Sir Arraby Arranbury
Lord Wentforth
The Earl of Kynaston
Ariana stared at the last name, then hurried to the desk. Clumsy in her urgency, she raised the lid, opened the inkpot, took up a pen, and, without checking or trimming it, dipped it and scratched thick lines through the last name on the list.
Ethel came in and saw what she was doing. The namewas still visible. “Oh,” she said. Ethel had been with her during that disastrous season.
The madness had passed, leaving Ariana feeling foolish.
“What of the rest?” she asked with as casual a manner as she could as she put away the writing things. “Do you recognize any names?”
“No. Do you think the order means anything?”
“With him the least suitable of all? They’re certainly not ranked by precedence.”
“Height?”
“I doubt it. I should have crossed off Sir Arraby while I was about it.”
“He’s been unkind?”
“I’ve never met him as best I know, but I’d be Lady Ariana Arranbury. Impossible!”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar yet.”
The name Kynaston was still readable. Ariana tossed the list onto the fire and it felt like exorcising a curse. But then Ethel said, “Lady Cawle will expect you to have shown that list to your mother.”
Blaming wretched Kynaston for all her problems, Ariana rewrote the list from memory.
But she left off one name.
•••
At last it was time to dine. Ariana felt as if she were finally going into battle after being kept waiting for an age. Did men waiting for battle orders become impatient, or did they welcome all delays?
She and her mother were escorted to a small drawing room that was elegantly decorated with a Persian carpet on the floor and a few portraits in gilded frames on the dark red walls. It formed a perfect setting for Lady Cawle,who awaited them, magnificent in black silk. The fitted waist and wide skirts supported by cane hoops should have made her ridiculous, but with new insight, Ariana thought it made the high-waisted style dull by comparison. It certainly flattered a still-magnificently curved figure.
The lorgnette came out. “I’m pleased to see you much improved, gel.” Ariana remembered that Lady Cawle even spoke in the drawl and cant of the past. “And you, Clarinda. You’ve been absent from Town too long.”
“I don’t care for it,” Ariana’s mother said calmly. “If I want a city, I prefer Winchester or Bath.”
A twitch of Lady Cawle’s brows dismissed that as folly, but she didn’t argue. Dark hair and brows might have artificial help, but if so, it was skillfully done. Her complexion was largely unwrinkled. She was a very handsome woman.
“I have arranged for three mantua-makers to attend here tomorrow. They will assess your wardrobe, Ariana, and amend what can be usefully amended. They will do the same for you, Clarinda, if you wish. They will also provide some new garments within days.”
“Hence the three,” Ariana said.
“Glad to see you’ve your wits, gel. As I gather you wish to find a husband as quickly as possible, three new gowns and furbelows may be sufficient. If not, more can be provided.”
“Such a pity they must all be in mourning shades,” Lady Langton said. “Not that I don’t regret Princess Charlotte’s death, of course, but it creates a dismal atmosphere.”
“In this case, that and the season are to our advantage.”
“Because bright and light wouldn’t look so well onme,” Ariana said, determined not to be left out of the conversation.
