Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,10
not bring up the viscount. Do not try to tell me, yet again, that love still exists. I’ve seen both its pleasures and its demise, and I want none of it ever again.
Taking the hint, she replaces her smile. “You might still change your mind. If the right person comes along, that is. Just don’t do what you always do.”
“And what is it I always do?”
She gives me a pointed look. “You always expect the worst in people. If you didn’t, you’d notice just how many handsome gentlemen have arrived in town this week.”
“Goody,” I say. Taking up the paper again, I hide behind its sheets, seeing words but reading nothing.
Nina groans. “You aren’t still looking for jobs, are you? You know Father will never allow it.”
“I’m eighteen,” I say. “I don’t need Father’s permission to take a job.”
“He’ll cut your allowance.”
“That’s the point of getting a job.”
“He’ll forbid you from living at home.”
“Again, the benefits of a job.”
Nina stammers. “You…you’ll never snag a wealthy husband if you’re employed.” She says the last word like it’s dirty.
I flip the corner of my paper down to narrow my eyes at her.
When I flip the page back up, she says, “Well, have you had any replies to your inquiries?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. I know what she’s getting at, and no, not a single response has been sent to me from the jobs in town I’ve inquired about. That’s why I’ve been so eager for the daily post to arrive, despite my hopes proving futile. I’ve applied for every job I consider myself qualified for, save for those beneath my financial needs, which means most were reserved for men. Not a single employer has sent so much as a thank you, much less an invitation to interview.
“Inquiries about what?”
I jump at the sound of Father’s rich baritone coming from the hall and quickly fold the paper away, stashing it beneath the cover of one of my books. I sit upright just as he enters the parlor. He eyes me, suspicion in his dark gaze, lips pursed beneath his black mustache.
“Dresses,” I rush to say. “I’m seeking a new gown.”
He pauses to consider my answer, rubbing the stubble at his jaw, then gives an approving nod. “That should help your prospects.”
I try my best to smile instead of scowl. My prospects. That’s all he cares about. Now that we’re wealthy again, thanks to a change in fortune a few months back, he has no need for me to act as our household manager. He hires men for that role, and I am to return to what I was always meant to be in his eyes—a daughter training to be a wife. Just another one of his properties. Unlike my two sisters, however, I am more like the mining properties that gave Father so much trouble after Mother died.
With a deep breath, I settle once again beneath my mask of indifference, reaching a delicate hand for my teacup and taking a dainty sip. Ever the dutiful daughter. Ever the prized pig at the fair.
He takes a step closer. “Mrs. Aston says you met her eldest son today.”
Ah, so word of that has already spread. I shouldn’t be surprised. “Yes, he introduced himself to me at the bookshop this morning.”
“You refused his offer to walk you home.” He doesn’t bother hiding his disapproval.
“I did. I desired some time alone with darling Imogen.” My words come out with far more sarcasm than I mean to reveal.
“While I approve of your restraint as opposed to throwing yourself at the young man—”
I nearly lash out as my inner rage ignites. By throwing myself at him, I’m sure he’s referring to what he assumes transpired with the viscount in Bretton. Swallowing my anger, I grit my teeth and take another sip of my tea.
“—I do think your refusal must be far softer next time. Decline such an invitation only once to demonstrate your virtue. If you refuse a suitor’s persistence too many times, he’s not likely to try again.”
“Perhaps a suitor’s unwanted persistence shouldn’t be praised but condemned.” I try to keep my voice as light as I can, but a bitter edge cuts through.
His eyes narrow to slits, his heavy brow pulling down. “I don’t recall that being your opinion when we were in Bretton.”
My composure shatters, and I slam the teacup on its saucer. No matter how many times I try, I cannot be the daughter Father wants me to be, not even in pretend. Screw the