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“As he flew away from her, Psyche called after him, but her cries could not reach his ears.”

Lucius Apuleius, Metamorphoses

October 1, 1821

“That is when I told Miss Simmons that as the wife to a handsome future baron, I outrank her, and she must enter behind me!” Olivia’s voice grew high-pitched and mirthful as she completed her story with a giggle of triumph.

“Brava, daughter! Well done of you!”

Simon shot a glance over at Lady Boyle, uncertain if she was serious in her congratulations or being facetious. His heart sank. It was genuine pride.

He felt his spirits sink lower still. The Boyles were visiting for a Sunday meal after joining his family for church services, and Simon was considering going down to the local docks to join any merchant ship setting sail. He would be a hardworking deckhand, dodging scurvy and terrible storms rather than eating at the dining table with this ridiculous family.

There are things to like about her. She is … a pleasing songbird.

Or so he had been told. Simon had yet to hear her sing because he found an excuse to keep their visits short each time they met.

His mother was seated across from him, barely touching her meal, with a vacuous expression as she stared over his shoulder into the distance and fanned herself. Perhaps Simon should try laudanum himself, as it evidently got Isla through these encounters.

“It is such an advantage,” Olivia trilled, “to be the betrothed of a handsome future baron!” Olivia’s shrill voice was grating on his nerves. They had been at lunch for a good half an hour, and the conversation had been dominated by the joys of a woman betrothed.

“I could have secured you a viscount if you had but waited,” Lord Boyle replied with a sour tone, still put out that he had had to settle for Simon.

I wish you had.

“Do not be silly, Papa! Lord Clutterbuck was the only viscount who displayed any interest, and he is older than you! No, a handsome future baron is quite sufficient to make Miss Simmons ill with envy!”

Simon had become aware of Olivia’s habit of stating everything as a dramatic declaration. One could hear the exclamation mark that punctuated the end of every sentence. It was one of the most irritating idiosyncrasies he had cataloged as he sat in silence. Thus far. One did not have much opportunity to speak when the Boyles were talking about themselves, and he was not inclined to contribute to the inane bickering.

“That is correct, Lord Boyle! That fire ship was quite put in her place!”

Simon cringed at Lady Boyle’s interjection, and even Isla roused a little with an astonished blink. Molly was sitting beside his mother and choked. She put her fork down to compose herself. Simon gritted his teeth lest he burst into laughter. He did not know what the viscountess had intended to say, but it could not have been a fire ship, a terrible insult that referred to a wench with venereal disease.

Next to him, John was not so composed, breaking into a wheezing cough so he might cover his smile and disguise his amusement. Simon raised his wine to hide his own grin as he grappled with the threads of his self-control.

Then the hilarity was over as Olivia brought the conversation back to what really mattered. “It is true! Miss Simmons is well aware she has lost our clash of wills and that I have emerged the victor … because of my betrothal to a future baron!”

Simon’s spirits plummeted again as he fidgeted in his chair at the uncomfortable warm weather. The aspect of himself that he disliked the most was that his future had been chosen for him, and he was on a path that the Fates had set upon him in the manner of mythological gods conspiring to shape his destiny into one of tragedy and denial. The fact that Olivia harped on about his lack of free will served as a constant reminder of his discontent.

Mother said her personality will mature.

He was regretting his commitment to duty, but it was too late. A contractual betrothal was as good as married, except for the final step. Almost impossible and financially ruinous to end. There was no doubting Lord Boyle would sue them for every penny of the Blackwood fortune if they attempted to break the contract. Nay, Simon’s matrimony was a fait accompli.

A wedding was being planned for late October, and with each passing minute, the sensation that he was drowning in a circumstance of his own contrivance increased in teeny tiny increments until he was a heartbeat away from hysterical panic.

He had heard tell of a form of torture they practiced in China. Lingchi, or slow slicing. A victim was executed by a thousand cuts so that he suffered greatly until he eventually expired.

Dabbing a handkerchief over his face to counteract the heat of the day, Simon felt he had stumbled into a form of intellectual Lingchi in which he was sliced by a thousand bacon-brained comments until, at last, his ability to think intelligently would leak out his ears to leave him a gibbering fool.

Did all members of their class consider the minutia of precedence to be of such vital importance?

Sometimes his mind would float away so that he was sure he was living in a waking nightmare, but unfortunately, he would never awaken. This was his life now. Soon, they would all be united by matrimony and … and …

Dear heaven, perhaps laudanum is not such a terrible idea after all?

Madeline was reading in the walled garden, enjoying a tea in the shade and fanning herself to dispel the unseasonable heat, when she heard hurried steps approaching. Looking up, she found Molly entering through the arch with a hunted expression.