Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Two

My Most Neglectful Offspring,

I set pen to paper to address the conspicuous silence that followed my previous letter. I can only surmise that your leisurely

diversions have left scant moments for correspondence.

This past Monday, I had the pleasure of taking an excursion through Kensington Gardens with Lavinia Throckmorton. Amidst this

floral profusion, dear Lavinia unveiled a most astonishing revelation—her Augusta, at a mere eighteen years of age, has found

herself betrothed. A marvel, considering you, my dear, have now completed seven and twenty orbits around the sun in solitary

splendor.

In her usual delicate manner, Lavinia sought news of your well-being, and I conveyed that you were finding the rural air most

invigorating. My dearest fugitive, you embarked upon your pastoral sojourn to visit your cousin with a promise to be gone

for a fortnight. It’s now been twice that time.

In your absence, your brother has undertaken the task (again) of identifying suitable gentlemen who, against all odds, remain unattached. I don’t have to remind you that opportunities for a union are diminishing with each passing day. I eagerly await your prompt return.

With the deepest affection and a hint of maternal vexation,

Your Loving Mother

A hint? A hint! Lizzy dropped the letter to her lap with a snort. Hell’s teeth. Her self-proclaimed Loving Mother was ready

to paint the words “Please Marry My Daughter” on a bedsheet to hang out the front window of the family’s Mayfair home.

She knotted her hands into the blanket she perched on to keep from shaking her fists at the ducks paddling in the pond down

the rise. The mallards were hunting watercress, minding their own business. Her mother could take a lesson from them.

It was high time that woman developed a hobby. Archery, perhaps? Or the delicate art of watercolor? Possibly the solace of

a well-chosen book, preferably a scandalous one? Anything to draw attention away from the subject of her daughter’s matrimonial

prospects, or, rather, the lack thereof.

Her cousin Georgie was the lucky one. Though she’d buried her husband, she’d grown her freedom. Here in Hallow’s Gate, she

lived the independent life of a merry widow—a shining example of all that was possible. The previous evening, during another

of Georgie’s legendary dinner parties, a revelation had struck Lizzy during the fish course. A fact so painfully obvious she

had inclined her head toward her friend Jane and murmured, “It’s a quietly acknowledged truth that a single man in possession

of a good fortune would be welcome to make any sensible woman a widow.”

Jane had choked on a bite of capered trout, kicking her under the table with the pointed toe of her shoe: a silent order to behave.

But where was the lie? While mourning wear wouldn’t be her first choice—black was most assuredly not her color—a quick review of the facts determined that the advantages of widowhood were many.

One: financial independence. Fortunate widows could inherit property and income and then control their own affairs. No more

begging her brother or mother or—worse—a future husband for pin money.

Two: respectability. Widows might travel and socialize with less scrutiny and restrictions.

Three: freedom. Widows made decisions about their households, finances, and social lives. They were not subject to the authority

of a husband or any tedious marital obligations and had the power to henceforth remain forever single.

Of course, if one allowed emotion to get tangled up in it, the experience of widowhood could be tainted by grief, or fear,

like for her own mother after Father’s sudden death ten years ago. But Mamma, uncertain how to manage without a husband, had

remarried, to a wealthy if self-important businessman, Rufus Alby, thus squandering any opportunity for independence.

It must also be acknowledged that if one married a man of lesser means, a future widow would be put at a disadvantage. That’s

why the only real solution was to marry someone with a respectable fortune and then...

What? Wait for them to die?

Lizzy worried at her lower lip. Well, she certainly wasn’t a murderess. Far from it—she couldn’t even bring herself to kill

spiders.

Could she ask her brother to confine his search to men who were known to be sickly? That would be quite the conversation.

Henry, please find me a wealthy husband, but could you be a dear and ensure he has advanced consumption?

She settled back on her elbows, ignoring the tendrils of hair coming loose from the artless knot at the nape of her neck,

and took a bite out of the apple she’d pinched from the cellar.

Involving Henry would be a dreadful mistake. He’d undoubtedly run straight to Mamma with the information and she would persist

in discussing it ad nauseam.

Lizzy took another bite, grimacing as she swallowed. The apple’s flesh had a mealy texture, tasting more like a distant memory

of the fruit, but chewing gave her something to do with the clenched feeling inside her—the one that wanted to break the rules

that kept her as nothing more than a canary in an ornate cage.

It was unjust that she was compelled to return to London and feign interest in dull men who couldn’t engage in conversation

beyond the topics of weather, hunting, or the evening’s dinner menu. And that was if she was lucky. If not, she’d be stuck

listening to pontifications on horse breeding or, the worst of the worst, the gentleman’s ailments, a gouty toe or watery

bowels.

Talk about mental rot.

