Lady Eleanor Mary Cantwell, daughter of the Marquess of Salford, is a proper young lady. With her golden complexion, raven-black hair, and manners befitting a princess, Lady Eleanor has always been deemed a belle. There is just one problem.
Lady Ele...
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Fear. Hatred. Anger. Eleanor watched as a myriad of emotions flashed across her face as she stood in front of the great mirror in her room. Gabrielle, her best and only friend, stood in front of her, staring at her with sadness and pity in her green orbs as various maids adorned her in a gown.
Her wedding gown, to be more precise.
White muslin cinched her waist before it flowed out behind her in a train, a cluster of tiny white roses woven into the neckline. The bodice clung to her like a second skin - the sole reason being to prevent her from breathing, she was sure. Her hair had been piled up, diamond hair pins holding it in place.
Eleanor loathed those hair pins. She could not fathom why her father would get them for her when they were financially ruined; the dress itself was too extravagant for her liking. They were supposed to be saving at such a time! But, it was, in fact, her wedding and she deserved no less, in the words of her father.
'Eleanor!' a dreaded voice called. Turning around, she noticed her mother standing at the door, eyeing her in appreciation. Why, she did not know; nor did she care.
'What is it?' Eleanor snapped. She never snapped at her mother. She never snapped at anyone but current circumstances were much more different than usual. And unlike normal circumstances when she would have immediately felt guilt wash through her, she now felt nothing. Only a cold but burning hatred for the woman who had sold her off in marriage to a man she barely knew.
'Do not use that tone with me, you wretched ungrateful girl!' her mother said - her voice raised much higher than what was expected of a lady - appreciation morphing into disgust. The maids who had just finished dressing her, hurried out, knowing full well what was going to ensue. Gabrielle glanced at her friend, silently asking her if she wanted her there. The answer - a slight shake of her head - cued Gabrielle's leave, not without shooting a glare in the marchioness's direction.
'I shall use whichever tone I choose to use,' Eleanor shouted, whirling around to face the ghastly woman who had now come to stand right behind her.
Her mother's eyes gleamed with intense fury and she raised her arm, slapping Eleanor hard across the face.
Eleanor gasped and clutched the side of her face which now stung painfully. She had never been slapped before - she had never warranted such a situation. She highly doubted she had warranted it now but when it came to her mother, she doubted she cared for whether or not she was deserving of it. She was angry now - so very angry. Before she could retaliate however, her father barged into the room.
'Marilyn!' he shouted, his face boiling red with fury. 'How dare you raise a hand against our daughter!' He positioned himself in front of Eleanor who stared aghast at her father. He never raised his voice. He never got angry. To see him now with his flaring temper shocked Eleanor more than when she had discovered her father's betrayal.
'She is not my daughter!' the marchioness screamed and a small part of Eleanor hurt at the words. She had known it but to have it said so blaringly clear was still a painstaking reminder of who she really was to the woman who had - begrudgingly - raised her. 'She has never been and will never be my daughter! She is merely a wretch that you adopted and I will not allow her to treat me with disrespect!'
