Lady Melwyn Pencavel released the wrist strap and stared across at her abigail. “Well, here we are, home, to emptiness and routine—and my excruciating death, I daresay. I hope dear Papa won’t scold me too severely.”“He most often scolds, m’lady, don’t he?” Clowenna gave her the usual smirk born from her years of suffering as Melwyn’s partner in misdeed. “Truth be told, ‘ee does tend to misbehave, an’ on purpose if I do say so.”“What else is there left for a woman to do in this repressive society? You won’t ever be forced into an unwanted marriage. I’m nearly one and twenty, and my betrothed is almost forty. He’ll be in his dotage soon.” Melwyn opened the door, almost hitting the waiting footman in the face. He let down the step. She alighted and breathed in the brisk air, the welcome scents of boxwood and lavender. The March spring blooms were starting, peeling off the greyness of winter. She loved her home, yet more often of late it seemed a prison.
What do You think about The Defiant Lady Pencavel?
