He couldn’t help but smile. Even on the most important night of her life to date, she was still thinking of others, striving to play matchmaker, and he wondered if she ever selfishly put herself first.
“Good night, then.” With poise befitting a princess, she disappeared from sight.
Being introduced into Society was a nerve-racking affair that slowly morphed into a tedious, boring one as Fancy stood beside Gillie, welcoming the guests who descended the wide sweeping staircase into the elaborately decorated grand salon—with its massive sparkling chandeliers, ornate molding, and painted ceiling—after being announced in a deep, booming voice by the majordomo outfitted in a red jacket, heavy with gold braiding, gray knee pants, and white stockings that showed off his lovely calves, which looked to be natural. She was well aware footmen took pride in their calves, some even going so far as to pad themselves with false ones.
Gillie’s lavender gown was not as revealing as some, but then her sister never had flaunted her femininity. Her duke was at her side, his eyes reflecting the sort of tenderness and fondness Fancy hoped to inspire in some young lord.
She dearly wished her mum was here to see it all, but she felt out of place around such extravagance. One wall was naught but mirrors, which made it seem that so many more people were here than there were. The room was two floors in height, a balcony circling three sides, cutting it in half. Potted plants, ferns, and fronds lined the walls. Flowers seemed to be everywhere. It was all so glamorous. It was the world her mother had wanted her to step into, and yet the dear woman didn’t believe herself deserving of walking into this room tonight.
Oh, she’d visited Gillie’s residence, but when only family was about. She shied away from meeting anyone she considered above her. Her mum’s refusal to recognize her own worth saddened Fancy.
She had traveled in the coach with Aslyn and Mick. As promised, they’d stopped at their mum’s so she could see Fancy decked out in her finery. Her mum had wept at the sight of her—tears of joy, she’d claimed. Fancy desperately wanted tonight to be a success, to bring her one step closer to helping her mum realize her dream of Fancy having a posh life.
On her journey here, Aslyn and Mick had run her through her paces to ensure she knew how to address everyone who was likely to be in attendance. Her family’s greatest fear had been that no one would show. It was a fear not realized. The room was practically wall-to-wall people. She wasn’t vain enough to think they were there on her account. No, she suspected the majority of them had come to gawk at the Duke of Thornley’s wife and measure her worth as she hosted her first ball. Although Gillie seemed far more relaxed than Fancy felt.
It hadn’t helped calm her nerves any that when they’d arrived, the Duke of Thornley had casually told her, “Bertie sends his regrets, but affairs of state will prevent him from attending.”
Bertie. Prince of Wales. Future king.
Thornley had spoken his name as though he had an intimate friendship with the man, played lawn tennis and polo with him. He probably did. She’d never really given any thought to the fact that her sister’s husband spoke to royalty and no doubt did it with the same aplomb he exhibited as he faced the queue of guests waiting to be received. He seemed to know them all. After greeting someone, he’d turn to Gillie and say, “Duchess, I want to present to you Lord Whoever or Lady X or Lord and Lady Z or the Duke of Whatever.” Gillie would smile the smile that welcomed everyone into her tavern and made them feel right at home. “A pleasure. My sister, Miss Trewlove.”
Each guest curtsied or bowed to Gillie—she was after all a duchess. Fancy received a few curt nods of the head, a good many quick touches of her gloved fingers, a few actual kisses to her fingertips, followed by “My pleasure.” Then on they walked to visit with those they knew, to enjoy refreshments, or take a turn about the dance floor while a twenty-piece orchestra seated in the balcony played the most enticing music.
And so it went.
The elaborate dance card shaped like a fan with a tiny pencil attached to it via a string that she’d been given by a young maid when she’d first arrived dangled from her wrist, not a single dance claimed. No waltz, no quadrille, no polka. She told herself it was because the gents didn’t know how long she would be receiving, but she fully understood she was expected to stand and greet for two hours, until half ten, unless the guests coming down the stairs dwindled to nothing.
She wished she’d asked Gillie to invite Mr. Sommersby, for surely she would have, even though he wasn’t of the nobility, simply as a favor to Fancy. She wished she could look toward the stairs and see him descend them. Of course, then he wouldn’t be available to help with the teaching, although he could always arrive here late. People did. It was the reason the queue seemed never-ending.
When she’d walked into the reading parlor, Mr. Sommersby had immediately snagged her attention. The slow way he’d come to his feet, as though entranced. While Mr. Tittlefitz had looked at her like she were a delight to behold, Mr. Sommersby gazed at her as though she were a dollop of clotted cream he would like to slowly lick. It was an absurd thought to have had at the time because the heat in his eyes was melting in its intensity. She’d been surprised he hadn’t actually crossed the room to her, had stayed where he was, his fingers clutching the primer, his knuckles turning white. She wondered if he’d left dents in the book.
His reaction more than anything had helped to settle her nerves, had assured her that her gown and elaborately coifed hair didn’t make her appear foolish, reaching for something beyond her grasp. The way he had looked at her had convinced her that if he were here, he would claim a dance.
If only some other gentleman would.
It was an odd thing indeed to find herself comparing each gentleman to whom she was introduced to Mr. Sommersby. His hair wasn’t dark enough, his eyes not green enough, his shoulders not broad enough. His voice not rich enough. None of the polite words spoken sent delicious shivers along her spine, conjuring up images of forbidden acts and sultry nights.
She’d thought—hoped—he might kiss her the night before after he walked her to her door. But he’d refrained and that was all for the good. She knew ladies of quality did not go about kissing men, and she was striving to be a lady of quality.
Although she was left with the impression that they weren’t all above reproach. It seemed not all ladies arrived with their husbands, not all husbands accompanied their wives. It made it a challenge to match up couples, to sort out who was paired with whom when they were introduced a number of people apart. On the other hand, surely, she wasn’t expected to remember the name of everyone to whom she was introduced—although most likely she was. She’d been taught little tricks for doing so. Lord Winters of the red-tipped nose, Lady Winters of the ruddy cheeks as though both had just arrived fresh out of a winter storm. She was determined to get all the names right when their paths again crossed, to impress them with her feat. She wanted to be remembered as more than the bastard, wanted something other than her birth to distinguish her from all the others here who were not raised by Ettie Trewlove.
“You’re late,” Gillie snapped.
Fancy glanced away from the man to whom she’d just been introduced, Lord Brockman of the shiny pate and broad smile—balding, broad, Brockman—and knew a surge of warmth at the sight of her brothers Finn and Aiden, with their lovely wives, Lavinia and Selena, on their arms.
“We purposely delayed our arrival to give you a respite from meeting strangers,” Aiden said. “We thought you’d welcome the familiar.”
Gillie narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t thinking it’d give you less time around the nobs?”
“Well, that, too,” Aiden said with a laugh.
“You’re here now. I suppose that’s all that matters.”
“Seriously, Gil,” Finn began, “we thought you’d appreciate a friendly face an hour in. Although to be honest, we did get held up with the crush of people arriving. Mum should see this. She’d be delighted.”
“Is it only an hour?”
“Afraid so.”
