Gwen listens to them bicker as they dress her, transformingher from the comfort of home into the puffed-up show bird of the opening night ball. And though the pink gown, stylishly braided blond updo, and dark lashes all complement her very well, Gwen’s not sure at all that her curves and status will be enough to attract a suitor.
They certainly never have before.
Chapter One
Beth
She tripped on her entrance down the stairs. They called her name, she and Mother entered, and Beth tripped. Mother caught her and she’s been swearing on all she can think of for the past ten minutes that no one noticed, but she’s lying. Mothers all around the room are looking her up and down, judging, deciding, crowing.
Beth’s by far one of the shortest girls here, a neck injury waiting to happen to any of their tall, stately-looking sons. Now she’s clumsy on top of it. Her first night out is already a disaster.
“Darling, I need to go speak with Juliet.”
“You cannot leave me here alone,” Beth hisses, holding fast when Mother goes to pull away.
“I have to make the rounds and arrange our appointments,” Mother whispers back. Both of them pause to smile at some acquaintance Beth can’t remember, but who she knows comes from more money than they ever had when her father was alive. “You’ll be fine. Just... mingle.”
“Mother,” Beth protests even as she releases Mother’s arm from her death grip. She left indents with her fingers.
“I promise, you’ll make friends. Just smile, chin up, shouldersback, and have a glass of wine.” Beth feels her mouth fall open and quickly shuts it lest anyone think her unseemly. “One,” Mother stresses. “For the nerves.”
“Though fainting might not be a bad option either,” Beth mumbles.
Mother frowns but Beth can tell she’d rather laugh. “One.”
“One,” Beth promises, noting Lady Berthshire waving Mother over. “Go, or she’s going to put an eye out.”
Mother leans in to kiss Beth’s cheek before stepping around her and off to gather with her society friends. Beth watches, surprisingly envious, as Mother is eagerly accepted into their little circle. None of them made an effort to come see them in mourning; they’re fickle friends. But at least Motherhasfriends here.
Beth stares out at the enormous Halyard ballroom, full to bursting with debutantes, mothers, and the eligible young bachelors of London’s society. The vaulted ceiling and white walls with Greek columns give the space an almost endless feeling. The cacophony of voices is dizzying, and they’re barely into the booze yet. It’s all swirls of pastel colors, feathers, tulle, and coattails. She can’t even imagine how claustrophobic it will feel once the band starts and the three hundred assembled begin to dance.
How can there even be space to dance?she wonders as she begins making her way across the room, eyeing the refreshments on the far side. She needs a glass of wine to make it through this evening, perhaps two. She can hold her liquor, despite what her mother thinks. Miss Wilson’s been slipping her whisky for most of the last two years—in supervised amounts, but still.
She knows she needs to plaster on a smile, listen to some dullconversation, and begin making her own connections. Hopefully to the young gentlemen, but anyone would do. If she can make friends with any of the girls expected to marry this season, she can at least catch the eye of their castoffs. She’s under no illusion that she’s a prime match. A suitable one, surely, but she has no fortune to offer.
She’ll bring her dowry and perhaps the small country estate, if her cousin James will deign to let them keep it once he comes of age. If her uncle, currently managing their affairs until James can inherit, is any barometer, they won’t get a speck of her father’s holdings. Just like he wanted.
It’s so much less than almost any other lady in the room can offer. And on top of that Beth’s short, clumsy, and unknown. Still, she’s pretty enough, and Mother thinks she’s delightful.
Beth wrinkles her nose, glancing up at the ceiling. She’s really in a pitiful state if her mother is the only reference she can give for her charms. Father never thought much of her, and she barely got to know her uncle on his brief visit some ten years ago. She’s never even met Cousin James.
Miss Wilson loves her. But who here would care about what their housekeeper has to say?
Beth takes a deep breath and forces herself to slow down, ambling rather than charging across the room, looking around for a friendly face. Debutantes and young gentlemen abound, but none of them seems the least bit approachable, and she’s getting appraising looks from most of the clusters of friends. An oddity, daughter of the late Viscount Demeroven, kept locked away in the country with her...energeticmother.
Beth searches for an opening, any opening, but only manages to catch the eye of a graying older gentleman who gazes backat her with distinct interest. Beth breaks eye contact, trying to squeeze by a gaggle of mothers, knocking into their hoops with muttered apologies. She was looking for friends, not a man her late father’s age. A man who definitely shouldn’t be seeking out a wife of just twenty, much less one like Beth, who rarely looks her age, even made up as she is.
But try as she might, there’s no escape. She’s penned in by the groups of unfriendly guests. Her damn hoopskirt makes slinking away thoroughly impossible. The gentleman approaches her with what she assumes is his most winning smile.
It’s slightly sinister.
“Miss Demeroven, isn’t it?” the gentleman says, holding out his hand.
Beth hesitates just for a moment, reluctant to touch him, but propriety wins out. She didn’t spend the last two years cosseted away with Mother for nothing.
“Yes,” she says, extending her hand and clenching her jaw as he raises it to his lips for an uncomfortably long kiss.
“I’m Lord Psoris, a friend of your father’s. A shame he couldn’t be here. I know how proud of you he would be,” he says, his voice rough and loud as he slowly releases her hand.
