A confusing combination of anger and pity for her mother always struck Angelica at those words. When Margaret married a common banker, the Earl of Pendlebur had been infuriated. He had cut off his daughter’s money and promised to withhold the funds until Angelica made a proper marriage.
Now Margaret was determined to arrange the match of the season between her daughter and some indolent lord. Whether she intended the marriage to mend fences with Grandfather or if it was only for the money, Angelica didn’t know. Either way, the pressure for a titled husband, a wealthy one if possible, was upon her tenfold more than the average debutante. The concept was sickening. One’s merit should be separate from one’s parentage.
She lifted her chin melodramatically and quoted, “‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’” Shakespeare had a valid point. Of course, that was as far as she could identify with his heroine. After all, Juliet actually wanted to get married.
The concept of marriage and being a proper society matron was anathema to Angelica. She longed for adventures such as Mary Shelley had embarked on when she was Angelica’s age. Her imagination spun as she read of the author’s journeys across the continent, taking her from Paris to Italy, even to Switzerland. It was in the evocative setting of Lake Geneva, during an exhilarating thunderstorm, that Mary had penned her gothic masterpiece, Frankenstein.
Amidst the company of such masterful writers as Lord Byron, John Polidori, and Percy Shelley, Mary had been completely free to be herself and write what she wished. Angelica longed for such freedom. She knew her work would thrive if she were away from the stifling sphere of the haut ton, the hypocritical pinnacle of England’s nobility and their stringent idea of marriage.
She heaved a sigh and sagged against the wall. Even Mary Shelley had given in to convention when she married Percy. And apparently marriage had suffocated even her bold spirit. After Frankenstein, Mary had quit writing. Wedlock and motherhood seemed to make every woman as miserable as Angelica’s mother.
A noise outside interrupted her reverie. Angelica rushed to the window and caught sight of a carriage stopping in front of the mansion across the street behind her house. Her heart leaped in excitement. The duke was back in London! Now, here was good fodder for her stories. Along with his predecessors, the Duke of Burnrath had always been the biggest mystery in high society. He rarely deigned to mix with the beau monde, only attending White’s or the occasional ball before departing once again to places unknown.
Though His Grace was ever an object of speculation, he preyed on Angelica’s thoughts only half as often as his home, the true center of her fascination. The imposing Elizabethan manor had belonged to the dukes of Burnrath for more than a hundred years. She believed Burnrath House was haunted. Angelica was unable to count the times she had seen movement or heard noises coming from the place when it was supposed to be vacant. Delicious fantasies whispered through her mind as to what sorts of ghoulish specters lurked, or perhaps floated, in its dark recesses. Many of her stories were inspired by Burnrath House, but imagination could only carry her so far.
She gazed at the ancient mansion, shivering in her thin shift. The upper floors thrust up from the heavy evening fog, the ornately columned chimneys resembling dark sentinels. Angelica knew if she managed to get inside, she could create a masterpiece of gothic horror to match Mrs. Shelley’s. Dedicated research was the source of all great stories, after all. Mentally, she added entry into Burnrath House to her goals.
Angelica caught a glimpse of a dark figure leaving the house and entering the carriage before footsteps on the stairs announced the approach of her mother and her lady’s maid. It was a pity she couldn’t call on His Grace. Even if it was permissible for an unmarried lady to do so, the duke didn’t move in the same circles as her family. Yet another disappointment brought on by stuffy matters of propriety and rank. Her bedroom door opened and she darted from the window to sit primly on the bed.
“I cannot wait to see you in this exquisite creation!” Margaret sang as she carried a ball gown into the room. Liza, Angelica’s lady’s maid, followed behind with stays and petticoats. “The suitors will be lining up to dance with you.” All signs of anger from the argument had vanished as Margaret resumed her role of happy matchmaker.