Diamond of the Season (Paperback)

1801, Hampshire

Rosalind muffled a curse and fisted her hands at her sides. Anger thrummed through her, and yet there would be no reprieve, no solace to be found for what she had just heard. It was so typical of her father to have done this last, awful thing to them—one final attempt to make their lives more miserable than they already were.
She kicked a stone, wincing as the thin, worn leather of her shoe provided no barrier to the sharp pebble. She cursed again, her fingernails bit into her palms. Would this day get any worse? She didn’t think so, but the sight of a carriage coming along the gravel drive told her otherwise.
Who would call on them on the day of the reading of their father’s will? A reading she could not stomach and was thankful when it was over. Needing to escape outdoors and away from her devastated sisters’ faces, she decided on a walk to clear her thoughts. To sit by and see all their hopes, their hearts crushed yet again by a parent who despised them all for not being the boys he wanted, the boys he needed to carry on his dukedom that he loved far more than anyone else, even their poor departed mama was beyond reprehensible of their parent.
She stopped and shaded her eyes as she took in the vehicle, having forgotten to grab her bonnet to save her complexion from the sun. Her mouth pursed into a displeased line. No doubt, it was the new Duke of Ravensmere, Earl Harrow as he was also known, come to claim his inheritance—her home—that was now his for the taking.
He would probably kick them all out on their ears, demanding they leave his new estate, even if he were to be their new guardian. Whoever thought that they, fully grown women all of them but their youngest sibling, Lady Clementine—but then she was only a year away from eighteen, so not so small any longer—would be under the authority of a stranger.
Rosalind kept walking, or stalking more like, unwilling to greet Lord Harrow before she was well and truly in the right mind to do so. He could go hang, as far as she was concerned right at this moment, along with her father’s lawyer, who like their departed papa, saw them as more of six pests than human beings.
Bastards.
The reading of the will earlier that day had explained everything. None of the six daughters—her and her sisters—would inherit anything. Instead, everything would go to Lord Nathaniel Harrow, an earl from London with his own country estate in Surrey. He wasn’t even a relative. In fact, he was such a distant connection he might as well have been born on the moon.
How was she to be civil to such a man? Arriving on the very day they had laid their father to rest in the family mausoleum and had the will read. The man was acting like a vulture swooping over a carcass that was barely cold.
She sighed and kicked another stone, sending it careening down the hillside. Her sisters had taken the news with calm dignity, much better than she. But as the eldest, Rosalind understood more of the implications. Their father had left them nothing—no dowry, not even their mother’s jewelery. How she would have loved a trinket from the only person who loved them for who they were. Her dearest mama. How she wished she were here on a day like today.
Their only option, as the solicitor had explained, was to live in Scotland with their great-aunt Camilla. But the thought of leaving her beloved county of Hampshire for the cold, remote climes of Scotland was too much to bear.
She couldn’t think that far ahead—not yet. First, they were to meet Lord Nathaniel Harrow and see what they could make of him. Perhaps he would show some kindness to his wards now that they were to be under his care. Mayhap the man was elderly and would relish the thought of having daughters he could care for.
Perhaps she was being too fanciful and needed to rein in her hopes and think realistically for her and her sisters. There was little point hoping for a better future when one did not yet know the character of the person who held all their lives in his hands.
She wandered the hills for some time—probably longer than she should have. It was rude of her to avoid the new Duke of Ravensmere, as he was now known, but her skin prickled at the thought of being civil to the gentleman just yet. Instead, Rosalind climbed over stiles and visited two tenant farmers on the outskirts of the estate, thanking them for their kind wishes and heartfelt condolences.
Not that she imagined many truly mourned her father. He had been a gruff, cruel man. Several estate buildings had needed repairs for years, and the tenants had long requested new roofs, only to be ignored. But her father, too busy enjoying the diversions of London, had dismissed the “petty dealings” of the poor.
As the sun dipped low, casting golden shadows across the fields, Rosalind headed home.
Candlelight glowed from the house windows as the staff moved through their evening tasks, drawing curtains and closing shutters. The sight of it sent a pang through her chest. All of this belonged to a stranger now. How unfair life was not to grant women the same privileges of men. Merely because she was born a girl, she must leave, move over for a man who did not love her beautiful home, or pretty lands. Or know the workers who toiled over the fields until their knuckles were bare to keep the home farms profitable.
She entered the foyer, handing her coat and gloves to a waiting footman.
“His Grace is waiting for you, Lady Rosalind,” the footman said. “He’s in the library, my lady.”
