Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland—for now
Miss Iris Grace Morgan had always hated her name, and with the current schedule of arriving in London in a mere week, she made a decision.
She would come to London not as Iris, the woman who couldn’t waltz to save her soul, nor as the lady who was utterly a failure at all things ladylike. No, she would arrive asGrace: the woman who personified all things that, well, she was not. Itcouldn’thurt her to have a name that implied what she was not, but she certainly hoped it would indeedhelp. After all, her governess, now her guardian’s wife, had taken great pains to pull the lady from within her charge and give her some much needed polish, along with a much-needed friendship.
But as much as she had tried, Iris—Grace, that is—wasn’t entirely sure that she had taken on said polish. Lord Kilpatrick had assured her that she would make a splash, which was very kind of her guardian. But she wasn’t concerned about making a splash. She was certain she would.
She just wasn’t sure it would be a good splash. It would probably be of the clumsy variety where she’d trip on her own two feet, smash into some cranky dowager, and spray lemonade across the ballroom. It could certainly happen.
It had almost happened last night after dinner, only it wasn’t lemonade, it was white wine, and it wasn’t her own two feet she’d tripped over. It had been the bloody chair.
Samantha, her guardian’s wife and her once governess, had given her a kind smile, and helped her clean the mess before Mrs. Keyes, the housekeeper, clucked over them and shooed them away from it all.
Grace smiled at the memory. She loved it at Kilmarin. All the servants were kind, and they didn’t expect her to be anything that she was not. Sothers, the butler, was ever so patient with her, and opened the door extra wide, just in case she misjudged the step, and Mrs. Keyes never complained once when she’d accidentally spill or trip over something or another.
Even Samantha. Grace frowned over how many times she had stepped on her toes when trying to learn how to waltz. It was her utter Achilles heel, that dance. She hoped fervently that she would simply just melt into the woodwork of the London ballroom whenever the first strains of a waltz began.
Because while many young ladies wanted to be in the limelight, and find a suitable match, Grace was utterly content simplynotto make a scene. But have a season she would, and it wouldn’t be long in coming. No. They were planning on leaving Kilmarin in just a few days’ time to travel to the viscount’s London home, where she could ease herself into society
Dear Lord, this was going to be a disaster.
If they could only just talk to potential suitors, not dance. She could do verbal arabesques with her words! She could speak intelligently on almost any subject, and her parents, God rest their souls, had given her an education that Eton couldn’t claim, but they had neglected to teach her the one thing she needed most at the moment.
How to be a lady.
So it was with utter trepidation, more than a few prayers, and several late-night dancing sessions that she allowed Maye to pack her belongings for the trip to London.
It couldn’t be that bad . . . could it?
She knew the answer to her own question.
Yes. Yes it could.
First off, London was not as she expected. Having traveled much of the known world with her parents, she could boast about seeing the Sphinx in Egypt, or the marketplaces of India, but London—that was one place she had never had the opportunity to visit. Her father had always called it “dreary ol’ London” and her mother hadn’t ever corrected him.
To say that Grace’s expectations were low would be an accurate statement, but she did anticipate some sort of wonderment surrounding the hub of their beloved England. All throughout the carriage ride to their destination, she had found beauty in various natural aspects of the woods, moors, and a river or two. But as they closed the distance to Town, where all her successes or failures hinged, her chest seized up, much like the thick air perfumed with humanity and smoke. A dreary drizzle smeared the carriage windows, hindering her view as they entered the cobbled streets of London. The air seemed thicker, and she glanced over to Samantha, scrunching up her nose.
“You’ll grow accustomed to it.” Samantha smiled kindly, if not a little amused.
The viscount glanced to his wife and squeezed her hand. “It’s much worse if you go further into Town. ’Tis a pity.” He opened his mouth to say something else, then shook his head and glanced to the window.
Grace tipped her chin, curious as to what he was about to say. “Was there something else?” she asked.
He turned to her, his expression conflicted. “You’ve probably seen something like the slums when you traveled in India. It’s a problem here, and the sanitation is horrid, if even existent. It’s another reason I prefer the Scottish countryside.” He shook his head. “It’s a legislative problem that parliament has done little to remedy, and a bit of sore subject with me.”
“I see.” Grace nodded.
Samantha tipped her head to gaze at her husband, but she did not offer any comment on the subject.
Grace turned back to the window. “Where is your home?”
“Mayfair, of course. It’s quite close to Hyde Park, which I have no doubt you’ll retreat to often.”
“Lovely,” Grace breathed, thankful for some aspect of London to find appealing.
“But you’ll have to remember to take care. You’re in London now and all proprieties must be observed,” Samantha added, arching a brow.
