A Hasty Betrothal Read Free

companion?”
    â€œPerhaps I shall conveniently snag one on the way out,” she said crossly. She really should keep a companion near her at all times, but what she wanted most was to be alone. Who would bother a wallflower, anyhow?
    Miles chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. She steeled herself against any feelings of friendliness toward him.
    â€œYou laugh, yet you have never known the restrictions of womanhood.”
    â€œIf you mean spending your days reading, shopping and talking, you’re correct. I have never known such freedoms.”
    â€œYou mock me!”
    â€œNay, but I beg you to consider the benefits of your station in life. Most have not the comforts you enjoy on a daily basis.”
    â€œI know that,” she said hotly. Who did Miles think he was? Always needling her, acting as though she was some spoiled, ungrateful wretch. “Would you have me sacrifice myself to the cold system of our society? A system that prefers breeding over character, purse over heart? I think not, Miles. Now, if you would be so kind as to bid me adieu...” She trailed off, for Lord Wrottesley headed toward her, a disconcertingly aggressive look to his gaze. “I really must leave now. Lord Wrottesley has called on me twice since we arrived in London. I do not wish to speak with him.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œA fortune hunter.” Without wasting another moment in useless conversation, she twisted to the right, desiring to dodge several patrons, but she caught her reflection in the large mirrors that gilded the ballroom: a pale wisp of an heiress, the strawberry birthmark covering her right cheekbone, glaring out from the whiteness of her skin.
    Averting her eyes from the sight, she charged toward a set of French doors she’d seen earlier.
    The exit promised solitude. A rest from the noise of congestion, the odor of too much perfume that clogged her windpipe. She dared not glance back to see if Wrottesley followed her.
    She prayed he did not. When he had called last Wednesday, it had been the most stifling thirty minutes of her existence.
    Grandmother insisted God heard prayers from every soul, and Elizabeth dearly hoped the duchess was right.
    The doors shuddered beneath the force of Elizabeth’s exit, but the damp earth welcomed her slippers a bit too readily. She sank deeply into the ground and, in her haste, almost fell. Catching her balance, she hurried forward to the garden walk, ignoring the sucking sound her slippers made in the mud. They would be ruined, but she owned at least twenty more.
    The scent of rain clung to the air. Lighted lanterns cast eerie shadows upon the path ahead, but the stones promised dryness for her feet and where they led, she would follow. Lord and Lady Charleston’s back lawn was a lovely respite, the gardens a comfortable touch for guests. Though situated in London, they’d made good use of their small plot of land.
    Oh, for quiet from this dreadful press of a ball. Vaguely it entered her mind that she risked her reputation by entering the gardens alone. Surely a brief rest could not hurt, though. She would return shortly. She reached the stone walkway and heaved a sigh of relief, for her toes squished and the sad, sodden state of her slippers reminded her of her future. Equally dark and muddy.
    She should pray. Grandmother exhorted her to do so. Glancing up at the night sky, she saw that the moon hid behind clouds, painting them shades of dark blue and gray. Lord, please guide me tonight. Give me wisdom for I am beset by worries.
    She picked her way down the path, passing a couple sharing sweet whispers on a bench. The lanterns guided her feet to a ribbon-festooned gazebo sitting on the edge of what looked to be a pond. Out here, beyond the maddening noise of festivities, she finally felt she could draw a breath. The air was sweet, humid. Crickets welcomed her, their song harmonious and gracious.
    She stepped into the gazebo, and it was