The Marquess and the Midwife (*On Hold*)

11 Norah

I loosed a breath as Ingrid pulled my corset so tight I could have sworn she fractured a rib. Standing in front of the mirror, holding onto a post of my bed for dear life, I felt quite the fool. And even more so when one of the maids went so far as to place a foot on my back to pull backwards.

"Mother, honestly," I gasped out when I could finally breathe again. "What is the meaning of this? I've already secured a match."

"You have secured nothing," my mother argued, raising a brow as she stepped forward from where she had been watching the ridiculous display in the corner of the room. "The boy is interested in you, yes. It seems to be going well, yes. He seems captivated by your rebellious spirit and unfortunate manners, unbelievably. But you have no offer of marriage as of yet and until you do your waist will be so tiny that people will wonder if its simply your spine."

Another heave from Ingrid had me gasping and the maid met my gaze with an apologetic frown in the mirror.

"This is ridiculous," I ground out.

"Men are ridiculous," my mother countered. "A small waist is no good for childbearing and yet they want you breakable as a bird for courtship."

I couldn't help but smirk at that. Was my mother actually passing judgment on the male sex? How very unusual.

"Stand up straight," she barked and the moment was gone.

I did as she said, letting her dress me in a gown of wine colored silk. It was so beautiful that it had me looking up at her again.

"What's the occasion?" I asked, running my fingers over the delicate, smooth fabric.

"This ball is an annual tradition," my mother reminded me. "Even married couples wear their very best. So you will have to do more to stand out."

"Why should I need to stand out? As I said, I am already–"

"Kyrie is the most sought after gentleman of the season. Men are fickle creatures. Should Rosanna James or, heaven forbid, Lucilla Marsh emerge in some sparkling, cleavage spilling monstrosity, you must be prepared to fend off their competition."

"Competition? Mother, don't you think you're being a little bit dramatic?"

"Women are dramatic, dear. And wicked to one another. Just because you have staked first claim does not mean that none of them will attempt to take him from you."

"Take him from– mother, this is barbaric. We are a civilized society. Kyrie is his own man. Should he decide that one of the other women are a better fit for him and his future than I am, he is free to make that decision of his own accord."

"That is loser talk."

"Then a loser, I may be. But I will not trick a man into marrying me through shiny dresses and my breasts."

"Then you must think very little of half of the matches in England."

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head with a sigh.

"This is how things are done, dear," my mother informed me, striding forward and placing her hands on my shoulders. "Men are good at a great many things. Hunting and sport and managing wealth and title. But they are positively stupid when it comes to love and marriage. So we must guide them. And yes, if you have to lead Kyrie in the right direction by your breasts, then you will."

"I will pretend I did not hear a word of that," a voice spoke from the threshold and my mother and I turned to find my father standing there, hat in hand and coat already on, "because I truly wish I hadn't."

I snorted.

"Theodore, there you are," my mother said in greeting, ignoring the awkwardness of the conversation we had just been having and my father's overhearing of it. "Are you ready to go then? Norah should be ready soon as well. All we have left are the jewels."