Beatrice’s own white cotton pantaloons were also on display with her blue brushed-cotton overskirt looped up to reveal her shortened petticoats consisting of many layers of voluminous Belgian lace. With puffy, white cotton sleeves, and her simple blue bodice laced up the front, she was their modiste’s idea of a shepherdess.
“I can only hope I don’t look a fool,” she mused. “I think most of the costumes here were made to fatten the tailors’ and seamstresses’ bank accounts more than to make any of us look good.”
“I look good,” Charlotte insisted.
“You do,” the duke said. “Nevertheless, your sister is correct. This single ball has boosted London’s economy as well as that of Paris and Brussels.”
They looked out over the sea of partygoers, the upper classes decked out in the finest costumes, none of which would probably ever be worn again.
Suddenly, they were surrounded by nobility. The Duke of Pelham’s friends, Lords Waverly and Jeffcoat, who hadn’t been at any of the events all Season, had turned out for this one. Lord Waverly was a Viking, with a horned helmet, leather straps going up and down his sleeves, and a floor-length fur mantle. And Lord Jeffcoat was dressed in knee-high boots, green hose, and a thigh-length tunic. The small cocky cap on his head with a feather in it, the quiver slung over one shoulder, and the bow made evident his identity.
“Robin Hood,” Charlotte exclaimed, and he stuck his pointed boot out, bowing to her with an exaggerated salute of his hat brushed low across his outstretched ankle.
Looking the two men up and down, the duke laughed.
“You cannot possibly find our costumes amusing,” Waverly remarked, “not when you are dressed like a man who couldn’t keep his head.”
“If I had to wear that ridiculous horned thing, I wouldn’twantto keep my head,” the duke returned. “Nor Jeffcoat’s green stockings, either.”
After the ladies had all been complimented, the three men began to converse about the recent Water Act, glad it had passed. With Amity and Charlotte discussing the dances that would be performed by members of the royal family and their friends before the rest of the guests took to the floor, Beatrice’s gaze wandered out over the growing throng.
Luckily, with the duke having been inside Marlborough House on prior occasions, he’d been able to give her a landmark as to where they would stand — in the Blenheim Saloon, as it was called, because of the painting of the Battle of Blenheim. Many called it the “handsomest room in London.” The black-and-white marble floor reminded Beatrice of a chess board, but she remained to the left of the great fireplace, as this was the location she’d given to Greer. Otherwise, considering how the palace, elegantly designed by the famed Sir Christopher Wren, had grown to something on the order of two hundred rooms, Beatrice knew it would be highly probable she and the American wouldn’t even encounter one another that night. And that would make the entire event seem almost like a waste of time.
She reminded herself she had also promised a dance to Lord Melton, who had increased his pursuit of her recently, calling upon her at home again the day after the hat incident, luckily before she’d had to leave for the shop. Strangely, he’d assumed she played the pianoforte, sang like a bird, or both, and he’d been perplexed by her parents’ poor preparation for their daughter’s future as wife and hostess when she told him she could do neither.
“How will you entertain dinner guests?” he had asked, looking perplexed, tilting his good head of hair to the side.
She paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose you approve of a round of Happy Families?”
He’d frowned and repeated, “Happy Families?”
“It’s a card game,” Beatrice had told him. His eyebrows shot together in consternation.
What did Amity do to amuse her guests?Beatrice assumed she and the duke hired musicians since her sister couldn’t play or sing either.
“I could take guests into the kitchen and show them how to make toffee,” she offered, only half-joking, hoping to discover if he still thought her an heiress.
“Truly?” Lord Melton had looked interested in toffee-making as if he assumed it was quite a difficult skill, almost magical, rather than something any half-decent cook could do, in her opinion. Not as well as she could, naturally, but passably.
“Or I could recite a passage,” Beatrice had offered. “I have a good memory and am well-read.”
“While I think recitation is a good exercise, I fear your feminine literature might not be enjoyed by all our guests.”
“You mean by the men?” she’d asked, a little distracted by his use of “our.”Did he assume they had an understanding?“I didn’t realize gentlemen wouldn’t enjoy hearing the adventures of Odysseus, perhaps in the original Greek, or a passage from Shakespeare’sHamlet.”
He’d coughed, firmly put in his place.Feminine literature indeed!She’d shown him the door soon after, as she’d had to get to work.
As if thinking of the viscount conjured the man, Lord Melton appeared in their midst. He greeted everyone in turn.
“Good evening, Dresden china miss.”
She looked him up and down. “Good evening, Ali Baba.” He appeared exotic in his turban and silks, and even somewhat appealing.
“You look quite the part,” he commented. “The blonde hair suits you very well.” She’d grown used to him and his ways over the past weeks. He was attentive when they danced and, during conversation, was apt to toss in a compliment regarding her looks, as if he assumed that would please her beyond anything else.
On the other hand, he was often aristocratically cool, and Beatrice realized she couldn’t tell if he was becoming attached to her.Was he even truly interested?
She promised him a dance after the opening royal quadrilles, and he said he would return in due time, plainly unbothered whether they conversed or not in the meanwhile. As she watched his retreating figure, the notion Lord Melton would ever try to kiss her or that she would feel sizzling passion emanating from him seemed laughable.
