He grimaced. “She shouldn’t be in the kitchens. Her ankles are swelling, so she said. If you see her, order her to put her feet up.”

“I will,” Hannah promised. Though he would never admit it, the marquess thoroughly enjoyed his arguments with Stephen’s wife.

After her father left, Hannah rang for her maid. She sat down at her dressing table, wondering if she would need the laudanum after all. Her headache hadn’t abated and seemed to be worsening.

She massaged her temples in an attempt to block out the pain. It frustrated her, being unable to control this aspect of her life.

Then again, so much of her life was out of her hands. She should be accustomed to it by now. Her mother made every decision concerning her wardrobe and which balls and dinner parties she attended. Christine controlled what she ate, which calls she made...even when she was allowed to retire for the night.

Hannah ran her hands over a silver hairbrush, praying for the day when she could make those decisions for herself. Though she supposed it was her mother’s way of showing she cared about her welfare, as time went on, her home felt more and more like a prison.

Her gaze fell upon the list of reminders her mother had left behind. She’d received one every day since the age of nine since, quite often, she didn’t see her mother until the evening.

1. Wear the white silk gown and the Rothburne diamonds.

2. Wait for your father and brothers to introduce suitors to you.

3. Do not refuse any invitation to dance.

4. Never argue with any gentleman. A true lady is agreeable.

Hannah could almost imagine instruction number five: Never allow strange gentlemen to touch you. Her eyes closed, her head pounding with pain.

Folding the list away, she rested her forehead upon her palm. A slow ache caught within her stomach when she saw a morning dress the color of butter laid out for tomorrow. She had never cared for the gown and would have been quite happy to see it burned. It made her feel as though she were six years old.

But she would never dream of arguing with Christine Chesterfield. Her mother alternated the colors of her dresses, selecting gowns of white, rose and yellow. When Hannah had tried to suggest another color once, Christine had put her foot down. It wouldn’t surprise her if her mother measured each and every one of her necklines to be sure she wasn’t revealing too much skin.

Just once, Hannah wished to have a scarlet dress. Or amethyst. A wild burst of color to liven up her wardrobe. But she supposed real ladies weren’t supposed to wear colors like that.