Silently, I counted to five on inhale and back down on exhale, trying to suppress the noticeable rise and fall of my chest.
“I understand.”
“You are to show yourself to the greatest advantage. I expect you to be poised, agreeable, graceful, and affable.” I nodded in understanding, but it was insufficient. “If you blunder this evening, I will never forgive you. There is no world in which you could aspire to a greater match. It is a miracle I was able to convince him to see you.”
My gaze slipped just over his right shoulder during this speech. It was no less hurtful for its familiarity, and I knew from experience that if I listened to the words, the placid, closed-mouthed smile painted on my face would slip.
However, if I was paying insufficient attention, the speech would quadruple in length. I wished with all my heart that the words would stop stinging every time I heard them. Awareness of my own failings did not lessen the pain my father’s acknowledgment caused.
Fingers behind my back fought for freedom but I laced them tighter. I forced a quick count before responding, fearing tears if I forsook the effort. “I understand. I am so grateful for your efforts on my behalf. I will do my best to make you proud.” His answering snort was derisive and somehow more hurtful than any words he could have offered.
I made a quick curtsy and turned to escape before he could add anything else devastating, fleeing to the safety of my room.
* * *
I collapsed on the bed,desperately counting breaths in and out until the emotion dissipated.
It took several minutes before I was sufficiently calm. I approached my closet with trepidation. What did one wear to dine with a duke, a future husband?
My hard-won composure lasted only long enough to recognize there were only three options that could possibly suit such an engagement, one of which wasn’t nearly finished. I pulled out my favorite piece first, a floaty periwinkle gown to which I had added delicate gold embroidery to the underbodice and hem.
No! There were small tucks and snags where I pulled the threads too tight. Had my hoop been loose? It was unnoticeable, perhaps, to the untrained eye, but unacceptable for a duke.
The only remaining alternative was a sage silk gown. I struggled to don it without the help of Hannah. The fastenings tangled, knotting in my hair. I had not rung for her earlier, wishing to spare her my hysteria. Her duties were that of three maids anyway; she did not need to add soothing a panicked employer to the list. I managed to drag the gown over layers of petticoat, corset, and chemise. Once on, I could see that the hem was slightly uneven. It could conceivably be excused as a fold of the dress.
In my earlier distress, my pale skin had adopted a horribly unfashionable flush. It was not limited to my cheeks but had spread all the way down my chest, below the edge of my gown. My hair seemed to be making a sincere effort to embody the chaos inside. The dark curls had slipped their coiffure and were plotting an escape from my head entirely. With no effort to keep my hair attached to my head, I yanked the trapped pins out roughly before forcefully ripping a brush through the tangles. Hannah was better at this. I, on the other hand, had little patience for their misbehavior.
A quarter of an hour passed in a similar fashion before Hannah found me and took the brush from me. She refused to return it and began to work through the snarls more gently. Eventually, she managed to gather it into some sort of order and pinned it into a passable chignon. The style was out of date, but my hair was keener to obey the coil than the high tight ringlets that were so popular now.
Distracted by my hair, the flush receded and remained only in my cheeks. It was a passably pretty effect. When Hannah pointed out the hour, I was forced to make do with passable.
There was a small scuff on my slipper, but no time to correct it. All my efforts and I was about to dine with a duke. Apparently, “good enough” was the best showing I could make. The effort was less than promising.
And so it was, uneven hem, out-of-date coiffure, reddened face, and scuffed slipper, I was bundled into my father’s carriage. Fortunately, the drive was short. My father used the time to comment on, not only these defects within my power to amend, but also those of my countenance, accomplishments, and general behavior.
He could not be constrained to recent faults and foibles either, instead sampling from my two and twenty years for available options. Though his efforts did little to curb my apprehensive nausea, they did much to ensure my gratitude on arrival. Peering up at the foreboding mansion, I felt all my earlier trepidation return. Unfortunately, my father felt none of it and did not hesitate to drag me to the door. Though I could not recall for certain, I suspected this behavior was the result of the aforementioned scuff. It was certainly responsible for the new one.
* * *
A well-dressedbutler ushered us into the drawing room. There, I found myself faced with three of the most glamorous people I had ever seen. Until that moment, I had not realized I feared a gentleman older than my father; perhaps one who smelled of moldy cheese. Physically, this man—presumably His Grace—was quite ordinary. Average in height and weight. His dark hair swept high off his forehead in an unusual style and his brow was dark and heavy across his forehead, drawing attention to equally dark eyes. But the way he carried himself, it was unlike anything I had ever seen. He had long limbs which unfurled when he stood, greeting my father with a graceful nod. His apparel was unique, straight off the ship from Paris. Something I had never seen before; he wore all black, even his shirt, except for his white cravat and black-and-white brocade waistcoat. The effect was equal parts intimidating, fascinating, and intriguing.
He was accompanied by an older woman in the most unusual dress. It was made of vibrant white satin. Every inch below the bust was covered in black feathers of varying densities, lighter at the top before reaching peak thickness at the hem. Her powdered wig, which added nearly a foot in height, was topped with a solitary black feather, extending it yet another several inches. On anyone else, the gown and wig would have been the subject of ridicule, but she carried them well.
There was also a younger woman, barely more than a girl. Only she had chosen a color, a rich satin of ice blue. Her gown was simpler, though clearly still straight from Paris and therefore several seasons ahead of what the modistes of London were creating. She wore a matching jeweled band low across her forehead. The rest of her hair was styled into an elaborate bow shape on the top of her head. I had no idea how the style was achieved, but I was certain my curls would never allow for it. She was tall with a delicate frame and had the same dark brow of His Grace. On him, it was severe; on her it was arched, feminine. It drew the gaze to her dark eyes and long lashes. Her complexion was pale and clear. Of the three, her elegance was the most approachable.
Never in my life had I felt so shabby. I had deluded myself into hoping these people would not notice my crooked hem and scuffed slipper. They spotted my out-of-date gown the second I stepped into the room, likely down to the season it was made. Had I commissioned a brand-new gown delivered just this morning, it would still be unfashionable by their standards. Oddly, instead of increasing my nerves, this knowledge soothed. I had been doomed from the onset, and nothing within my power could have changed it.
With the kind of confidence that arose from certain failure, I allowed His Grace to press a kiss to my gloved hand before introducing me to his mother, Lady Clementia, and sister, Lady Davina. He encouraged my father and I to take a seat on a settee across from the family.
Finally, I was able to observe the drawing room—white walls, white furnishings, white curtains, white marble floors, and the occasional black accent. The only color in the room was the enormous dark, rich, crimson rug beneath our feet. I had the irrational fear I would start my monthly courses in the minutes between taking a seat and rising for supper. How could his sister bear the daily uncertainty?
The silence stretched for an uncomfortable few minutes, and I struggled for a topic. Finally, I settled on the obvious. “Your home is so lovely. I certainly have never seen its like.”
The most fascinating thing happened with my statement. The Duke’s face cycled through a myriad of expressions and emotions. A furrowed brow of skepticism, a thoughtful mouth twitch, a studious squint; each was plain on his visage. At last, his face relaxed, accepting my comment as a compliment. He gave an exaggerated gesture with lithe hands and long fingers toward his mother, marking her as the decorator.
“Yes dear, I am a most enamored scholar of the latest interior design fashions. Is that a topic that piques your interest?” Her Grace asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, my father shot a look that clearly meant I was to lie. I had quite forgotten his presence in the face of all this novelty. I wavered for less than a second before determining that deceit would backfire spectacularly. This woman was clearly well versed in the subject and would spot my falsehood instantly.
