Compromising Kessen (Vandenbrook #1)(81)

Her thoughts had gotten away with her somehow. Before she knew it, her aunt kissed her mother goodbye, and pushed Sara into a black plush carriage waiting outside.

“Oh, and Sara,” her mother ran toward her, “Aunt Tilda will explain what needs to be done to secure a husband; you listen to everything she says. Do not embarrass us! Your father has, well, he has some debts, dear, and you’re our only hope of securing a man rich enough to take care of us. Do you understand?”

Was that a rhetorical question?

Her mother droned on, “And, dear, I know you are…well, you’re wicked-looking, but if you could please swallow your pride and do whatever it takes, we would be grateful. After all, this is your one and only chance for any sort of affection from another person. And we all desire affection. Even ugly children desire acceptance.”

Hearing enough, she bit her lip to keep from talking. Sara nodded her head and closed the door to the carriage. Her body felt numb. She knew all about emotional rejection; it was her cross to bear, but to be reminded by one’s own mother time and time again was the worst pain imaginable. Turning her head toward the window, she pulled her knees up to her chest and sighed. Aunt Tilda reached across and patted her hand much like a stranger would do to comfort a small child.

“No fear, my girl, I have a grand plan. A plan even you can’t ruin.” She smiled cheerfully before putting a covering over her eyes and going silent, most likely to sleep.

It’s an adventure, it’s an adventure, Sara kept repeating over and over again in her head to keep herself from crying. Being mortified in front of her family because of her looks she could handle, but being humiliated in front of the ton was quite another. “Dear God, if you can do miracles, I ask for one right now. Make me pretty; make me loveable. I don’t care if I let my family down, I just don’t want to feel this way ever again.” The stress of the day overwhelming her, she drifted off to sleep.





Another great read from Rachel Van Dyken





Prologue


Essex, England



Miss Emma Gates loved to dance. Not that she would ever share this private information with anyone but her dear sister, who was easily bribed and young enough not to care. No. A lady was entitled to her secrets and this was one of hers.

It wasn’t just any kind of dancing she was fond of. No, because dancing with the gentry was quite acceptable for a girl getting ready for her come out. The dancing she enjoyed was more passion-filled than waltzing, although she had to admit waltzing was another favorite.

For some time, she had been practicing the dance of the gypsies. In her heart she knew it was wrong to spy. But every so often a traveling gypsy family would be allowed to stay near their large estate.

One night a few months ago, Emma had been absolutely dying with curiosity as she heard the foreign music glide through her windows. Carefully, she rose from her bed and tiptoed to her door. Looking out the hallway, she took a steadying breath and made the decision to sneak out of the house. Always accused of being too inquisitive and adventurous for her own good, Emma had told herself this would be the last time she would do something rash before her come out this Season.

Nearing the campground, firelight glowed in the distance. Unable to tear her eyes away, she watched in utter fascination as the bronze-colored girls danced with jewelry trilling on their ankles and hands, swishing their fingers this way and that.

It was powerful and fascinating.

Men were captivated, drawn in by the sensual sway of their hips and promise of desire in their eyes. How could they not be? There was something so alluring about the way the gypsies danced, as if they held some secret nobody else in the world knew about. Men weren’t just full of desire for the women, though she could see plenty of that in the way their gazes seemed to follow every sway of the gypsies’ hips. The way the gypsies danced transported Emma and all those who watched to a place of mystery and enticement.

It made her wonder what it would be like to be able to deliver a siren call without speaking at all. To communicate without words. The gypsies’ music spoke to her like nothing else. The idea that she could express her deepest desires through such movements had her bewitched.

The first night she had been too nervous to show herself to the crowd, worried someone might recognize her and tell her parents.

The second night she had ventured out and sat near the edge of the campground.

And the third night, a young girl had approached and offered to teach her, asking for nothing in payment, merely the enjoyment of seeing Emma learn something she obviously found so much delight in.

Emma had been dancing ever since.

She promised herself she would quit once she had a Season, but the temptation was too great. Soon after she made the decision to stop, her fingers and legs would twitch with excitement, begging to be set free by the dance of the gypsies.

Life had a way of making more sense when she could dance. The troubles of the world, of her current betrothal seemed to melt away with the sway of her hips.

Being betrothed was another reason for her current fascination with all things adventurous and forbidden. Her life was over before it started. The man she was betrothed to was a good man, if one could call him a man. At one and twenty he was two years her senior and in a terrible state to be a husband. Having only just finished at University, his only goal in life was to warm the beds of courtesans and gamble away his inheritance. With striking features and a rakish grin, he could easily get away with all seven of the deadly sins and come out unscathed.