in quite deep// featherington oc

seven

In a town filled with ambitious mamas and fortune-hunting gentlemen, marrying above one's station is an art form, indeed. But Miss Daphne Bridgerton's advance from future duchess to possible princess is an achievement that even this jaded author must applaud. Though this author cannot dismiss the Duke of Hastings quite so soon. He may have let the diamond slip through his fingers for now, but I shall wager he is not a man to ever hide from a fight.

I sit in the drawing room watching as Mama offers Miss Thompson up to Lord Rutledge.

"Her needlework is divine," Mama states. "And, of course, she sings and plays the pianoforte very prettily."

"Show me a smile, girl," Lord Rutledge instructs.

"I beg your pardon?" Miss Thompson remarks.

"Your teeth, I want to see them," Lord Rutledge tells her. "Is she simpleminded?"

Mama laughs. "Goodness, no! Oh, you are droll! Miss Thompson, um, show Lord Rutledge your lovely smile. Miss Thompson?"

Miss Thompson smiles but I would not call it lovely.

"Tell a lot from a person's mouth." Lord Rutledge points to his own teeth. "Soldiers' teeth. Taken from the battlefield. Cost a pretty penny, let me tell you. I shall try her out in company, see how she acquits herself."

"Of course," Mama tells him. "We will be attending the Trowbridge ball this evening, naturally."

"Oh, very well. Good day, Featherington," Lord Rutledge says before leaving.

"Rutledge," Papa calls out to him.

"You cannot be serious," Miss Thompson protests.

"How dare you conduct yourself in such brazen manner?" Mama remarks. She turns to Papa. "Do you see now what I must endure daily?"

Papa does not look up from his paper. "Mm."

"I have had suitors calling on me every morning this week," Miss Thompson insists. "If you think I'm going to marry that vile old..."

Mama interrupts her, "Those suitors are courting you, my dear. That could take weeks, months. Even if a miracle occurred, and one of them married you tomorrow, how do you imagine they would react six months hence when that whelp of yours pops out looking the picture of health? Lord Rutledge is in want of an heir. He will not ask questions."

My sisters make their way into the drawing room as Miss Thompson makes her way out.

"She pushed me!" Philippa protests.

Prudence hits her in the shoulder. "No, she pushed me."

"Hush, both of you!" Mama shouts. "My nerves!" She turns her attnetion back to Papa. "Kindly remind me, my lord, why we cannot simply send Miss Thompson back to her father in the country?" Mama questions.

"The matter is not for discussion," Papa tells her, barely looking up from his paper.

"A gentleman caller. Mr. Albion Finch."

A young man walks into the room. "Good day." He sneezes. "Daisies always trouble my nose."

"Miss Thompson is not receiving visitors, Mr. Finch," Mama tells her.

"That is quite all right. I am here to call on Miss Featherington," Mr Finch explains.

Philippa looks quite surprised.

"Miss Philippa Featherington?" Mama asks.

Philippa stands and walks over to Mr Finch. She curtseys before taking the flowers from him. "Thank you, sir."