A Sense of Propriety

Prologue

1810

The early sunshine sent its golden beams through ostentatiously large windows, illuminating the rooms of Mayfield House with its exquisite brilliance. The house was old in stature, dating back to the Elizabethan era with its hand-painted ceilings and marble floors. Many nobles had lived in this grand house, but the young girl seated before a writing desk was by far the most interesting of them all despite her lack of title.

The warmth of the sun's rays touched her fair skin, lighting her golden locks in such a fashion that it could deceive one as a vibrant candle flame. Her soft, round features revealed how young she was, but the harshness of her mourning clothes seemed to wash the youthfulness from her face. The sadness in her cornflower blue eyes made her appear much older than her young age of thirteen.

A deep frown had beset her young features, the quail feather within her grasp pausing over the paper as she contemplated the accuracy of her message. But when her thoughts seemed to smudge together in her mind, her lips drew into a thin line. She exhaled softly as she leaned over the desk in exhaustion, instinctively raising one hand to rest against her cheek.

She winced immediately.

Her eyes deepened in sorrow as she traced the tender skin on her cheek, not needing a mirror to know that the damage was extensive. She closed her eyes tightly as memories of the previous morning came to bear.

The feeling of the riding crop as it struck her across the face was not a moment easily forgotten.

A fresh bout of tears made themselves known in her eyes, causing her to press her lips together tightly to prevent any sound from forming.

It was all her fault. She should never have been so careless.

And because of her foolishness, her best friend was being sent away.

The sound of voices drifting through the opened windows caught her attention. Slowly, she stood from the desk and made her way towards the large floor-to-ceiling windows that framed most of the drawing room. Beyond their massive panes lay the main road that ran past the house, and a fine-looking carriage had stopped before the house next door.

Her heart quickened its pace in her chest when she saw several men exit the house, and she sucked in a sharp breath when she recognized her friend was one of them. She had not realized the time had drawn so close, and she rushed back to the desk.

"Martha!" she called as she frantically rang the bell. "Martha!"

She hastily signed her letter, resigning herself to the fact that what she had said would have to do, and prayed that it was dry enough before she folded it in half, just as her nurse entered the drawing room.

Martha was an old woman, well into her sixties with silver hair and weather-beaten cheeks. Though she looked callous and stern, she was one of the sweetest of women that Cordelia had ever known. And despite her age, she was still remarkably able-bodied, with a swiftness to her step as she looked towards the young girl who called for her.

"Are you all right, Miss Cordelia? Whatever is the matter?"

"Please, Martha," she begged as she ran towards her. "I need you to take this to Lord Beaumont this instant. Do not give it to anyone but himself," she instructed as she offered the folded paper to her.

Martha's thin lips parted in shock. "But Miss Cordelia, you know full well that it is highly improper to write him—"

"I know. I know, but this is urgent, Martha. He needs to know that I . . ." the young girl paused in her words, a pained look crossing her expression. She swallowed the tightness in her throat. "Please, Martha. He needs to read it."