“I . . .”
Oh, Lord. Izzy never knew how to explain this. Shouldn’t the answer be obvious? The Izzy of the stories had to be different. Because no one wanted to read a story about a funny-looking girl with a mop of dark, tangled hair and pale blue eyes. Much less imagine themselves in her place. Because she, the real Izzy Goodnight, could only ever hope to be, at best, almost pretty.
Because she wasn’t good enough.
“Because her father was a jackass,” Ransom said. “Obviously.”
Abigail and Duncan gasped in unison.
“No,” Abigail said. “You’re so very wrong, Your Grace. Sir Henry was . . . well, he was the most gentle, loving father a girl could hope to have. Wasn’t he, Izzy?”
Once again, Ransom spared her the awkwardness of a reply. “Very well, I revise my statement. He was a shrewd jackass. Had everyone fooled. But if good Sir Henry was such an amiable fellow and doting father, why couldn’t he be bothered to leave his daughter the security of an income and a comfortable home?”
“Your Grace, his death was so unexpected,” Duncan said. “A tragedy.”
“It was sudden,” Izzy put in.
Abigail reached across the table to take Izzy’s hand. “It must have been devastating. The whole country was in mourning with you.”
Ransom shook his head. “That’s no excuse. There are few true eventualities in life, but death is one of them.” He waved for more wine. “If you ask me, this Sir Henry Goodnight was no better than a cut-rate gin peddler or opium trader. He hooked people on his soppy stories, then just kept shoveling them more, not caring how many people drowned their powers of reason in that treacly swamp.”
Izzy thought that was going a bit too far.
“You don’t have to admire my father’s stories,” she said. “But don’t disparage the readers, or the notion of romance. Cressida and Ulric are just characters. Moranglia is entirely made up. But love does exist. It’s all around us.”
He put down his wineglass and turned his head, as if to survey the room. “Where?”
She didn’t know how to answer. “Am I supposed to point it out like an architectural feature? There it is, framed and hanging on the wall?”
“You said love is all around us. Well, where is it? There are four of us at this table, all grown adults. Not one romance. Not one instance of love.”
“But—”
“But what? Everyone knows your situation, Miss Goodnight. Doomed to spinsterhood by your father’s stories.” He gestured at his valet. “Duncan here spent ten years pining for one of the London housemaids. Irish girl with bouncy curls and a bouncier bosom. She never took a second look at him.”
Duncan made a halfhearted attempt at protest, but Ransom ignored it.
He turned to Abigail. “What about you, Miss Pelham? You seem lively, and by all accounts, pretty enough. Your father is a gentleman. Where are your suitors?”
Abigail stared at her half-eaten tart. “There was someone.”
“Ah. And where’s the someone now?”
“He left for the navy,” she answered. “My dowry is slight, and he was a second son with no fortune of his own. Matters never progressed beyond friendship.” She gave a little smile. “I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.”
Ransom propped his boot on the chair leg. “There. You see? Once again, cold reality trumps feeling.” He waved from Izzy to Abigail to Duncan. “Overlooked, unwanted, rejected. Not a happy ending in the lot.”
“That’s not fair,” Izzy protested. “Our own stories haven’t ended. And even so, we are but four souls in a vast world. I receive letters from my father’s readers every day. People from all walks of life who—”
“Who are desperate and deluded?”
“Who believe in love.”
He leaned back in his chair, nonchalant. “Same thing.”