“Thank you, James.” Rosalind started toward the library. The door stood slightly ajar, and the flickering fire cast shifting shadows on the walls. She knocked once and a deep voice, much lower than her father’s, bid her enter.
It felt strange to hear another man’s voice coming from the room, after all these years of only ever knowing her father to occupy the space. When he bothered to travel home and make use of it.
She stepped inside. The high wing-backed chair was turned away, obscuring him from view. Steeling herself, she waited by the desk, knowing she would need to curtsy in propriety’s name, though she resented the act.
He turned.
And for a moment, Rosalind forgot to breathe.
This was Lord Nathaniel Harrow—the vulture come to take everything they owned, simply because her parents had not produced a son. This was the new Duke of Ravensmere. Somehow she pictured the gentleman to be like her father in looks and stature.
How very wrong she was…
His Grace’s dark gaze met hers, narrowing slightly in thought. “I presume you are the eldest, Lady Rosalind,” he said.
She watched as he shuffled some papers, slipping a quill into an inkpot before signing a ledger. What possible business could he have already? He had only just inherited. Had he brought his own bookkeeping with him?
“I am, Your Grace.” Rosalind dipped into a stiff curtsy, forcing her features to be welcoming and not displeased. How galling it was to have a stranger question who she was in her own home. The house she was born in and should have inherited. “Welcome to Ebonmere Abbey.” How she managed to spit out those words and have them come out as sweetly as they sounded she would never know. Mayhap she should be on the stage instead of rusticating in the country.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. Was he pleased with what he saw or merely tolerating her presence? She could not tell.
“Thank you for the warm welcome.” His voice dripped with irony.
Perhaps he did sense a little of her displeasure. Not suitable for the stage after all. “I hope you’ve met my sisters.”
“Yes. They were very polite and welcomed me kindly. I am sorry for the loss of your father.”
She gestured to a chair. “May I sit, Your Grace?”
“Of course.”
She perched on the edge of the seat, hands settled carefully in her lap as she chose her next words carefully. “While I thank you for your condolences, my father was a cruel man, most especially to his daughters,” she said bluntly, seeing no reason to hide her disgust regarding her parent a moment longer. He had been awful to them, never a kind word, or gesture of love. Just resentment and disappointment. “And while I understand the rules when it comes to someone’s passing, please do not think we’re in a state of mourning. We may be wearing black, but that is for propriety’s sake only.” She paused. “But what I would like to discuss is what do you intend to do now that you have inherited the estate? And us—his daughters—along with it?”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, drawing her attention to the strong, angular cut, covered in a day’s growth of stubble. Had he been traveling long? London was only three days away by carriage. Surely, he could have stopped at an inn to refresh himself.
“Before you stormed out of the reading of the will—”
She raised her brows. Which sister or servant had informed him of that? “Again, Your Grace, I disagreed often with my father. But if I missed something important, I trust you will enlighten me.”
“As a matter of fact, you did miss something.”
Her curiosity piqued before he continued.
“There was one large caveat that you did not hear. I have inherited the dukedom, which grants me the title of Ravensmere and the entailed estates. However, your father did not leave you as destitute as you believe. He left each of you a considerable dowry.”
Her breath caught. “A dowry?” That could not be true. Her father would never have been capable of such budgeting, or for that matter, love for his daughters. He’d always ensured they wore gowns that were three seasons out of date, and never new. They were the poorest-looking ducal daughters in England, Rosalind was sure.
“Yes, a dowry. Ten thousand pounds apiece. The funds are not directly under your control, but held in trust by me. Had you stayed long enough to hear the entire reading of the will, you would have heard you’re now an heiress and quite capable of creating a future that is not dictated by me or your father, but yourself. If it pleases you to do so.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Did it please her to do so? To make choices and win the heart of a gentleman who loved her, and would make all her dreams come true.
Well, of course it pleased her.
“In any case,” he continued, “with that dowry, each of your sisters will have a Season in the coming years. You, Lady Rosalind, will go first, since you are the eldest. Additionally, as I am instructed to be your and your sisters’ guardian, I will ensure that all arrangements are made for your entrance into London society to be a success.”
A dowry! Papa never mentioned such a thing… “Are you certain, Your Grace?”
“It is written on the parchment in the library desk drawer if you must read it.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as though her astonishment were of little consequence and sense. The man clearly had never met her papa.
Rosalind scoffed, unable to hide the bite of sarcasm in her response.
“I know you weren't interested in the reading of the will earlier, but it is there in black and white. The ink has dried. Perhaps your father was not as terrible as you thought, my lady.”
Delusional. The man was clearly delusional. Her father had never cared for any of them. They were not the sons he had craved.
