not graced any of Mrs. Simeon’s parties with her presence yet,” Aster reminded them as she cut into a juicy kipper, her ruined soft-boiled egg pushed to the side. “They might be blood kin, but apparently that does not obligate her to attend her cousin’s gatherings. Heaven knows I would not be inclined to attend of any of Violet’s.”
“Good,” Violet retorted. “Because I shan’t invite you.”
“Girls, stop your bickering.” Mama glared at Aster, clearly unappreciative of her input. “You never know when yet the dowager will show—or even better—when her son, the young Duke of Hampstead, might make an appearance.”
“Young Hampstead eschews all polite Society,” Violet announced with an air of authority. Ever since her betrothal to Redding, she had turned into an expert on all matters of Society. “Everyone knows he has a small set of friends and prefers them to ballrooms.”
“One day he shall give that up. He will need to wed and produce an heir.”
“I’ve seen this young duke at my club,” Papa commented mildly through the barrier of his paper.
Mama gaped. “Mr. Ainsworth! You’ve never said as such. What is he like?”
“He’s a bit of a wild buck,” Papa mused as he turned his paper to the next page.
Mama looked almost affronted at the remark. “He’s young, only but ten and nine, I believe. Newly minted. That’s to be expected. He is the most eligible nobleman in the realm. Handsome and rich as Croesus.”
“Is it no wonder he spends so little time at the ton’s approved venues, with all you marriage-minded mamas slavering after him.”
It was a bit of irony, Primrose supposed, thinking of this unknown, faceless duke. She wanted so desperately to be seen and treated as an adult—to be let out of the nursery, for goodness sake—whilst this duke, this man, a mere lad, from all accounts, not so very much older than herself, had all the freedom in the world. He had wealth and opportunity. Every door was open to him, and he chose not to cross the threshold of any of them.
She didn’t even know him, but she hated him a little.
“The lad has to marry someday and he has no need of a dowry. He can wed whomever he wants. So why not one of our . . .” Mama’s voice faded as she alternated her gaze on Aster and then Primrose. Whatever she saw in the two of them made the excitement dim from her eyes. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “That’s neither here nor there, I suppose.”
The insult was thinly veiled, and Primrose saw right through it. As far as Mama was concerned, the two most attractive Ainsworth daughters had already been matched. Mama did not expect the less appealing two to fare better.
Mama resumed with a beleaguered sigh. “In any event, it is quite a coup to be invited to Mrs. Simeon’s events. We are among the privileged chosen.”
Except for Primrose. She was not chosen. Even today, on her birthday. The vast unfairness of it all weighed down on her and pushed her to move.
Snapping back to action, she departed the room, glad to leave them to talk about all the things they would do without her.
Once in her bedchamber, she checked her reflection in her cheval mirror, looking herself over carefully. She pinched her cheeks for a bit of color. Cringing at the hopeless sight of her hair, she attempted to smooth down the tendrils that sprang from her coronet of plaits. Her hair was perpetually untidy. It would take more time than she had to tame the fiery strands.
She paced the length of her chamber, biding her time as patiently as she could until she needed to leave for her meeting with Olympia. A challenging task. Patience was the least of her virtues.
When she could wait no longer, she snatched up her reticule and fled her room.
In the foyer, she grabbed her bonnet and arranged it on her head. There. That would hide her less-than-perfect hair. She turned in a small circle, as though expecting to see someone in the entrance hall to bid her farewell, to inquire when she might return. Her mother or her father. Her sisters. Gertie or the housekeeper.
No one was about. She turned for the door. No one made note of her leaving the house, which wasn’t as much of a surprise as it should have been.
She was the forgotten daughter, after all. Mama might keep tabs on her, but that was only superficially. Invisibility was the proven condition of her