Ton Festivities
Willoughby eased into the hot water and leaned his head back while his valet moved efficiently around the room. On days such as this one, he felt more than at least twice his age. What aged him wasn’t the physical challenges of life, however, but the mental ones. Most specifically, being the father to two six-year-old little girls. One who seemed afraid of the world, and the other afraid for the sibling she’s determined to protect at all costs.
Since arriving in London, Willoughby had met with three different governesses.The first lady had been far too young and naïve for him to trust. The second had been so very old that he doubted she would have been able to keep up with the girls. The third he’d known immediately would be far too strict.
His mother had quite approved of her.
The agency promised they had the perfect lady and would be sending her over the next day. In the meantime, his mother had made promises on his behalf that he’d not had the heart to break.
The Duke of Marvelle’s daughter, indeed, was quite lovely. He’d squired her while shopping, to a musicale and to two garden parties already.
Of course, his mother had promised that he’d lead the young woman in her first dance at the ball that evening. He hated to imagine what his mother would have done if he’d delayed his arrival by even a week or cancelled it outright. He needed to be careful not to make any expectations he wasn’t prepared to fulfill. Although, likely, his mother already had done so on his part.
He closed his eyes while Cummings, his valet of eight years, brushed warm shaving cream onto his jaw and neck.
His wife had barely been in the ground a year. How could his mother expect he’d be ready to marry again already?
“Relax, my lord.” Cummings withdrew the razor from Willoughby’s face. “I don’t want to cut you where you’re clenching your jaw.”
Last time the valet had drawn blood, Cummings had been mortified. He had nearly resigned in humiliation. If Willoughby remembered correctly, his mother had been the cause of his irritation on that occasion as well. He exhaled determinedly. “Carry on.”
He was not prepared to marry again so soon. Marriage had involved a great deal of... work, compromise, disappointment and then grief.
The first few years he’d done his best to keep Estelle happy. She’d been a good woman. Matters likely wouldn’t have devolved so very much had they not failed to conceive in the first year of their marriage, nor their second. They’d all but given up until she’d announced to him that she was expecting. It had been one of the last times they’d seemed happy together. They’d been celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary.
He’d been ecstatic. They’d all had such high expectations for the blessed event. But early on in her pregnancy, Estelle had taken to her bed. She’d often appeared pale and tired and had struggled to keep her meals down. She’d reassured him that she was fine. Nonetheless, when the girls were finally born, they all breathed a sigh of relief.
Or so he’d thought.
The girls were barely a month old when Estelle had begun making apologies for not bearing him an heir. She’d been raised a duke’s daughter and considered it her duty. Her disappointment in herself had opened a fault in their marriage. No matter what he’d done or said, she could not allow herself to be happy. Nor could she be happy with their girls.
Good God, her final words on this earth had been an apology to him.
Finished with the shave, Cummings covered Willoughby’s face with a towel and removed the excess shaving soap. “I’ve laid out both your amber and your evergreen waistcoat. Have you a preference, my lord?”
Willoughby wasn’t ready for this. Instead of answering, he held his breath while the valet poured warm water over him, and then shook his head vigorously, sending water flying.
“No colors, Cummings. Black.”
The same as his mood.
Apparently, in her spare time, Betsy sewed.
Not only sewed, but created.
The dress she’d referred to was one she’d made over specifically for Tilde. It was made of a silk patterned with tiny blue flowers. The bodice revealed slightly more bosom than Tilde preferred, but she could hardly complain. And the skirt didn’t merely fall to the floor, it streamed down the length of her body, catching the curve of her hip as she walked without being flagrantly revealing.
The gown did not require an abundance of ribbons or lace. In fact, there wasn’t any. All of the elegance and beauty came from the cut and the style.
It truly was a work of art.
As soon as she glanced in the mirror, she realized why her sister had so badly wanted her to attend the ball.
Who wouldn’t wish to show off something so beautiful? Betsy could not wear it herself. She had sewn it to Tilde’s measurements, which were somewhat bigger than her younger sister’s.
“You knew of the invitation weeks before. You must have.” Tilde stared over her shoulder to try to catch a glimpse of the back of the gown. “I knew that you could sew, but I never would have expected…” Tilde twirled around twice. “This.”
Betsy smiled smugly. “I don’t want to merely sew in another lady’s shop,” she spoke in earnest. “I want to own my own. I’ve made tons of drawings, designs. Aunt Nellie says if she had any extra money, she’d help but… and I know how you feel about that. But I thought if one of the ladies at the ball saw the gown, and perhaps decided she’d like one for herself. Well, I thought I could make dresses from here and save up.”