Georgie raised dogs and held female-only parties where women weren’t encouraged to take dainty nibbles off their plates. No, they indulged with gusto. She had recently hosted a luncheon entirely composed of desserts! The table was piled high with trifles, jellies, macarons, cakes of all sizes, blancmange, syllabubs, and crème br?lée. They washed it all down with Irish whiskey, Madeira, and rum until one of the ladies retrieved a violin and played a lively tune that sent them into an unrestrained dance, devoid of any proper steps. They ended up collapsing against the walls or sprawling on the floor, laughter and panting echoing through the spinning room.

And in another South Hampshire village, their friend Jane not only wrote books, but had even published one: Sense and Sensibility . It might have been officially printed with the nom de plume “By A Lady” to protect her privacy, but she had done it. And

because she was lovely, Jane had given her recent main character the same name as Lizzy.

Elizabeth Bennet.

Last Christmas, Jane had read one of Lizzy’s little scribbles from one of her many vellum notebooks. In The Enchanted Garden , a certain Lady Genevieve Devereux, a young woman of remarkable intelligence, arrived at an estate to spend the summer. She

carried with her the weight of societal expectations from her family, who pressured her to make an advantageous match. One

fateful evening, as Lady Genevieve strolled through the moonlit gardens, she stumbled upon a hidden gate that led to an enchanted

garden. There, she discovered a sparkling fountain said to grant wishes. As Lady Genevieve pondered the nature of her wish,

she encountered a mysterious man who was no lord or gentleman of fortune, only a humble but strapping gardener...

Jane had said her scribblings “showed promise,” and Lizzy concealed the compliment in a pocket of her heart.

Promise.

She would make good on that promise, if she didn’t end up tucked away in some dusty house to warm a man’s bed. Unfortunately,

it appeared as if the very fabric of the universe was conspiring to make this outcome inevitable.

With a frustrated shriek, she threw her apple core into the bulrushes and then froze, cocking her head. There had been a strange sound. What was that? A duck? A dying duck?

A very large, very dying duck?

Visions of a wretched, thrashing waterfowl flooded her mind, making her skin crawl.

How she loathed ducks.

She scrambled onto her feet and gathered her skirts, straining to peer into the bulrushes as they waved on their tall green

stalks, velvety brown seed pods bobbing cheerfully.

Her shoulder blades uncinched a fraction. Never mind. Maybe it had been a trick of the wind. Or some echo from the village.

Or...

There it was again.

Blood drained to the tips of her toes.

It didn’t sound like a duck. Unless that duck happened to be a groaning man.

“Hello?” She took a tentative step forward, her throat drier than dust. “Is everything all right?” A perfectly ridiculous

question. Whoever made the sound was in a murky pond. Of course they weren’t all right. Far from it.

She suppressed a frown. Had a farmer drunk too many pints at the Ye Olde King’s Head? Or perhaps earlier someone had slipped

down the hill, rolling into the water.

No point dithering. She shoved the letter into her bodice and strode forward. If she was in for a penny, might as well make

it a pound.

She crept to the shore, swatting back an overzealous dragonfly as her linen boots squelched in the mud, making it impossible to hide her approach. Gooseflesh prickled the backs of her arms, and she resisted the temptation to glance around as if someone might come and save her from this obligation. Never mind. She’d handle this fine. If anything dangerous emerged, she’d... she’d... punch it in the nose. Georgie had been teaching her boxing. Or at least telling her she ought to learn.

Lizzy’s breath caught in a sharp exhale as she pushed her arms into the bulrushes, shoving them apart. Her gaze fell, locking

with the piercing eyes of a brutal-looking man. The blood smeared across his angular features added a raw, dangerous edge

to his appearance that intensified the darkness of his stare as he glared up at her.

“W-what happened?” She got the words out, just, wary but clear.

He pushed himself to a sitting position with obvious effort and dabbed the end of his nose, wincing. “I got hit in the face

with a fucking apple.”

The accent. That guitar-plucked twang. She’d heard it before in town, but not often.

American.

And gads, he was big. She’d wager once standing he’d rise a head taller than herself, and she was by no means a delicate violet.

Dozens of questions piled up. Why did he crop his hair that short? His jacket was black, but why was the fabric peculiar—too

shiny, and very puffy—with strange metal teeth holding it together along a central seam? And his long splayed-out legs were

encased in a sturdy-looking cotton dyed a deep blue.

In turn, he gaped at her lavender walking dress, his expression shifting from coolly peeved to incredulous as he raked his intense gaze up, down, and back again. The depth of his focus sent an unexpected shiver through her body. She’d never been the object of such single-minded attention before. The sensation left her feeling strangely vulnerable yet exhilarated, as she re sisted the urge to tame her wild hair, ignoring the fact her coif likely rivaled Medusa’s. Instead, she held his stare, a silent challenge hanging between them as the palpable tension grew. She counted silently, One... two... three... four...

Beneath the swarthy shadow of stubble peppering his jaw, a muscle twitched, breaking the stillness.

Lizzy blinked first. Unsure why her face was suddenly afire.

“Sir.” She paused, swallowing to steady her voice. “Are you sure that you’re quite all ri—”

“What are you wearing?” he blurted.