Free Connie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 3) by Mary Kingswood Page A

mellowed her quite enough.
    “Go to London? What nonsense is this?” Lady Sara said in her sternest tones.
    “Amy and Belle are to go, Mama, and they have very kindly offered to take me with them. Just think how much my prospects will improve in London society! It is everything of the most delightful, and I would so much like to go. May I, Mama? Please may I?”
    “Connie, your prospects, as you put it, could hardly be improved upon. You have two sons of a Marquess dancing attendance upon you, and at the last two assemblies you were never without a partner. You will have an offer very soon, I am certain of it. There is no need to go to London.”
    “But I may get a better offer in London, Mama,” Connie said.
    Her mother looked at her quizzically. “One offer is much the same as another, Connie. One man is much the same as another.”
    “Oh no, surely not!”
    “Indeed it is true. Just because your sisters fancy themselves in love is no reason for you to make the same mistake. Love is a poor guide to happiness, and I hope you would never refuse a sensible offer for some foolish romantic notion. A respectable gentleman with a good income — that is all that is required, and you can find that here just as easily as in London. Indeed, the distractions of London are like to bring you home still single. Concentrate on the Marquess and his brother, or, since that is aiming a little high, one of those two young men from High Frickham. They are both very keen, and you may have your pick of them, you know, if you feel you must have a choice.”
    This was no consolation to Connie, who could not tell one from the other. She wept until her eyes were red, and pleaded until her throat was sore, but to no avail. Lady Sara was implacable.
    Dulcie was almost as distressed by this refusal as Connie herself, for if there was anything almost as glorious as a season in London, it was her dearest sister enjoying such pleasure in her stead. The two retired to their bedroom at night to weep in each other’s arms until they slept in sheer exhaustion.
    The lassitude and headache brought on by this despair kept them at home for several days until one morning brought the Marquess and Lord Reginald to call, bearing flowers from their great-aunt’s hot-houses.
    “We missed you yesterday, for you always call on Great-aunt Augusta, you know,” Lord Reginald said. “So we made enquiries and discovered the dreadful news — that Miss Constance is indisposed, and Miss Dulcie stays home to take care of her. But look — we have brought you a few blooms to cheer you up. There! That smile is more like yourself.”
    “You are too kind, my lord. I thank you — both of you — for your concern for my welfare. I am not ill, truly, but… well, I was at Willowbye and perhaps I over-exerted myself.”
    “Ah, yes, that would do it, for you are so generous, Miss Constance. Really, you should think of yourself more, for we cannot have you suffer any malady as a result of your efforts for others. But perhaps a short walk in the garden would do you some good? It is mild today, and that dreadful wind has finally blown itself out. I almost feel we are in spring at last.”
    Connie and Dulcie dutifully fetched cloaks and bonnets, and showed the two lords the way to the garden door. Such attention cheered Connie immensely, especially as Grace and Hope had gone to the village and they could stroll about the paths as two pairs, in a manner that was most comfortable. Connie was moved to explain to Lord Reginald, on whose arm her hand presently rested, the whole sorry tale of her raised hopes, Mama’s intransigence and the consequent lowering of her spirits.
    “Good Lord, Miss Constance, no wonder you are out of sorts, after such a disappointment! London is of all things the most charming place to be, and I should be upset myself to be deprived of the pleasure of the season. Indeed, we were , only last year, for dear Mama died at last, poor soul, and we were