"Sit up straight, Mary Sue," Harold's nasally voice rises above clomping horse hooves and the growl of carriage wheels against broken cobblestone. "Slouching will not sever unseemly inches from your height. It merely makes you appear slovenly."
I slump deeper against the threadbare velvet of my bench, let my knees fall open beneath my gown's ridiculously heavy skirt, and bequeath my husband a baleful glare. "Your jowls are swaying, Darling. I do hope you didn't say anything incredibly important, for I'm afraid I wasn't listening."
Harold's portly face reddens and his flappy, liver-hued lips quiver as his beefy hands clench into fists at his sides. "I was forced to sell a parcel of land to pay for the hundred yards of silk and lace required to fashion a respectable gown large enough to cover your gargantuan hide—the very gown you are destroying with your hideous posture. Now, sit up straight and smooth out those damnable wrinkles or I will make the proper corrections for you."
Always quick to temper, Harry is already in top form and this endless, godforsaken night hasn't yet begun. I see his knuckles whiten and decide I already stand out among the social elite quite sufficiently. There's no need to further distinguish myself with a swollen cheek or a purpling eye. Straightening my spine, I square my shoulders and run my damp palms over my gown's silk bodice. "You might remind yourself I am one of your few remaining assets, Lord Doyle, and count yourself fortunate I married well below my station. If it weren't for my lineage, your invitation to this dread fiasco would have been quite unforthcoming."
His lips spread into a wide, yellow-toothed grin as he laughs at me, and I wonder for the millionth time how I've come to be chained to this homely, balding beast of a man twenty years my senior—this lowly, no-nothing lord of shrinking properties and failing industry who wears his forty-two years as if they're sixty, who has more hair on his flabby, pasty belly and sagging buttocks than he does on his head, who has to first coax his miniscule prick out of hiding like a turtle from its oversized shell before he mounts me.
Captain of the Royal Secret Guard, my father is a powerful Marquis, his long line superior to even the Midford Royal Knights in its distinguished service to the crown—although the Midford's are, of course, much, much more well-known. They're allowed to unsheathe their swords in public, after all, whereas my family must be ever-present, but unseen.
The Midfords. How I loathe them. So pretty and perfect and celebrated, and I, who would have wielded great power and married the same had my traitorous body not stretched to a sorely noticeable six feet of height, am naught but a pitiable laughingstock.
Surely, I am destined for much more than this utterly futile and humiliating existence.
"Oh . . .oh . . .My Dear . . ." Harry chokes off his laughter, his eyes darkening with malicious mirth. "I did drop to my knees and thank my lucky stars the day your father came calling with his proposal and your overly generous dowry. I counted myself the most fortunate man in all of England, for, despite your intimidating height, you were quite fair of face and you possessed an enticing form. Indeed, I was perplexed why a Marquis of your father's caliber would consider betrothing his pretty daughter to a lowly lord when surely there were a dozen young, prosperous viscounts more than willing to contract for your affections. I was quite confused, right up until you turned those big, stormy grey eyes on me and I realized any semblance of warmth you might have once possessed had been devoured by your hatred for everything and everyone. Your father was desperate to rid his house of your poisonous presence."
"You know nothing about my father, you pathetic, ugly little man." Rage flares in my breast. In my mind's eye I see my fingernails ripping red rivulets down his drooping, pallid cheeks.
"You're right, My Dear," Harold smirks. "His presence has been quite absent since our wedding. How long has it been now? Two years? I doubt he'd even recognize you anymore, what with your daily determination to temper your bitterness with endless sugary pastries."
"Each day feels like a lifetime," I spit with all the venom coursing through my veins, yet I hear a tremor in my voice, and I hate myself for allowing this awful boar of a man to hurt me with his insignificant taunts.
"Quite," Harold nods with a sigh. He suddenly looks deflated. Exhausted. "I'm sorry, Mary Sue."
