The deep square-cut bosom accentuated my lack of breasts and bony shoulders. Trumpet-shaped sleeves caught up at my elbows, which naturally, would be dragged across plates of gravy and sweet cream before the day’s end.

But as much as I despised the dress, I understood the necessity of pomp and ceremony and my mother’s struggle to achieve it.

The upper class had clothing made for them, and the countess managed to live amongst that charmed circle, despite having no financial worth of her own.

Lady Abigail Leighton, the only child of the ninth Earl Leighton, inherited her title upon the earl’s death. But nothing more. When her inglorious affair with a commoner was made evident by my illegitimate existence, she lost her dowry, her family, and her coveted status in the beau monde.

With no support in England, she was forced abroad—pregnant, destitute, alone—and found refuge here with distant cousins. They took her in, and fourteen years later, we remained in their opulent home, made use of their servants, and ate their lavish meals.

But none of this belonged to us. The master of the house, while ever gracious, could toss us out on our backsides without warning or reason.

We were insolvent tenants. My mother’s ruined reputation ensured that was all she would ever be unless she found a way to reenter society.

I ran my hands over the gown, gilded in her meticulous efforts. She spun, wove, and fashioned our garments out of necessity. Every spool of thread was a cost she couldn’t afford, every cut of cotton a labor of determination, every stitch a stab at a better future.

A better future for her. All I wanted was adventure and a pair of trousers.

She turned at the sound of a knock on the bedchamber door. “Enter.”

“My lady.” The parlor maid hurried in, ducking her bonnet-clad head as she offered the countess a gentleman’s calling card.

Moisture trickled down my spine, and the stays grew uncomfortably tighter. I didn’t need to glance at the card to know it announced the arrival of the Marquess of Grisdale.

“I’ll receive him in the blue parlor,” my mother said. “Prepare the tea.”

“Yes, my lady.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and beat a hasty exit.

I’d never met Lord Grisdale, but his letter to the countess mentioned I’d caught his eye during one of my visits to the pier.

At age forty-four, the childless widower had the wealth and influence to help Lady Abigail regain her former status. He lived in England and would return there once his business concluded in Charleston.

He was her ticket home. In exchange, she had only one thing to offer.

Me.

My worth lay in my virtue and lineage. It didn’t matter that I was merely fourteen or that he was thirty years my elder. If he were the highest bidder for my hand, the countess would eagerly accept.