followed by speculation as to why it had been left with such haste.
But the words of the story had not changed. Lady Alice had swept late into the Season, bright and beautiful and devoid of the desperation clawing at Eleanor. Every man had been drawn to her—including Hugh.
Eleanor’s heart gave an ugly twinge.
Not Hugh. Lord Ledsey. She no longer held the right to address him or even think of him so informally. That right belonged to Lady Alice now. To make matters worse, Lady Alice was such a kind soul, and so lovely a person, it rendered her impossible to dislike. How very vexing.
The life Eleanor had envisioned with Hugh—summers at Ledsey Manor, the Season spent at Ledsey Place, freedom from having to plod along in the dreaded search for a suitable husband—all of it now belonged to Alice.
Eleanor’s throat went tight. Dash it—she was about to cry.
A delicate knock sounded at her closed door.
She quickly shoved the paper under the pillow of her bed, blinked her eyes clear and grabbed up a book. “Enter.”
The Countess of Westix swept into the room, followed by a footman carrying a large boxed parcel. Eleanor’s mother indicated the dressing table with a wave of her hand and then addressed her daughter. “I’d like a word with you.”
The footman obediently placed the parcel on the seat before Eleanor’s dressing table and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Eleanor eyed the curious package first, and then her mother. The Countess wore a lavender evening gown sparkling with beadwork over a net of black lace. She was lovely, despite the silver in her golden hair, which had been coiffured to its usual state of perfection. There was not a wrinkle of worry or anger on her smooth face, but still Eleanor’s stomach gave a familiar wrench—as it did any time her mother entered her room.
A lecture was forthcoming.
But what of the curious gift?
Her mother regarded the book Eleanor held. “What are you reading?”
“The Festival of St. Jago,” Eleanor replied slowly.
Surely her mother had not come into her room to discuss her selection of literature?
The Countess tilted her head dramatically to the side. “Upside down?”
Eleanor focused on the page for the first time. It stared up at her from its flipped position. Exactly upside down.
Drat.
“Perhaps you were reading something else?”
The Countess of Westix lifted her brow in the way she always did when it was obvious she’d spotted a lie. That look had plagued Eleanor through the course of her very rigid childhood. Or at least after Evander had been sent to school, following the incident with their father, since when life had become impossibly strict.
Eleanor set the book aside with careful measure. The Lady Observer gave an incriminating crackle from beneath her pillow.
The Countess sat on the bed beside her daughter. “I read it, too. And I’ve heard the rumors—what they say about you.”
Eleanor pressed a fingernail into the pad of her thumb until it hurt more than her mortification. It was a trick she’d used as a girl, when emotion threatened to overwhelm her, as though she could pinch the feeling out of herself with the sharp sensation.
She did not want to be having this abysmal conversation with her mother, having to relive the awful moment ad nauseam. Hadn’t the experience itself been torment enough?
“I’m proud of you, daughter. You’ve maintained your composure.”
The Countess settled her hand on Eleanor’s arm. The touch was as awkward as it was foreign. Her mother immediately drew away her cold, dry fingers and tucked the offending appendage against her waist.
“It is I who is ashamed.”
The shock of those words left Eleanor speechless. Her mother was without even a modicum of impropriety.
“I did not have a good marriage with your father, God rest his soul.” The Countess regarded Eleanor with a cool look. “He came from a strong clan before his family was elevated to the English nobility. It was his belief that all emotion was weakness, indicative of one who was baseborn, and his family had worked too hard to climb high to be considered common. Murrays are strong. They do not show fear.”
Eleanor bit back a bitter smile. She knew those words well and had spent a lifetime listening to them being recited. After all, she knew the story well enough. Her father had not allowed any of the ton to look down on them for being Scottish, for not having been members of the nobility since the dawn of time.
“I gave up a piece of myself when I married your father,” said her mother. “I didn’t realize...” Her eyes became glossy. She pursed her lips and gave a long, slow blink before resuming. “I didn’t realize I would be making my children give a piece of themselves away as well.”
This show of such emotion left Eleanor wanting to squirm on the bed with discomfort. This was immediately followed by a shade of guilt. After all, her mother was voluntarily peeling back a layer of herself to offer a rare peek within, and Eleanor could think of nothing but her own uncertainty on how to handle this foreign and precarious moment.
Her mother rose abruptly, alleviating the uncomfortable tension between them. “I aided in the suppressing of your feelings until you were rendered emotionless...cold. I did not see that until this incident.” She sighed and the rigid set to her shoulders sagged slightly. “I’m sorry, daughter. And I will right that wrong tonight.” She strode to the box and pulled off the cover.
Eleanor slid off the bed and peered into the opened parcel. Nestled within was a length of folded black silk.
“It’s a domino and mask.” The Countess gracefully scooped a black silk mask from the box. “There’s a wig as well. To protect your identity.”
To cover her hair. Of course. Anyone seeing the garish splash of red would immediately know Eleanor’s identity. The color had come from her father and it certainly had not offered Eleanor any favors. Not like her mother’s green eyes, which Eleanor was grateful to have inherited.
Eleanor stared down at the pile of black silk and her heartbeat gave a little trip. “Where am I to go that I should need a disguise?”
“I’ve paid a courtesan to teach you what I cannot.”
Eleanor jerked her gaze to her mother in absolute horror.
“Oh, she wasn’t always a courtesan,” the Countess replied. “She’d once been a sweet vicar’s daughter, which is how she is known to me. Difficult times do harsh things to women who have no other options.” She pressed her lips together in a reverent pause. “The woman is discreet, and she will teach you to be more genuine, more receptive. Less like me. I don’t want you to have a cold marriage or an austere life, in which every detail is perpetually calculated.” The mask trembled in her mother’s loose hold. “It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to soften I fear I would be a poor tutor.”
She pushed the mask into Eleanor’s hands.
Her fingers closed around the silk without thought. “A courtesan?” she gasped. “I’ll be ruined. You’ll be ruined.”
Her mother leveled her with a look. “Your father is dead, your brother is missing, I am getting old, and you are already two and twenty. The Season is halfway over and your one prospect has found another woman. You do know that if Evander is gone three more years he’ll be declared dead and your cousin will inherit everything?”
Eleanor’s thoughts flinched from the mention of her brother. It ached too much to think of his absence. He had left four years ago, to seek the adventure his father, the previous Earl of Westix, had once relished. In a world of turmoil and