My skin hackles. "Don't you dare pity me."
"I wouldn't think of it. You pity yourself quite sufficiently, after all." He smiles wryly. "I am sorry, though, that we're such kindred souls, you and I. And I'm sorry I must subject you to all the pretense and posturing we're about to endure at Duke Ellington's manse tonight, but there's no help for it. The contracts I aim to procure from these over-privileged arses should push Doyle Tapestries well into the black. I don't know about you, but I'd rather not have to continue renting coaches, and I think it would do us both good to fill the empty stables with some grand horses."
Our coachman is an elderly fellow with a lame arm and little skill, evidenced by the bone-jarring ride thus far. The man has certainly hit every possible divot in the cobblestone, and I wouldn't be surprised if he created dozens more. Also, the inside of the carriage smells faintly of stale vomit, and I don't want to consider just what has made the floor so tacky.
Although I hate to agree with Harold about anything, I nod.
"I need you, Mary Sue." Harold leans forward and grasps both of my hands gently, his piggy eyes imploring. "I need you to embody the prestige of your family name pretend to like those pretentious little princesses. Can I count on you?"
"There's no need to fawn so, Harry," Grimacing, I pull my hands out of his and wipe them on my ruffled skirt. "I'll play nice. I'll smile and curtsy and gush over their horrid gowns and seek their pompous favor and be the perfect socialite. Before the end of the night, every one of those shallow bitches will demand to replace their substandard draperies with Doyle excellence."
"I'll be satisfied if you can just manage to smile appropriately and stay your caustic tongue," Harold sighs and leans back against his bench. "Less is more, Mary Sue. No need to be overly ambitious. Stand up straight. Nod and smile. Say as little as possible, least you grievously insult anyone. That's all I ask."
Bastard. "You have all the charisma of a slug, Harry. I suppose it's only fitting, considering you so resemble one. These are wealthy, prestigious men you hope to solicit tonight, all who will step deftly clear of your slime trail, I assure you." I smile sweetly and bat my eyelashes. "Not that it really matters, for it's the Lady of the house who concerns herself with the decorating, you see. If you weren't such an imbecile, you might have embraced this simple concept long ago and made Doyle a household name. Fortunately for you, I was raised with these women. I know just how to play on their fragile egos and tender insecurities."
Harold sits forward again, his expression much too serene, and I know from vast personal experience how closely he totters on the brink of violent rage. "Listen carefully, My Dear." He snatches my hand out of my lap and crushes it in a meaty fist. "I'm going to explain tonight's itinerary, and you will follow it to the letter. Do I have your full attention?"
The bones in my left hand grind together painfully. "Yes, Harold," I nod.
"Brilliant." He loosens his grip minutely, and leans further forward until his puffy face is a few scant inches from mine. The rancid scent of his sour breath assaults my nose. "When we arrive at Ellington Manor you will take my arm and I will escort you inside, where we will first express our most humble gratitude to the Duke for his invitation. Following our greeting, we will engage in one dance, during which you will smile, hold your head high, and allow me to lead. Afterwards, I will deliver you to the buffet, where you will find something to occupy your toxic mouth while I leave you to conduct my business. Should the other ladies avoid you like the plague you are, you will do your best to blend into the wall until the clock chimes eleven, at which time I will meet you in the grand foyer, and we will take our leave. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," I grimace despite myself, my left hand throbbing in time with my heart.
"Wonderful." He releases my hand and leans back, his muddy eyes scrutinizing my hair and makeup with no small amount of disdain. "Smile."
Silently naming three tasteless and quite fatal poisons I might easily procure, I imagine Harold writhing in pain as he defecates himself into a cold grave, and my face lights up quite genuinely.
"Abysmal, but it will have to do," Harry straightens his wilted cravat. "We've arrived."
Beyond the smudged glass of the carriage window, I see shimmering lights and the massive shadow of Ellington Manor looming against the setting sun.