Free Lady: Impossible by B.D. Fraser Page A

that she’s lucky I even wore a bra, something I only did for Blair’s sake.
    It’s but one example of why having Blair around is bizarre. The last couple of days have been so strange, with my mother acting like nothing is wrong and me acting as if there’s an unwelcome guest in the house. I’m jumpy around Blair – so overly conscious of his presence that I feel as though every entrance of his should be announced with a great fanfare. Don’t get me wrong: he’s been completely professional, if not a little reserved. It’s just that I don’t feel like I can be myself in my own house, which is more than a little disconcerting, and all the more reason to retire to this room so I can channel good vibes and happy thoughts.  
    Upon entering the room I dim the lights so that the soft yellow glow complements the mural, and plop down on the comfiest armchair. I feel better already – the mural of Silsbury Hall and its grounds providing a welcome reminder of home. Oh, the palatial facade of that old, solid stone and its surrounding green of sprawling acres draw me in. I yearn for the familiarity and order of the estate in times like this. This oval room on the first floor is the closest I can get to it right now, so instead I settle for the vicinity of the walls that bear its image.  
    Sometimes I don’t blame my father for hardly ever leaving the place. There are moments when shutting out the world around is exactly what’s needed.
    I retrieve my phone from my pocket to call him, but I’m instantly reminded of Monday morning’s misdirected text. When I finally managed to get hold of Abby that afternoon, she laughed so hysterically that she sounded deranged. That laughter ended as soon as I told her about next week’s matchmaker meeting. Then it was consolation time, something I greatly appreciated.
    Hopefully there will be further consolation in a moment. Scrolling through my contacts more carefully this time, I correctly select my father’s number.
    He picks up promptly. ‘Millie, my dear. How wonderful to hear from you.’
    It’s a relief to hear his stern but caring voice. ‘How are you?’
    ‘The usual, dear. You know how it is. How are you?’
    ‘Ah. That’s a very good question.’
    ‘Oh no. That doesn’t sound good.’
    I picture him standing by a window, thinking of London and shaking his head. Maybe George, his loyal butler, is with him too, ready to hand him a drink when I get to the juicy bits.
    ‘I honestly don’t know where to begin.’
    ‘Start anywhere. That’s what you always tell me.’
    I sigh and draw my legs in so I can sit cross-legged. ‘She’s arranged for me to meet with a matchmaker.’
    The sound that greets this news can only be described as a guffaw: a kind of ringing, throaty bleat that I want to shrink away from despite the miles between us. ‘No confidence in you at all, apparently! Amazing.’
    ‘The only reason I don’t have a husband is because I haven’t been looking. Plus, I don’t think I’m ready yet.’
    ‘Is that a modern take I’m hearing? I have to admit, there comes a time when one must consider looking.’
    Something tells me he’s not a hundred per cent outraged, that he’s more amused than anything. ‘Are you defending her? I didn’t even ask for this meeting. Plus, I’ve heard the fees start at ten thousand pounds. In a time of cutting corners, it’s hardly a justifiable figure.’
    ‘They’ll like to portray it as an investment , my dear: spend ten thousand to make millions more. There’s a difference between ‘wealthy’ and ‘very wealthy’. I suspect the matchmaker’s has only prime candidates on its books?’
    I gasp. ‘Marcus Pembroke, Eighth Earl of Silsbury, are you betraying me?’
    ‘Betrayal is such an ugly word, Millie. I see this more as a reality check – emphasis on the ‘cheque’. The family fortune can only last so long. Without more income, there will come a time when we will have to sell our assets.’
    ‘You