Bianca lived for these moments, these sparse times when their father remembered their existence and made a rare appearance in their lives. Spending but a few hours with the earl was all Bianca needed to make her feel as if she mattered to him, as if she were an important part of his life.
For Eleanor it was not as simple. She was very aware that the earl had long ago abandoned them. His various pursuits of personal pleasure, his travels abroad, and his social life in London all held far more interest for him than his two motherless children.
Eleanor had been raised by a succession of governesses, but at least she had experienced the gift of a mother’s love for the first eight years of her life. Poor Bianca had never known their mother—she had died a few days after Bianca’s birth. Perhaps that was the reason Bianca felt such unconditional love toward the earl; he was the only parent she had ever known.
The distracted, infrequent interest he demonstrated, the occasional affection he bestowed, seemed to be enough for Bianca. Not so for Eleanor. She wanted the impossible—she wanted her father to love her. Yet in her experience the earl had proven time and again that the only person he had ever loved was himself.
Eleanor knew she was not the ideal daughter. She was not blindly obedient, meek, or subservient. At times she had been too outspoken with her criticism of the earl’s parental neglect. But her worst crime of all was her inability to make a good marriage.
The earl had grudgingly given her one Season in Town and she had failed to make her mark, had failed to dazzle society, had failed to capture a husband. She had not brought wealth, property, or connections to the family and at nearly six and twenty, she was now too old. ‘Twas not surprising he had little use for her.
“I am hoping Papa will stay at least a few days once he does arrive.” Bianca’s face brightened. “There might even be time for him to meet Mr. Smyth. He has told me on more than one occasion that he would feel privileged indeed to make Papa’s acquaintance.”
No doubt. Mr. Smyth had recently taken up residence in their rural community. Claiming a distant relationship to Squire Williams had opened a few doors for the young man and he had taken full advantage of it, seeking to establish himself as a gentleman of means and culture. As far as Eleanor could tell, Mr. Smyth possessed neither in any significant quantities.
“The earl never mixes with the local society unless he has no other choice,” Eleanor said.
“I know.” Bianca sighed. “Still, I am anxious to hear his opinion of Mr. Smyth, though he is so much like Papa I am certain they will get along famously.”
“Hmm.” In Eleanor’s opinion, being like their father was hardly an admirable qualification. Yet Bianca’s remark was telling—and truthful. Eleanor realized that was another reason she disliked Mr. Smyth. He did possess the same controlling, domineering personality as the earl, traits Eleanor feared Bianca mistook for strength of character.
She also feared that Mr. Smyth had set his sights on Bianca not because he held her in any genuine regard, but rather because he thought the younger daughter of an earl would be a most fortuitous bride. If Eleanor believed he had true affection for Bianca she would have encouraged the budding romance, but she was highly suspicious of Mr. Smyth’s motives.
Eleanor wanted the very best for her sister. The magic of love, the promise of happiness, the respect of a husband who truly believed Bianca was a gift to treasure.
Of course, she had wanted that for herself too, but the opportunity had come and gone many years ago. When she was too young and too naive to understand its value. When she foolishly let it slip beyond her grasp.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. In order to achieve her heart’s desire she would have had to leave her father’s house and in doing so would have left behind a vulnerable, unprotected nine-year-old Bianca. The very idea had struck a nerve of guilt so deep and wide it still hurt to think of it.
Falling in love with a groom was such a cliché. The nobleman’s daughter and the servant. Yet she had loved John Tanner with all of her seventeen-year-old heart, and he had returned that love unconditionally.
They knew their relationship was an impossibility. The only way they could be together was if they started fresh where no one knew of their past. It had taken months of plotting to formulate a plan of escape. They would first travel to Scotland to be married and then make their way to the coast, where John would find work.
It was fairly easy to slip out of the manor house the night that they had planned to run away, yet telling John that she was not coming with him had been the most difficult thing Eleanor had ever done. Though she had wanted him with every fiber of her being, Eleanor knew she had to embrace the responsibility of caring for and protecting her sister or forever regret her choice.
It was not a part of her nature to dwell on the past, to think of what might have been. Yet in the subsequent years there were moments when she wondered how her life would have been if she had been free to take a risk, to follow her heart.
Eleanor pulled the white thread slowly through the delicate fabric, careful not to mar the lovely material of the gown she was remaking for Bianca. The dress had originally been Eleanor’s, a remnant of her disastrous debut Season. It was long out of fashion, but the quality of the material was timeless and with a bit of clever needlework it was a serviceable gown. More than serviceable, really, since anything Bianca wore looked elegant and refined.
The earl was not overly generous when it came to his daughters’ upkeep. By necessity, Eleanor had perfected her sewing skills, remaking many older gowns for herself and her sister. These days she spent far less time on her own garments, for she was determined that Bianca always appear in fresh, fashionable clothes.
Eleanor was debating whether to embroider a floral design at the base of the gown’s bodice when she heard the sound of heavy-booted feet stomping down the hall. Her hands stilled as she strained her ears, listening for the deep, booming voice that would certainly accompany them. It came all too soon, shouting at one of the footmen to open the drawing room door. Father.
Eleanor swallowed hard, hoping to calm the sudden pain in her stomach. Before she had a chance to fully compose herself, the door swung open and the Earl of Hetfield stalked inside.
Though well into his sixtieth year, the earl was still a handsome man. Tall, commanding, with a head of silver hair and a pair of piercing dark eyes, he dominated any room.
“Papa! You’ve come home.” Bianca rushed forward to embrace him.
Eleanor stayed seated. He was not the sort of parent who liked to show affection, though he tolerated Bianca’s attention without too much protest. As for herself, well, Eleanor could not recall an instance when her father had eagerly bestowed a hug to either of his daughters.
“Careful there, girl, or you’ll crush my coat,” the earl grumbled.
Eleanor’s shoulders stiffened at the callous remark, but Bianca laughed and hugged the earl tighter. For an instant she envied her sister’s naïveté. It protected her from hurt.
“I’m sure there is not a wrinkle to be found anywhere on your illustrious person, my lord,” Eleanor said, eyeing his pristine white cravat and polished black boots. “Your valet would never allow it.”
The earl tipped back his head and glanced at her, his brows drawing into a frown of puzzlement. Good Lord, does he not even know who I am? Her mouth dry, Eleanor forced her eyes to meet his, a shaky smile forming on her lips.
“I need a drink,” the earl declared abruptly. “The roads from Town were a disaster.”
“Let me get it for you, Papa,” Bianca offered.
Without waiting for his answer, Bianca skipped over to the sideboard. Her lower lip curled under in confusion as she contemplated the trio of crystal decanters and variously shaped