She never took it for granted, not for one second.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Rickard,” heralded her butler.
Cressida smiled graciously.
Mrs. Harmonia Rickard, formerly Harmonia Sedley, swept in upon her husband’s arm, a charming grin doing much todisguise the apprehension in her eyes—this was likely her first society party in quite some time. Unlike with most young ladies, though, her marriage had failed to dull the brightness about her; in fact, whereas before she had been merely beautiful, now she practically glowed.
How irritating.
“So wonderful to see you once again, Mrs. Rickard.”
“My lady,” Harmonia cooed.
“And Mr. Rickard. I was well pleased to pen your invitation myself this time,” Cressida said. “Wouldn’t want it to be misplaced, would we?”
“Never stopped me before,” Mr. Rickard said in a gravelly voice. He placed another hand atop his wife’s where it lay on his arm, then turned his attention to her. Everything about the man was cold and standoffish—everything but the way his eyes changed when he looked upon his wife.
Obnoxious, that. Who would’ve supposed Harmonia Sedley, the rash and reckless boot blacking heiress, would have somehow connived her way into marital bliss? And with a bit of rough such as this? The girl had nearly sunk herself in society, breaking every conceivable convention without a care.
As someone who painstakingly curried favor with everyone worth knowing, Cressida had been less than impressed.
“Yes, well, try not to wander off into dark corners on this occasion,” Cressida said, affecting a bored tone. “I would be loath to lose Mrs. Rickard’s lovely company for another four years.”
“Have you given up the Ladies Union for the Cessation of Social Ills, then?” Mrs. Rickard feigned ignorance, lashes all aflutter. “Why, we spoke at last month’s meeting, did we not?”
“That we did,” Cressida admitted, struggling to keep from grinning. “It’s a Sisyphean task, is it not? Advocating for thecessation of social ills. One would think we ladies ought to come up with something more effective than merely… meeting.”
Mrs. Rickard regarded her with some surprise before glancing back to her husband. A look passed between them.
Cressida nodded slightly, and the Rickards descended the staircase, now slightly more at ease.
Although Cressida had remained perfectly cordial, she’d done her best to maintain a reasonable distance from Mrs. Rickard since the woman’s last scandalous appearance at her ball four years prior. Even as a widow, Cressida had to maintain some sense of propriety in all other aspects of her life if she were to entertain lovers. She could ill afford the social liability of Harmonia Rickard’s company. That is, until last month, of course.
Last month, when Cressida had quite literally bumped into a mutual acquaintance of theirs. Or, more accurately, when he’d distractedly plowed into her outside that common railway hotel.
Dr. Matthew Collier. A massive, gorgeous, solidly built, middle-class meringue of a man.
Cressida was charmed. Enough to inveigle herself back into Mrs. Rickard’s good graces at their silly nonsense of a society meeting the previous month.
She counted herself a member of a number of clubs and societies, from those she attended to affect an air of integrity and goodness—such as the Ladies Union for the Cessation of Social Ills—to those she truly held close to her heart, like the Metropolitan Gardening Society. Cressida loved gardening. Digging in the dirt, repotting seedlings, misting ferns; she found all of it soothing, rejuvenating. And she loved speaking of orchids and violets, discussing which vase to use in which situations, and enjoying the conviviality of fellow gardeners. Unfortunately, though, there was one member of the society shevery much didnotenjoy, and that member had just swanned into Rowbotham House.
“The Honorable Mr. William Brenchley and Mrs. William Brenchley,” her butler announced.
“Lady Caplin,” Mr. Brenchley said; he could not have sounded more put-upon.
He’d the manner of a man displeased that he’d been forced to occupy the same sphere as women for the evening; a man who wished to exist exclusively within masculine spaces, only occasionally dipping out for the briefest of moments to roughly rut his wife before returning for another shoot or horse race. Cressida knew his type—a cruel, vicious pike, best to be avoided.
She would have pity for his wife, except that Mrs. Brenchley had enthusiastically adopted his hateful mien once wed. Before, she’d been a sweet, pretty young lady named Ada Doussot. Cressida had never much cared for demure debutantes, but she infinitely preferred them to Janus-faced harpies.
“The lights upon the gates? Brilliant, to have them in such number!” Mrs. Brenchley said, her voice a little too strident for Cressida to believe it an honest compliment.
“Oh, ta. A little effect from little effort, that’s all,” Cressida said in mock humility. In reality, she and Wardle had spent nearly a week discussing the exterior decor.
“In that case, perhaps you ought to put a little effort into your peonies,” Mrs. Brenchley said with an exaggerated wink.
Cressida stood stone-faced.
“My lady, surely you know I jest!” The younger woman forced a laugh, though her eyes still spoke malice.
