The Solemn Bell(42)

“Of course. Glittering parties in Mayfair, walks in Hyde Park, and dancing all night long…it’s every girl’s dream.”

Had Angelica ever wanted to be presented? Brody wondered if, even now, such a thing for a girl like her was possible. Doubtful. Society was fickle and competitive. Only the most suitable girls succeeded. His heart ached for the beautiful young woman who could have put all other debutantes to shame if fate had not stolen her sight.

His sister said, picking at her cake slice, “I cannot wait to go to London. Mother takes me every June.”

Angelica still smiled. “Do you go to London, Brody?”

“I…uh…used to. But not anymore.” Although he didn’t care much for parties, the dope scene in London was exquisite. If he intended to stay clean and sober, he had better stay clear of town.

Thankfully, no one at the table mentioned his past troubles, or how he’d almost ruined Mary Rose’s come-out by getting himself arrested in an opium den raid. Father had to pay a fortune to ensure his name stayed out of the papers—yet another reason the old man despised him.

“It will just be Mother and me this year,” his sister explained. “I’m thinking very seriously about getting married, and if I’m going to find a husband, I can’t have Brody or Marcus scaring off every chap who comes to call.”

Angelica’s smile wavered. Perhaps she thought of her own brother, and how they never had the chance to share that bond. “Then good luck on your Season,” she said, her voice oddly strained. “I hope you find a wonderful man who will love you very much.”

Brody realized she wasn’t thinking of her brother at all. Angelica thought about marriage, and how the chance of a husband of her own had slipped through her fingers—or, rather, between her parted thighs.

He nearly choked on his charlotte russe. Where the hell did these thoughts come from? Was he really as petty as all that? Angelica’s chances at marriage weren’t over. There were plenty of men in the world who didn’t care that she wasn’t a virgin, and would overlook her out-of-wedlock child.

“I don’t care if my husband loves me,” Mary Rose said. “I want him to be rich and handsome.”

Brody reached for his water glass. “You’ll have your pick of the bunch, M.R.”

“Can you imagine? We’ll take a charming little flat in a quiet street near the Park, and, of course, he’ll have a place in the country—he has simply got to have a country house for summers—and we’ll go to all the best parties, and jazz every night!”

That sounded like a nightmare. He hoped Angelica didn’t have such ridiculous notions about marriage. Girls like Mary Rose were raised to place importance on social position and material possessions, rather than a relationship based on love.

Brody could never settle for a wife who did not love him. He did not want a society marriage, with a chaste, proper lady at his side for show, and a real, passionate woman like Angelica tucked away for convenience.

The sad fact was, Brody knew since the night he first met her, that there was no other woman for him. He would gladly let her use him for his money and his protection, as long as she’d let him hold her close at night and kiss her every morning.

“You all keep talking about…jazzing,” Angelica said. “What is that?”

Even Brody laughed. Angelica had never heard jazz. She had not listened to a new record since before the war. Thank God! He was glad to have something to take their minds off this talk of love and marriage.

“It’s music, Angelica,” he explained. “No one listens to Rags anymore.”

Mary Rose pushed back her chair. “Let’s all go into the library and put on the gramophone!”

In a flurry of silk and satin, his sister raced around the table to grab Angelica’s wrist. She hauled her out of her seat toward the door. It was all Brody could do to keep up. If Mary Rose wasn’t careful, she’d pull Angelica right out of her shoes.

At the last minute, he paused at the doorway. “Coming, Markie?”

“I’ll be in shortly.”

Brody followed the ladies to the library. He didn’t know why they kept the gramophone in there—of all places—but Mother refused to have the thing pollute her drawing room, so he supposed this was the next best spot. At least the library was large enough to dance.

Mary Rose dug through the record cabinet, pulling out her favorites. Finally, she made her selection, placed it on the turntable, and cranked the gramophone to life. “Sweet Georgia Brown” burst through the room, making Angelica take a step back. She clearly wasn’t ready for hot jazz.

Ignoring everyone else, Mary Rose reached for the decanter on a nearby shelf, and poured herself a drink. So his sister took her whiskey straight now? He could imagine why Father was so keen to see the girl married off. She was bound to be trouble very soon.

“Isn’t this ripping?” she asked, taking a long draw from her glass.

Angelica fumbled for something kind to say. “Why is it so fast?”

“For dancing, you ninny. Or, can’t you dance?”

“I can waltz…”

Mary Rose laughed. “You don’t waltz to this. It’s foxtrot or nothing! Come on, Brody. Dance with me!”

She reached her arms out for him, but he dodged her. What good was dancing when Angelica couldn’t join in on the fun?