Chapter 1
Marrywell, England 1812
May Day Matchmaking Festival Opening Ball
* * *
Miss Gladys Bell’s clammy hands trembled, and her empty stomach churned. There were footmen everywhere bearing trays laden with glasses of punch and ratafia for the hundreds of guests spilling into the enormous assembly hall. An entire section of one wall was lined with refreshment tables overflowing with tiny cakes and sandwiches.
Gladys couldn’t bear the thought of taking a single bite. Much less risking a glass of punch. What if a crumb clung to her upper lip or fell onto her bodice? What if one of the guests—hundreds now, but sure to top one thousand soon enough—bumped her elbow as she was taking a sip of punch, spilling rum-spiked fruit juice cascading onto her very best gown?
“Stand up straight,” snapped Mother as she fluffed Gladys’s puffed sleeves with narrow, exacting fingers.
Gladys was standing up straight. Her knees were locked tight, her shoulders stiff, her spine a rod of iron. The problem wasn’t her posture, but her diminutive height. The top of Gladys’s head barely crested the svelte shoulders of her younger sister, Katherine.
“Her sleeves are fine,” said Kitty. “You’re going to tug holes in them.”
A valid concern. In part due to Mother’s heavy hand when it came to addressing her eldest daughter’s many flaws, but also because this was the fourth—and final—season Gladys had worn this white-and-pink gown.
Mother huffed in vexation, but ceased the infernal fluffing. She passed a critical eye over Gladys. “I suppose this is the best we can hope for.”
Gladys tried to smile.
“She looks prettier than I’ve ever seen her,” Kitty said loyally, then grinned at Gladys. “You’ll have to try not to be compromised.”
“Kitty!” Mother said in shock. “How do you even know that word? You haven’t been peeking at your father’s newspaper, have you?”
“No, Mama,” Kitty replied with such absolute innocence that Gladys could not help but narrow her eyes. Kitty fluttered her eyelashes in response.
“You know that you girls are to stay away from all such papers and vulgar scandal sheets,” Mother said firmly. “That’s precisely how silly ideas enter a young lady’s head. Gladys obviously needn’t worry about compromise.”
“Because I’m the ugly sister,” Gladys murmured.
“Plain is not the same as ugly,” Mother corrected her. “And no, it’s because I’ve done everything in my power to raise you both as good girls. I know you’ve never been to any assemblies besides this one, but that’s by design. The Marrywell matchmaking festival is a safe place. Rest assured that the only unwed gentlemen here are in search of a wife, not something unsavory.”
“Every gentleman here?” Kitty said in wonder.
“Every single one of them,” Mother said with a smile. “The gentlemen attending this annual festival know that even something as simple as prolonged visual contact can imply marital intent.”
“No one looks at me at all,” Gladys said softly.
“Then be more biddable and try harder to keep their attention. When the right man shows his interest in you, it’ll be because he’s ready to visit the parson. They’re on the hunt for a wife. Let them catch you.” Mother turned from Gladys to her Kitty, eyes melting with warmth. “Are you ready for tonight, love?”
At seventeen, this was Kitty’s first ball. From the many admiring looks the fresh-faced beauty had attracted so far, there would be no shortage of gentlemen eager to be seen with her on the dance floor.
“I’m ready,” Kitty replied with confidence.
Kitty did everything with confidence. And why wouldn’t she? From the moment she was born, with her big blue eyes and flushed apple cheeks and wispy blond curls, she’d looked like an angel and charmed like the devil.
Gladys could be envious, but she couldn’t carry a grudge, because Kitty was also nice. She could easily have been the sort of girl to hold court like a queen and demand concessions from her fawning subjects. Instead, Kitty had never once treated Gladys as though she were worth less, due to having the misfortune of being born with mousy brown hair that rarely held a curl. Nor judge Gladys for being Out for four excruciating seasons, without so much as a single flower being sent to the family parlor.
Mother turned her attention back to Gladys. “Don’t forget, this isn’t just your final season. This festival is your last chance.”
How could Gladys forget? Mother brought up the matter ten times a day, which was wholly unnecessary, because Gladys’s own brain inserted primal screams of perennial wallflowerdom into every other thought.
“I know, Mother,” she murmured. “I remember.”
It didn’t matter. Gladys’s list of failings was a speech rehearsed so often, Mother couldn’t staunch the flow of words now if she tried.
