Everyone else had had something to say; she’d been the only one with no actual purpose to her life and, consequently, nothing in terms of goals achieved to report.
Mary had her children, her household to run, and she was also working to establish schools and other improvements for the workers on the marquessate’s far-flung estates.
Felicia worked hand in glove with her brother, William, on steam-powered inventions and also with Rand in evaluating the inventions of others; the pair were planning a trip to Paris to investigate some new type of pen, of all things.
And Sylvia was neck-deep in running her school—a school she’d more or less single-handedly founded.
Her brothers all had occupations—Ryder managing the marquessate’s estates, Rand and his investment syndicates, Kit with his yachts, and even Godfrey was tiptoeing toward some sort of position in the art world.
Only she was utterly without purpose.
As on Godfrey’s arm, she moved around the room, pretending to study the paintings, she decided that, as she wasn’t going to marry, her lack of occupation needed to be rectified.
She’d noted that all the others had found their purpose in their strongest passion—Godfrey and his obsession with art being a perfect example.
Her only true passion was music. Sadly, among the ton, a liking for music was hardly unique, but for her, the fascination went much deeper. So what life-purpose could she create for herself based on music?
She continued to cling to Godfrey’s arm and the relative privacy that bought her. Ignoring the dry judgments he passed on each painting, she set her mind to the task of devising some position for herself—some absorbing career to which she could devote herself.
One that wouldn’t harm anyone else but, instead, would help others.
Eyes narrowing in concentration, she told herself that there had to be something she could do.
She was still trying to imagine what that something might be when a stir ran through the guests and calls went up for all the unmarried young ladies present to gather in the center of the hall.
Stifling a sigh, Stacie drew her arm from Godfrey’s, pulled a hideous face that only he could see, then left him chuckling and dutifully joined the small group of ladies smiling and jockeying for position before the chair onto which Kit had lifted Sylvia to stand. From long experience, Stacie knew that arguing that she was beyond marriageable age—that, indeed, she was old enough that in earlier times, she would have been termed an ape-leader—would get her nowhere, especially not with those around her being mostly family, connections, or Kit’s friends.
Smiling wryly to herself, she joined the very back of the small pack.
She was shorter than most of those in front of her—no real risk of Sylvia’s bouquet reaching her.
She’d reckoned without Sylvia, who turned to face away from the group. On a count of three, to cheers and whoops, Stacie’s new sister-in-law slung her neat bouquet in an energetic fashion sideways around her shoulder.
Instead of flying high and landing among the shifting ladies, the bouquet whizzed toward them just above head height, causing some to instinctively shriek and duck, while others belatedly raised their hands toward the prize—bobbling the small bouquet and sending it tumbling and skipping across their reaching fingers.
Until it was flying toward Stacie.
Instinct took over. It was catch the thing or have it smash into her face.
She caught it, then, horrified, realized what she’d done.
She promptly told herself she didn’t believe in such silly superstitions.
Others gathered around her, congratulations and arch speculations on their lips.
Stacie barely heard them.
As she stared at the delicate bouquet resting in her hands, her only thought was that Fate, in her infinite wisdom, had made a truly stupid mistake.
* * *
It was evening when Kit and Sylvia slipped away from the continuing family celebration, which had moved to Ryder and Mary’s suite in the city’s best hotel.
When Kit led Sylvia up the steps of the house they would make their home, she felt as if she stood on the cusp of entering a new world—and indeed, she did.
Kit unlocked the door and ushered her into the front hall—a light, airy space that, during the day, was lit by a circular skylight high above. Sylvia glanced up and saw stars twinkling, diamonds in the black velvet of the sky.
After closing the door on the night, Kit came to lift her cloak from her shoulders. She’d changed out of her wedding gown and left it and the glorious veil in Mary’s keeping; the gown Sylvia now wore was a simpler style in blue satin the same color as her eyes.