“And we are to go to London for a Season?” she asked, still trying to grasp the shift in their circumstances.
“You are,” he confirmed, standing and walking over to the fire. He pulled the bell pull with a sharp tug. “We have one month here at the estate, and then we shall leave for London. I shall hire a companion as a chaperone. And if fortune favors, you should be married by the end of it all.”
Marriage. The thought of it was not without appeal. A home of her own, a future where she could ensure her sisters made their debuts. But such security hung on finding a suitable match—preferably a wealthy one. A man who was kind, who was nothing like her father.
The new Duke Ravensmere—though polite—seemed unbending, distant, and somewhat cold. He did not welcome the arrangement of guardian any more than she did.
“Do my sisters know?” she asked.
“Yes. They were pleased. Surprised, as you are.”
She arched a brow. “It is astonishing, indeed. I had not thought father had left us anything.”
“Was there anything else, Lady Rosalind, that you wish to discuss? If not, you may leave.” His tone made it clear—this conversation had reached its end.
“Just one more thing—do you intend to stay with us for the next month?”
“I am your guardian. I did not expect to have six wards thrust upon me, but it is done. And I shall manage you all to the best of my ability.”
Rosalind rose, dipping into a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace, for the clarification. I will bid you good afternoon if you will excuse me.”
“You are excused,” he said without looking up from the fire he now stood before.
Rosalind left swiftly, her steps light as she hurried up the stairs to her sisters’ apartments. Their eyes widened as she entered, their excitement mirroring hers.
“Sister, did you hear? We have a dowry!” Evangeline exclaimed.
“Papa wasn’t as heartless as we thought,” Isabella murmured. “Perhaps he mellowed before his passing, even if we never saw it.”
Rosalind shut the door, joining them all before the fire. “Perhaps. And it is good news. I shall find a match in London, and then I shall send for all of you. We will be together, and I will see each of you married and happy.”
“What do you think of the new duke?” her youngest sister Clementine asked, her grin mischievous. “Is he not deadly handsome?”
“Oh yes, his eyes!” Cordelia said, sighing and flopping back onto the Aubusson rug for dramatics. “So green and beautiful.”
“His shoulders and height! I swear my mouth dried at the sight of him when he strolled into the room during the reading of the will,” Angelica said, a light blush on her cheeks.
“Handsome, indeed,” Rosalind admitted. “But he does not seem overly pleased to have six young women under his care. He will tolerate us, but I would not say he’s pleased that we come with the title.”
“That is true,” Evangeline said. “Perhaps he will warm to us—so long as we do not vex him too much.”
“Unlikely,” Angelica sighed. “We are forever in some sort of trouble.”
Rosalind chuckled. “I look forward to London—the gowns, the dancing, the courtships.”
“You must ride in Hyde Park!” Clementine said. “Perhaps a gentleman will take you out on one of their fine steeds. Maybe you will gallop on Rotten Row.”
Rosalind laughed. “Perhaps now, galloping isn’t allowed, remember. But with ten thousand pounds each, we may be able to choose our suitors rather than settle for less than we deserve. Or worse, must live in Scotland with Aunt Camilla.” She shuddered at the thought. “I shall be one of the oldest debutantes, but at least I have a dowry to soften that disadvantage.”
“True,” Angelica agreed. “And you are one of the prettiest women in England.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Rosalind corrected her. She had never thought herself particularly pretty. She was tall, her features strong rather than delicate, and she had a will that did not always endear her to men. A fishwife in the making, some might say. And at three-and-twenty, she was hardly an ideal debutante age.
“His Grace…” she mused. “If we keep our distance, I suspect we shall all get along just fine until I leave for London.”
“London! I wish I could go now,” Angelica said. “But in two years, I shall join you. How wonderful it will be!”
“Indeed. We should all practice our dancing, our etiquette.”
“Especially you, Clementine,” Cordelia teased. “You do love to slurp your soup.”
“I do not do it on purpose!” Clementine protested. “I simply love soup.”
Rosalind laughed. “How dear you all are. And to think—we feared we would be sent to Scotland. How dreary that would have been.”
“Indeed. But it is getting late. We should prepare for dinner.”
“Yes,” Rosalind agreed. “We must be on our best behavior. His Grace is stuck with us, and we ought to prove to him that we are not a burden. We must make him like us, if we can.”
“Yes!” Isabella said, ushering the younger sisters toward the door. “Put on your best dresses, girls. We must make an effort this evening.”
“We do not have the finest,” Rosalind murmured. “But we shall make do.” She smiled at them all, hopeful for their future at last.