. No, they were talking because it's ten years since Hale danced with
Raven warmed her hands on the cup of hot chocolate as she stood by a window, staring out at Brook Street and a very dreary day. It did not feel much like May today— more like February. An eternally damp February from which there could be no escape.
"Your anger is misplaced, mama. There was never any promise between Matty and I. We are friends, as we always have been, and that is all. It is harmless."
"A young, unwed woman and an eligible bachelor cannot be friends, Raven. No. He let us believe he had serious intentions, and I allowed him to escort you about the place in full expectation of an engagement. He has betrayed my trust, and he shall not see you unaccompanied again."
This made her want to laugh. Her mother's interest in the men she went about with had never extended far beyond the state of their finances. Now, quite suddenly, she became the concerned "Duenna". All because the interfering Earl of Southerton brought it to her attention.
"It is despicable that Bourne should run about with you while sneakily becoming engaged to another. He took advantage of my kind nature and generosity."
Now that was truly fudging the facts.
But her mother rambled onward, "You, young lady, have terrible taste in men."
And where did I get it from , she mused darkly, watching lines of rain wriggle down the window, racing each other. One of the larger drops swallowed up another and then went merrily on its way.
Behind her on the chaise, her mother sought for a thread of something to preserve from the wreckage of their evening. "At least Guy Hammond seemed very keen last night, despite your offhand treatment of his attention."
Guy Hammond. Raven sighed, her breath misting the glass. Hammond was another boy who could not stand up to her, let alone stand beside her. Another leaf in the wind, she thought listlessly.
"I shouldn't be surprised if he calls upon you today. He may have been put off by Bourne's attentions before— they have, after all, been very marked all these weeks. But now he will see the field is clear. And despite Viscount Faulkner's title, Hammond is worth far more."
Both Hammond and Felix Faulkner had sent Raven flowers that morning— gaudy, beribboned bundles that clogged the room with a pungent, sickly cloud. She had never been fond of cut flowers and thought them much prettier when left to grow in a garden. It seemed cruel to her that they be chopped down and brought inside, just to shrivel and die for the selfish pleasure of a few people, for a sad day or two.
Matthew Bourne had also sent her a note, although she kept that from her mother. He wanted to see her today, but in this rain she would be hard pressed to find a believable reason to go out. In truth, she didn't want to see him. What would he say to her today? Make silly promises he could not keep? And which she would not want him to keep?
Hale had sent nothing.
But he would not leave her mind. Although she blamed her mother for continually bringing his name up, Hale had been just as constant in her thoughts all night long as he was in their conversation this morning.
With those strong, firm hands and a low, steady voice that suggested he never encountered an argument, he had lurked in the shadows of her dream. He'd woken her a few times, too, in a manner she didn't care to think about.
So he was a widower. Since she had never heard that fact before last night, how could she have known to hold her tongue? But when she thought of the things she'd said to him about putting women in their graves to keep them safe...no wonder he had looked at her the way he did.
Her stomach hurt.
"Everyone at the ball was talking about Hale," her mother continued.
"What about him? That he was so inappropriately attired for a ball?"
"A man like Hale can dress however he chooses. There isn't a soul alive who would question it, when merely to have him attend an event is a social coup. No, they were talking because it's ten years since Hale danced with
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