Seraphina’s heart soared at the announcement. She was saved. Elizabeth, her dearest friend, was here to visit with her mother, Diana, which meant she would have a reprieve from such uncomfortable conversations, if only for a short while.
The women rose from their seats to greet their guests, who were in the middle of what appeared to be a highly animated conversation about the very same event they were just discussing.
“—said that she is going to wear a powder blue. Can you imagine? Repeating the same colour dress from last season?”
“Well, Mother, you know that she does not much mind why people are speaking about her … just so long as she is the centre of all conversation.”
“Quite right. However, you, my daughter, will be in moss as every respectable young woman will favour this year. I have it on good authority that the queen herself is ordering dresses and ribbons in moss.”
“I presume you are speaking of Lady Travers?” Lilian asked with a girlish giggle.
“Could we be truly speaking of anyone else?” Diana, Elizabeth’s mother, added simply. “My daughter had said something about the modist pushing blue dresses. Absolutely not.”
“The colours on the invitation clearly requested pearl and white.” Lilian gasped, suddenly rethinking the entire wardrobe she had planned for Seraphina this year.
Sera, however, could not care less which dress she was to wear. She felt a pang of envy as she watched the easy camaraderie between Elizabeth and Diana, their shared excitement for the social event. Seraphina longed for that connection with her mother, the freedom to share her fears and dreams without the weight of secrets and expectations. Would she ever be able to embrace such moments fully without the constant reminder of her hidden past?
For now, Seraphina played her role, engaging in polite conversation and masking her inner turmoil. She understood the importance of these social events, the dance of courtship and connections that occurred within the glittering ballrooms. But deep down, she yearned for something more—a genuine connection that transcended societal expectations and allowed her to be truly seen and loved for who she was.
Seeing Seraphina’s quiet demeanour, Diana gently nudged her with a smile. “You must be excited about the duchess’s soiree, my dear. It’s a splendid opportunity to showcase your charm and grace. What colour shall you wear?”
“Clearly not blue, My Lady.” Seraphina offered a faint smile in response, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of her hidden identity.
“Quite right!” Diana gushed and pulled Lilian into a friendly embrace as the women headed to the parlour to take tea.
Elizabeth hooked her arm in through Seraphina’s and leaned in conspiratorially. “While they discuss dresses, I have to tell you about the real gossip. You are going to absolutely hate it.”
Sera smiled tightly. She could not summon the same thrill she used to get from the same sorts of conversation. Sometimes she worried that she might become jaded by it all. Was it so terrible to hope for more? Something thrilling? Something that would pulsate desire and adrenaline to her very core?
As the teacups clinked and laughter filled the room, Seraphina silently hoped that amidst the glamour and superficiality of the Season, she would find someone who saw past the unattainable facade, someone who would cherish the real Seraphina hidden beneath the mask of the “Unattainable Rose.”
Chapter 2
No man in all of London hated ledgers more than Tristan Ashford, Marquess of Aylesbridge. Something about endlessly leering at numbers on a page made his eyes want to cross. A necessary evil, he knew, as there was work to be done, and he was the only person who could do it — but he would be damned if he did not think the old bastard did not leave the books a sodding mess on purpose.
“Impossible,” Tristan muttered for the hundredth time this afternoon as he bitterly hurled another book filled with scribbled, tiny writing back to his desk. Though, the resentment that presently overwhelmed him was only partially because of the improper record keeping and mainly because he loathed his late father with every fibre of his being. Were there another heir, he would have happily passed off all his father’s inherited affairs and the title that came with it.
Tristan sank heavily into the worn leather armchair and glared at the pile of paper on the desk that never seemed to get any smaller, no matter how many days he dedicated to his work. He scrubbed his hands down his face with a sigh. At least the man was dead. That was what really mattered. All this was worth it so long as he had been given the gift of never seeing the bastard again.
As the flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, Tristan’s thoughts drifted back to his childhood—a time filled with fear, pain, and longing for a love he never received. He remembered the icy glares, cutting remarks, and relentless demands that left him feeling inadequate and unwanted. The wounds inflicted upon his young heart had shaped him into the enigmatic, guarded man he had become.
Tristan’s gaze fell upon a portrait of his late mother, her gentle smile a stark contrast to the haunting memories of his father. She had been his beacon of warmth and affection, the one person who had shown him kindness and love amidst the darkness of his childhood. Losing her at the tender age of thirteen had shattered his world, leaving him with a profound fear of emotional vulnerability and a reluctance to trust.
He had spent many years seeking a connection wherever he could. Matters of the heart wholly ignored in favour of pleasures of the flesh. The rakish reputation he had earned for himself had come easily. It was a role he had felt only too easy to slip into. He felt no remorse or shame for how he chose to spend his evenings.
With a sigh, Tristan closed the ledger and leaned back in his chair, his thoughts consumed by the weight of his past. Despite the passage of time, the wounds remained fresh, etched into his very being.
In the depths of his solitude, an unspoken desire stirred within him—a longing for something more, something beyond the shallow affairs and scandalous encounters that had come to define him in the eyes of society. Certainly something better than spending his nights here in his late father’s damned office.
He had to get out of here. He could not sit here and wallow, and if he did not put space between himself and the ghosts that haunted this home, he would go insane. Before he could give himself time to talk himself out of leaving and heading into London proper — he left the mess of work to be handled at another time and went to ready himself for his favourite gentlemen’s club.
Sometime after returning to the city, this club started to feel more comfortable to him. He could not name how it had happened, but he felt himself more of a regular here than he had been in his younger years. Drinking here was nearly a habit. One that he should have felt badly about, but he simply did not. It was comfortable. Tristan came, drank, and spent time with his best friend, and then when the night started to dwindle, he would accompany whichever woman he felt was the prettiest to spend some quality time together.
He planned for the same thing this evening. As he arrived, the dimly lit room was filled with laughter and clinking glasses, creating an atmosphere of mischief and revelry. Lord Michael Thorne, Earl of Devon, sat at their regular table in their secluded corner. His friend lifted a glass in his direction the moment they made eye contact with one another, and Tristan headed over. He could not help noticing Michael’s grin and the impish glint of mischief in his eyes.
Whatever the man had planned, at least he had the foresight to have a drink ready for Tristan before he arrived.
“Dare I ask what has you looking so pleased with yourself this evening?” Tristan greeted as he slid into his regular chair. Tristan sipped his whiskey, savouring the smooth warmth that spread through him. He leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Another devilish plan you have concocted, my friend?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in anticipation.
