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and rooted to the spot, gripping the silk drape in her hand. They may as well place a bit in her mouth and parade her through the streets, a fine filly for sale.
    “We shall secure her as good a match as we may. What shall she wear, think you?”
    “Her pink gown will show her to best advantage,” her aunt said. “Have you been practicing, Cecilia?”
    “Yes, Aunt Higham,” Cecilia said, grinding the words through clenched teeth.
    “Let us hear you, then, so I may mark how you’ve improved.”
    Cecilia strode to the pianoforte in the corner by the door and slammed out a note. Her mother shot her a deep frown. Cecilia bowed her head and closed her eyes. Stretching out her fingers, she played the song she’d sung with ‘Ret only a few days before.
    “The Taylors will be joining us tomorrow?” her mother said as Cecilia finished playing.
    “Yes, and Mr. Treacle and Mr. Borden. We shall be an odd number, with Amelia at the Drydens’, but it is as well. You know what an influence she is on your daughter.”
    Cecilia stood, catching the tilting bench. “May I rest before dinner, Mama?”
    The sisters exchanged a concerned glance. “Perhaps a tray sent up?” her aunt asked.
    Cecilia nodded and walked to the door.
    “We cannot have her indisposed,” her aunt continued as Cecilia shut the door behind her.
    She ran upstairs where she again stared out the front window, as she had in the room below. Mr. Thornhill must be in one of those narrow houses across the square. She crossed her arms. Her mother’s choice be hanged. She would withstand all onslaughts until she could return home. Nodding, she walked to the table, where her books lie. Reading would calm her restlessness.   
    The next evening, Cecilia was primped and pulled at to the limits of her patience. However, she had to admit her cousin’s maid had a way with putting up her hair, in beautiful pearl-strewn ringlets and a bit of Fanny’s Rigge’s liquid bloom made her full lips positively dewy. This, coupled with her soft pink muslin gown with its slightly revealing crossover bodice and classical drape, accentuated her shapely figure and youth. She tried to keep her mind on these small pleasures and all the topics her mother told her to avoid, but there were moments she only wished Mr. Cateret could see her looking so and what lively conversations they used to have. Cecilia pushed these thoughts aside; she must learn to scorn him as he had her.
    Before dinner, she sat on a chair in the drawing room, off to the side. Fanny’s Mr. Borden was handsome, in a dandyish sort of way, not at all to Cecilia’s liking, with a supercilious curl in his smile and thin, angular features. Quite a contrast to the short, plump Mr. Treacle, whose broad smile cloaked a vicious tongue. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Taylor appeared, ever polite but vacuous, their pale looks as insipid as their conversation. How sensible Mrs. Partridge and the flighty Mrs. Taylor were born of the same parents baffled Cecilia. Having no wish to converse further with any of the party, she rose to cross to the window, only to be stayed by her mother when Mr. Thornhill was announced.
    He strode into the room. Cecilia’s stomach gave an odd jump. He was the rider, that careless, proud man, who had nearly killed little Mary Fordham in his hurry. She ground out a smile as he finished greeting the other guests and approached with her aunt. Her limbs tingled when he smiled, his deep eyes sparkling, as she remembered, calm yet dangerous as a treacherous stretch of the river where the colors called her to wade further into their shimmering depths only to pull her under.
    She hardly heard her aunt’s introduction, or her own polite replies. He gave no indication of their previous meeting; perhaps he felt sorry for his actions. Certainly he was as courteous as her aunt had said. And as much of a man as she had implied. His strength exuded beyond his proper form, drawing Cecilia to him like a sunny spot on a chill