A Spy's Devotion (The Regency Spies of London #1)(13)

“Julia is a seemly sort of girl. It’s a pity that she has attracted no eligible suitors, but if she does not marry, she will make a fine governess. She has less than three hundred pounds that her father left her, and I don’t know who marries a girl with so little.”

A fiery blush crept into her cheeks. Should she try to catch her aunt’s eye to make her stop talking? Her aunt was not one to notice a subtle hint. Julia could only pray as Mr. Atwater led her through the motions of the dance. Unfortunately, instead of stopping, her aunt continued to speak loud enough that Julia could hear every word.

“Phoebe quite dotes on her, and I’m afraid we failed to make sure of a proper distinction between Julia’s situation and her cousin’s. Phoebe’s rank, her fortune, and her rights are quite above what Julia can expect. Perhaps we shirked our duty to impress upon them both a consciousness of Julia’s lower station. But Phoebe is such a headstrong girl and never liked to hear anything of the kind, and we indulged her.”

By now, Julia wanted to run from the room, but Aunt Wilhern’s voice droned on.

“I’m sure Phoebe won’t need a companion anymore once she gets married. And goodness knows Mr. Wilhern and I have no need of her. We will try to find a suitable position for Julia. The family to whom she goes will be fortunate, since Julia can instruct in all the usual academic subjects, as well as music. She practices every day and is quite the proficient at the pianoforte and the harp.”

Julia couldn’t bear to look her dance partner in the eye. Of course, he could not have failed to hear every word.

Julia finally saw who Mrs. Wilhern had been speaking to—Mr. Hugh Edgerton and his mother.

Bad enough that her aunt should make such a speech to another matron like herself, but to a young man like Mr. Edgerton? What was her aunt thinking? But that was the problem; she talked without thinking, oblivious to the impropriety of what she was saying.

Once again, it was their turn to promenade. Blindly, Julia took Mr. Atwater’s hand and let him lead her through the middle of the two rows of dancers. She tried to look straight ahead, as if nothing had happened, and pay attention to the steps of the dance. But a stone crowded her chest, and she kept hearing her aunt’s words, callously speaking of Julia being unable to attract a suitor, and of her aunt’s intention to cast Julia off to be a governess as soon as Phoebe was married.

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she could not humiliate herself by crying in a public assembly. A lady should always be able to govern her own feelings.

Only making things worse was Mr. Atwater’s halting way of dancing. He was worse even than Mr. Dinklage. Had he never danced before?

How painful to realize that her aunt did not consider her a member of the family at all, only a tool, a servant who would serve a purpose and then be discarded as unnecessary.

She was afraid to look at her partner, or to look anyone in the eye, and see her humiliation reflected back at her.

They changed partners in the course of the dance and she found herself with Mr. Langdon. She was captured by his deep-brown eyes before she had time to look away. But there was sympathy in them, in the gentleness of his expression.

He had heard what her aunt had said, and he pitied her. Her humiliation was complete.

Neither of them said a word as they went through the movements of the dance. His fingers were gentle yet firm as he grasped her hand. She was grateful he didn’t speak, but the hollow feeling came back into the pit of her stomach. How could Aunt Wilhern say such things about her at a party where so many others could hear?

Once she’d broken free from Nicholas Langdon’s gaze, she couldn’t bear to look at him again. God, please help me get through this ball. Perhaps she could hide in the card room, or near the refreshments table. Or under it.

She could feel Mr. Langdon’s eyes on her as he handed her back to Mr. Atwater, but she didn’t look up at him.

When the dance ended, Julia excused herself, saying she needed some air. She walked across the large ballroom. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Mr. Edgerton staring at her. He wore buff-and-brown-striped trousers with a waistcoat to match. With his larger-than-average height and build, his brown hair, and his wide-set eyes, Mr. Edgerton was considered handsome by some. But even though his was an old family, he had racked up considerable gaming debts and would need to marry someone with a fortune—which was why it was strange that he always seemed to seek Julia out at parties. She had long realized he felt a preference for her, but she assumed his debts would prevent him from pursuing her.

Julia forced herself to hold her head high as she slipped away and found a small sitting room. The window facing the street was not latched, so she crossed to the other side and opened it, letting the cool night air take the sting out of her cheeks.

Am I so alone and unloved? Destined to be a governess?

Beneath Phoebe’s station, her aunt had said. She felt her face grow hot again. No wonder few men asked her to dance and none ever came to call on her. No doubt their families had warned them about young women like her, without dowries, desperate to make a good match. Certainly Mr. Dinklage’s mother would make sure he did not pursue her.

Julia stared at the carriages going by on the street below. She pressed her hand against the window sash, letting the damp night air distract her. The lanterns and streetlights blurred as smoke from nearby chimney fires stung her eyes.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away and took out her handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes.