Often her dancing partner would get a look on his face equivalent to a hare caught in a trap and hurry her back to the sidelines the moment the dance was through, never to call upon her again.
Mama had warned Frances countless times to stop being so unpleasant. That was the word she liked to use for Frances’s little ‘outbursts,’ but Frances refused to stop. Searching for a husband held little appeal to her, but while she had the ear of some of the most powerful men in Parliament she might as well make herself useful. She’d continued to be ‘unpleasant’ throughout the Season until nearly every eligible chap in the ton all but ran from her when they saw her coming.
Sir Reginald Francis, it turned out, had been out of the country for most of the Season. He was also wealthy, according to Mama, so wealthy he apparently was willing to overlook her pitiful dowry. That was why Mama held out hope for a match with him and why Mama was so eager to cart her off to Lord Clayton’s house party.
“You must promise me you’ll be pleasant,” Mama continued, wagging a finger at Frances.
“When am I unpleasant?” Frances winked at Abigail behind their mother’s back.
“You know I’m referring to your outbursts, dear,” Mama replied, dabbing at her forehead with her handkerchief.
Frances shrugged. “I simply don’t see why I should be forced to take the first offer I receive.”
“The first offer is usually the best offer, dear,” Mama said. “Besides, to date you’ve had no offers, so I hardly think it matters in this case. I’ve heard from several people who know him well that Sir Reginald isn’t put off by young ladies who speak up about politics and such.” Mama pressed her handkerchief to her lips this time, her eyebrows dipped in worry over her gray eyes. “I can only hope that’s true.”
Frances frowned. She might believe such a thing was true of Sir Reginald if she hadn’t already met him. The auspicious occasion had been last week at the final party of the Season. He’d talked nonstop about himself. Mama had watched her closely during their introductions and had immediately interrupted Frances when she’d attempted to bring up the Employment Bill, that hideous piece of legislation that some equally horrible member of the House of Lords was backing. A Lord Kendall. The votes were close according to Frances’s sources, which was mainly the newspaper coupled with her pressing her ear against her father’s study door when his friends came to visit and talk about politics. The vote had been put off, however, until the next session of Parliament and Frances had no intention of keeping quiet on the matter whenever she found herself in the company of a peer. And if she ever crossed paths with the hideous Lord Kendall, she fully intended to give him an earful.
“I can only hope Sir Reginald doesn’t bore me to tears with talk about a faro game from a decade ago,” Frances said, sighing.
Mama rolled her eyes. “Regardless, we’re leaving for Devon on Friday.” She turned toward the door. “I’m off to ask Albina to begin packing the trunks. Prepare yourself, and no talking about politics.” Her mother turned back sharply to face her. “Do you understand me, Frances Regina Thurgood Wharton?”
Frances pointed a finger in the air. “The Employment Bill isn’t necessarily polit—”
“No talking about bills. Or the poor. Or Employment. Or anything of the sort.” Mama huffed.
“Fine.” Frances briefly considered crossing her fingers behind her back, but that would be dishonest, and she was honest. Sometimes to a fault. “Very well, I promise not to discuss it. At least not with Sir Reginald.”
“Or any eligible gentleman of the ton,” Mama finished, arching a disapproving brow at her.
Frances posted her fists on her hips. “Very well. Or any eligible gentlemen of the ton,” she parroted back.
“Excellent. We might just get you married off yet.” Mama smiled, picked up her burgundy silk skirts, and sailed from the room.
The door had barely shut behind their mother when Abigail turned bright blinking gray eyes toward Frances and asked quite seriously, “What are you planning to do, Frannie? You weren’t crossing your fingers, I saw you. Oh, were you crossing your toes?”
Frances couldn’t help her grin. Her sister knew her well. She’d loved Abigail since she’d been a two-year old peering into Abby’s crib. Frances felt responsible for her and she was entirely serious when she’d told her mother she would like nothing better than to give up her dowry to make Abigail’s more substantial. She would do anything for her little sister. “I might have crossed my toes if I’d thought about it,” she jested. “But I promised Mama I wouldn’t talk about any of the causes dear to my heart and so I won’t.”
Abigail leaned forward and peered at her. “What shall you do?”
Frances shrugged. “I have little choice. I suppose I’ll have to dissuade Sir Reginald from wanting to offer for me some other way.”
Abigail’s eyes were wide orbs. “How do you intend to do that?” Her sister had never defied their parents in her life, and she seemed perpetually amazed at Frances’s penchant for doing so.
Frances scooped up The Taming of the Shrew and made her way over to the window. She
