“How many times have we done this?” Felicity glanced around the Willoughby foyer, feeling much older than her five and twenty years. Lord and Lady Willoughby had hosted the first ball for longer than she’d been alive. And every year, the decorations sparkled more than the year before.
“Too many, for certain,” Bethany grumbled from beside her as Lady Westerley conversed with Lady Ravensdale in the reception line ahead of them. Felicity’s parents followed behind her. Three years ago, before Lord Westerley’s untimely death, the two earls would have been chatting together, leaving the ladies to one another’s company.
The death of Bethany’s father had hit the family hard, but that was also when Westerley had finally put off his wild ways. Everyone had assumed that he’d propose at the end of the mourning period. But Felicity had gone on to wait two more years.
All for nothing.
She glanced back to watch her father greet another couple, feeling an unusual pang. As angry as she’d been with him over the debacle with Westerley, she was grateful she still had him.
A brilliant chandelier hung from the ceiling, reflecting candlelight off the shining marble floor and the unrecognizable busts propped on pedestals that lined the corridor.
“Are you nervous?” Bethany whispered.
Felicity didn’t need to ask why. Every person she was remotely acquainted with would know Westerley had chosen to marry an American heiress rather than her. They would be wondering if she was devastated. Likely many were disappointed that Westerley and his bride were not in attendance that evening. Because then they could have watched to see if Felicity would slight Miss Jackson—no, not Miss Jackson, Lady Westerley now.
There was nothing like a good scandal to make for a memorable evening.
“Surprisingly, no.” She felt a little queasy as she answered. Aside from her breasts aching beneath her stays, she felt perfectly fine.
If not unusually tired.
“That’s just what I meant when I said you were perfect. I’d be a mass of quivering nerves if I were you,” Bethany shrugged.
“You sell yourself short.”
The line inched forward, and after being greeted by their hosts and then handing off their wraps, she and Bethany descended the staircase into the magnificent ballroom.
The guests quieted, but Felicity ignored them. Bethany squeezed her arm.
“Smile and keep walking,” Felicity whispered through clenched teeth. And then, as though Bethany answered with something entertaining, she threw her head back and laughed with the perfect amount of inflection.
The room's volume returned to normal by the time they stepped onto the shining parquet floor.
“Felicity, my dear, I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Lady Westerley approached with a handsome gentleman on her arm. However, before she could introduce him, she turned to her daughter, handing over her reticule. “Do be a dear, won’t you, Bethany, and watch over this. And my shawl as well. There are a few seats available beside Lady Brightley. Save me one of the more comfortable ones if you don’t mind?”
“But—” Felicity went to interrupt. This handsome gentleman ought to be presented to Bethany as well.
“Of course, mother.” Bethany didn’t protest but sent Felicity a weak smile before doing her mother’s bidding.
This sort of disregard, Felicity realized, was why Bethany lacked confidence. Felicity would have to do something to help her friend this season—especially if it was to be their last. Bethany deserved a happy marriage as much as anyone—more so, in fact.
“My dear Oswald, allow me to introduce you to Lady Felicity Brightley, Brightley’s daughter. Felicity, Viscount Oswald, Lord St. Vincent’s heir.” The man was tall and slim with olive-colored skin and glossy black hair.
“A pleasure, indeed. My Lady.” His bow was low and effortless, and when he rose, he stared at her with ebony eyes. He seemed like a decent sort. But even if she had found him to be attractive, it wouldn’t have mattered.
“You are too kind,” she returned out of habit.
“Would it be presumptuous of me to request a place on your dance card?” he asked after a few subtle niceties. “A waltz, perhaps?”
By the time the orchestra was in place, all but the last dance of the night had been claimed. And although a few of the names belonged to elderly and pompous widowers, most of her partners for the evening were pleasant and reasonably handsome gentlemen.
However, rather than be invigorated by the attention, it weighed her down.
And now, in addition to that ache in her breasts, a queasy feeling lurched in her gut. Likely it was the heat and all of the ladies’ perfumes and various scents worn by the gentlemen. “You’re doing swimmingly, dear.” Lady Westerley leaned close and patted Felicity’s hand. “And I am so glad. After what my son has put you through, I’d be devastated if you didn’t have a successful season. All those years, you waited for him. You must know how disappointed I’ve been ever since…”
“I’m fine.” Felicity hated that even Westerley’s mother pitied her. She fought the desire to gulp for air. “Please, you mustn’t give it another thought.”
“I ought to have known you would handle this with an abundance of grace.” But regret lingered in the dowager’s eyes. “Shall we sit with Bethany until your first partner claims you?”
