Chapter
Ten
It had been a mistake, wearing Tilly’s blue silk and velvet ballgown tonight.
The midnight blue ribbons, the sapphire and diamond ear bobs Harriett had lent her, the elegant chignon it had taken an hour to perfect…
Mistakes, each and every one of them.
Terrible, drastic mistakes.
Phee didn’t reach this conclusion until she, Lady Fosberry, and Harriett arrived at Lord Powell’s ball, and by then, it was too late.
Half a dozen steps was all it took. She hadn’t ventured more than half a dozen steps into the ballroom before the enormity of these blunders crashed down upon her like an overturned carriage.
It wasn’t that the gown didn’t suit her. It was that itdid.
The cut of the bodice, the way the silk clung to her curves, and the deep, midnight blue velvet overskirt, with the matching blue ribbons in her hair— her looking glass had plainly told her whatever modest claims she’d once had to beauty hadn’t entirely deserted her.
She’d never been one to linger at her toilette, or waste time admiring her own reflection, but tonight, when she’d looked in the glass, she hadn’t seen a spinster staring back at her.
Tonight, she’d discovered the version of herself she’d thought gone forever— a young lady with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, who was about to attend her very first ball, in her very first London season.
Her first, and last.
Of course, she hadn’t known it then.
No, she’d been as eager as every other young lady that night as she twirled in front of the glass and imagined how many times she might dance that evening, and with whom, her head filled with romantic notions about the delicious ways in which her season might unfold.
It felt like a lifetime ago, but tonight, when she’d stood in front of the glass staring at her reflection, toying with a fold of the rich velvet overskirt, that young, hopeful version of herself had been there as if she’d been waiting for the past six years for Phee to find her again.
To find herself.
So soft, that velvet skirt. Had she ever felt anything as soft? And the silk, too, so thin, so fine and delicate it was like a puff of warm breath over her skin, like a whisper from a lover’s lips.
Her lady’s maid had taken special care with her hair tonight, as well. It was brown— not as dark a brown as Juliet’s, nor as light as Emmeline’s —but a plain, dull brown, indistinguishable from every other shade of plain, dull brown.
At least, that was how she’d always seen it, but tonight it had been brushed until it gleamed a rich mahogany, and her lady’s maid had woven the blue ribbon Harriett had chosen for her into the locks and finished it with a dozen or so pearl-tipped hairpins scattered among the waves.
As she’d gazed at her reflection tonight, it had felt almost as if she’d somehow stepped back in time, to when she’d been young and full of hope, and for an instant— just a single, fleeting instant— she’d felt like the young girl she’d once been.
The feeling had lasted as she’d made her way down the staircase at Fosberry house and throughout the drive to Lord Powell’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square. It had stayed with her until she’d stepped into the ballroom, and she, Harriett, and Lady Fosberry began to make their way toward Lady Powell, who was holding court on the opposite side of the ballroom.
Half a dozen steps, before she wished for the floor to open up beneath her and swallow her whole.
It began with the stares. Dozens of narrowed eyes followed her progress, the weight of them growing heavier with every step she took. Then the whispers, which gave way to smirks soon enough, then titters half-smothered behind fans and gloved hands.
She couldn’t hear what they said, but it didn’t matter. She could imagine it.
Putting on airs… the gown far too grand for her humble station in life… seeking attention, as the Templeton sisters always did, never happy until they’d drawn every eye to them…
A spinster, playing at dress up.
Every muscle in her body tensed, every instinct urging her to run back out the way she’d come, and never attend another ball again, but before she could flee, Lady Fosberry’s gloved hand landed on her wrist. “Don’t listen to a word of it, Euphemia. Not a single word, my dearest girl. You look positively ravishing this evening.”
“You do, Phee.” Harriett took her other arm and drew it through hers, scowling at a smirking Lady Arundel as they passed. “You’re beautiful. That shade of blue is a perfect matchfor your eyes! Why, that gown was made for you. Don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just bitter, jealous old witches.”
“I… thank you.” She smiled at Harriett and squeezed Lady Fosberry’s hand.
