She shook her head. “Nothing!”
Her mother looked over her shoulder, morning sunshine cascading through the window highlighting her disappointment. “You think I was not young once? You think I cannot see that lie?”
Sera stood, fists at her sides. “He cares for me.”
“He cares for what you’re giving him.”
“Mother.” This, from Seline. “You needn’t be cruel.”
“It seems I do, though,” said the countess. “Because it’s never occurred to any of you that you might be taken advantage of.” She swung back toward Sera, already crossing the room, fast and furious. “Half the season is gone, and he’s not courting you.”
He was though, wasn’t he?
Before she could argue the point, her mother pressed on. “He hasn’t spoken to your father.”
She opened her mouth. “He will.”
“No, Sera. He won’t. He’s had six weeks to do so. He’s had six years to. You expect me to believe that after six years of seasons, of being disdained by pompous aristocrats with more money than heaven itself, of scraping for invitations and pleading for attention, the Duke of Haven has taken a liking to a Soiled S?”
Yes.
It didn’t matter that they’d all struggled to find suitors who weren’t impoverished or untitled. It didn’t matter that she and Malcolm had never discussed their future. He’d promised her he wouldn’t ruin her on that first night, on that balcony.
He wanted her. She knew it.
She wanted him.
“It’s true.”
The countess shook her head, and for a moment, Sera saw sadness in her mother’s gaze. Sadness, and something like pity. “No, Sera. No one has such luck.” A pause. Then, “The papers say you’ve been indiscreet.”
“I haven’t. We haven’t.”
Except, they had. There had been the time in the carriage. And the stolen moments at the Beaufetheringstone Ball. And the time when she’d snuck into his offices at Parliament—but nothing had happened.
Well, nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.
Her mother did not believe it. “Let me be plain. Are you still a virgin?”
Her sisters gasped as she said, “Mama!”
“Save your shock for another, Seraphina. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s come close.” Sera hesitated, until the countess barked, “Seraphina.”
“Yes!” she snapped, turning on her mother. “Yes. And I wish he had. I wish I weren’t.”
Lady Wight’s eyes went wide as Sera’s sisters gasped. “He’s not going to marry you.”
“Why not?”
“Because all five of you have been out for years, and not one of you has come near a duke. They think us cheap. They think us unworthy of their names and their titles.” She waved a hand at her sisters. “Seleste might become Countess of Clare, but only because the earl is virtually a pauper and your father’s money is worth more than the shame we bring upon a title. But mark my words, not one of them will find marriage if you let yourself be ruined by this duke.”
Seleste’s face fell at the words, and Sera hated her mother in that moment. Even more so when she continued. “Haven might as well be a star in the sky for all you shall reach him and not get him. The season is six weeks old and you’ve seen him, what, a dozen times?”
Twenty-six times. But Sera remained quiet. She didn’t have to speak. “More than that, likely, what with all the sneaking about you girls have been doing while I was looking the other way.” The countess brandished the newspaper high. “The gossip rags were not looking the other way, Seraphina. Do you know what they say about you?”
Sera’s heart was pounding. “They have nothing to say. I’ve been careful.”
The countess laughed, the sound humorless. “Not careful enough, Tick Tock Talbot.”
She set the paper onto the music rack, covering the song there.
Dreams of duchessdom doomed to disappointment . . . Time trips timidly despite dozens of aristocratic assignations . . . Tick Tock Talbot hopeless to hook Haven . . . though a tempting taste (tart-like, even)!
Sera’s cheeks were blazing.
They hadn’t been careful. There had been the hundreds of glances across crowded events, his wicked winks and her soft smiles and all the secrets they’d told without even speaking. And there had been the dozens of little touches, grazes at her elbow, fingers down her arm, the way his hand lingered in hers when they were allowed to greet each other in public. The warm day the previous week, when they’d walked in Hyde Park and he’d helped her over every tiny rock and stick, his touch a slow sinful slide.
They hadn’t been careful.
“A tart,” her mother explained, as though Sera could not read the insult herself. “They call you a tart. And that’s not the worst.”
It was absolutely the worst, Sera should have said. But she could not find her voice.
Not so, her mother. “The worst is the horrible moniker.”
“Soiled sister?” Sesily interjected from her place in the corner. “That comes from Papa. From coal. It has nothing to do with Sera.”
“It has everything to do with her now, but that’s not the one I’m referring to.” Her mother’s words came from a distance, through the rushing sound in Sera’s ears. Through shock and anger and embarrassment. “Sera knows which one I mean.”
Sera nodded, then whispered, “Tick Tock.”
“They’re mocking you. The way you wait for him, time passing you by, another season half-over, and not even looking to eligible men. Men who might have you. Tick Tock Talbot.” The countess threw up her arms. “And they know you’ve given him everything.”
Sera looked to her mother. “Not everything.”
“Oh, Seraphina,” the countess said, her exasperation clear. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve done it. They think you have. You’re ruined, girl. And he’s one of the richest dukes in Britain.”
“We—” She swallowed. “He wants me.”
“I’ve no doubt of that.” Her mother shook her head, the words gentling. “But if he had plans to marry you, darling, he would have come and seen your father. Instead, he’s taken advantage of you. He’s saddled you with a horrid name and he’s saddled your sisters with ruin by association.” She paused and drove the point home. “You’ve saddled them with it.”
Sera looked to her sisters . . . the Soiled S’s, never welcome in society, always the subject of scorn and speculation. Seleste and her impoverished earl. Seline, too smart for her own good. Sesily, too brash to ever be a proper aristocratic lady. And Sophie, poor, quiet Sophie, whom the whole world thought plain. Who would care for them?
The countess broke into her thoughts. “There’s another man. One who’s willing to marry you. To get you out from under this horrible gossip. Perhaps, if you marry him quickly, Tick Tock Talbot will be forgotten. The Soiled S’s will be forgotten. Perhaps, if you marry him, you can save your sisters their embarrassment.”
“That can’t be the only way,” Sesily blurted out.
“No!” Seline said.