It had the makings of an old Georgian, three-story manor with square wings offset to the back. The manor did not have any outlandish frills and embellishments like other houses did. Ariadne wondered if the stern face of the house was a reflection of the owner.
Celestine gazed out, her mouth slipping open in awe. “Gadz, that is an enormous house.”
There were two liveried footmen standing at the foot of the marble steps, and a man in all black, she assumed he was the butler, stood at the doorway, taking the invitations.
The line of carriage inched forward, and when their time came, the footmen helped her mother down first, then she followed. As soon as her feet landed on the ground, she nervously ran a gloved hand down her dress.
She knew she did not fit in the typecast lady most lords looked for; she was dark-haired, curvy with a nipped-in middle and rounded backside and hips.
It had been a trial to get modistes to find a dress style best for her shape, and even with the best dress for her, lords looked over her in favor of willowy blondes
Ophelia handed over the invitations, and after the butler looked them over—a rather young man to hold such a position, Ariadne thought—they were let in.
“Welcome to Holloway Estate, my lady and misses,” the butler bowed. “My name is Allan Hunt. Please follow this footman inside to the ballroom.”
“Thank you, Hunt,” Ophelia smiled as she lifted her skirts and stepped inside, and Ariadne followed.
The foyer matched the outside in austerity, but it was impossible to ignore the luxurious furnishings inside; walnut furniture with brass inlays, the Aubusson runner under their feet, and a gilded coat of arms overhead.
Two tall, slender oriental vases stood at the doorway to the other room, decorated in a pattern she knew had been created by Napoleon himself. Large white lilies sat in the vases, a breed Ariadne knew had to be grown in a hothouse with special soil.
If only I had a moment to see that hothouse, I’d be in heaven. But not tonight. This evening is for other purposes.
They entered the ballroom in the middle of a reel, and while the patrons swirled and whirled around, they found seats across from the dance floor.
Looking around, Ariadne admired the luxuriously decorated room, from the bronze-on-brown pattern of the wallpaper to the three-tiered brass chandelier covered in hundreds of beeswax candles. There was gold filigree around the paintings and the fanciful gilt edging and button tufting on the armchairs and settee.
“This is tip-top,” Celestine smiled widely, and the golden light glimmered in her light brown hair. As she spun around, the strands of blond in her hair glimmered with the golden light.
Ariadne had no fear that Celestine would marry well, but she knew her mother would die of mortification that her younger daughter married before the elder.
Nervously, she brushed down her gown, the pristine cream silk, trimmed at the neck and sleeves with expensive handmade lace and adorned with an endless row of pearl buttons that ran from the high neckline to the waist, where the skirt flared and fell in simple, elegant layers.
A loud laugh from the other end of the exclusive ballroom drew her eyes; his dark hair curled naturally around his handsome square face.
He was very handsome in his dark evening clothes and white cravat; tall, trim, and strong-looking. Surrounded by three other men, a blond, a redhead, and a dark-haired one, she wondered what kind of sway he held in the group.
“Gadz,” Marigold adjusted her spectacles. “Who is that?’
“I have no idea,” Ariadne replied. “But he seems to be a popular one, doesn’t he?”
“Remember girls,” Ophelia said, “His Grace has kindly allowed us to stay the night in the guest rooms because of the long journey, so please, if you be on your best behavior—” she shifted, “—and Marigold, please do not squirrel off to find a library to hide in.”
Pouting, Marigold replied, “I promise, mother.”
Her nerves never seemed to ease, either, no matter how much time passed by and how many balls she had attended. Every single time, it was the same; as though her heart would explode, if not from the excitement, then from being cooled with how lords would overlook her.
“Be mindful, Ariadne,” her mother said. “I hope to see your dance card filled this time, and Isolde, you should stay close to me.”
Sadly, that is not up to me.
“Remember the rules, girls,” Ophelia added.
Rule number one: never approach a Lord first.
Rule number two: always follow the lord’s lead in conversation.
Rule number three: never find yourself alone with a lord.
