The door opened once more and Hatchet returned with three gowns. All three were shades of pink. One a light shade, one bordering puce, and the other dipping dangerously toward red—a color unmarried ladies didnotwear.
“I found these for you,” her mother said, bounding off the bed with sudden enthusiasm and taking the dresses from Hatchet. “Consider one, if you please.”
“Mama!” Sybil’s voice was genuinely scandalized. The material was almost sheer, designed to reveal her petticoats underneath, and would display an expanse of chest—with its distinct lack of cleavage—that would be positively unbecoming on a young lady.
“These would be flattering, my love,” Scarlet said, holding one up under Sybil’s burning face. “And the color would be so becoming with your complexion.”
Her complexion was currently on fire, and so was the rest of her—in shame at the idea of having to wear something so hideously inappropriate. “I will not wear something designed to show the world what little I wish to keep hidden, Mama,” she said, her voice sharp and edging steadily higher. “You cannot force me.”
“I will not allow you to wear that ugly gray dress.” Her mother stamped her foot, and if Sybil had not been so horrified, she might have been amused at the display of petulance. “This is my wedding and you are to look beautiful at it.”
“Beautiful does not mean revealing, Mama.”
“I wish you would not be so ashamed of your body. There is nothing you need to hide from.”
“Nothing?” Sybil choked on the word. “Perhaps not, if you do not fear the condemnation of others. But I do care what thetonthinks of me, and of the fact that we cannot be granted Almack’s vouchers no matter who you married. Will this make Lady Jersey view you in a kinder light?”
“Her,” Scarlet said scornfully, two bright spots of red appearing on her cheekbones. “Who cares for her good opinion when she is so stuffy and old-fashioned?”
“I do! I do, Mama. I care that we are treated with barely concealedcontemptby everyone we meet. You may be proud of your origins, but why should I be? When they have brought me nothing but misery?”
“Sybil!”
Tears started in her eyes. “Well, it is true, Mama. Have you not heard the whispers?”
“Rise above them. I do.”
“You.” The word was scornful, but Sybil could not hold her tongue any more than she could hold back the tears that poured down her face. “You are beautiful enough that despite the scandals attached to your name, you can attract any man you wish merely by smiling at him. But I do not have your beauty, and I do not have your thick skin. I am not impervious to the scorn that so many send my way.”
“Of all the ungrateful—”
“Pumpkin?” A knock sounded on the door, and Sybil wanted to groan. Of all the moments for Thomas to interrupt, now was perhaps the worst. “Are you in there? I have something I would like you to see.”
Scarlet pierced Sybil with a glare that told her this conversation was not yet over, before fixing a smile on her face and sailing to the door. “Yes, my love?” she trilled. “I’m here!”
Thomas glanced inside the room, his gaze landing on the dresses before flicking to Sybil. She swore she could see irritation burning in their depths. Although he was approaching forty, he was an attractive man, with arresting gray eyes and hair that had resisted all age’s lures, remaining a full chestnut brown.
His face cleared as he looked at his bride-to-be, and he possessed himself of one of her hands. “Come with me,” he said, leading her down the stairs. “You may follow,” he called back to Sybil, his tone entirely changed.
And yet, according to her mother, his dislike was purely imagined. She sighed and rolled her eyes, but although it had been phrased as an invitation, she knew better: it was a command. Better to get this over and done with, whatever it was, than face his displeasure later.
The spectacle… for she already knew it was going to be a spectacle… was to be held in the great hall downstairs. All the guests, present for the upcoming wedding, were already in attendance, and Sybil felt as well as saw all eyes turn to her mother and her.
While Thomas was there, no one dared snigger, but Sybil was painfully aware of what they must think of Scarlet’s dress, a deep red, cut to cling to her generous curves, and so low at the chest a deep breath was positively dangerous. And behind, Sybil knew what a picture she made: plain and uninspiring, a mouse in comparison to her sensuous mother.
She cupped her elbows and tried to ignore the heavy weight of the gazes that inevitably lingered on her, noting the dove gray of her outfit, and the way it was so far from clinging to her form that it obscured her entirely. The center of the room held a large object under a large white sheet, and it was to this that Thomas strode, still holding Scarlet’s hand.
“It is my honor to have you all here tonight,” he announced, glancing across the crowd. Sybil hovered near the door, not daring to approach any closer. After all, if she was at the back, no one could look at herandThomas, and he was commanding all the attention.
“What is it, my love?” her mother simpered, and Sybil rolled her eyes.
“A wedding present,” Thomas said, addressing his words to the crowd. “I commissioned it myself.” He gestured to a footman, who pulled the sheet from the object with a flourish. An audible gasp went across the room like the flame on a matchhead. Gentlemen shielded ladies’ eyes from view as the painting—or more specifically, what was painted on the painting—was revealed.
Sybil wished she could disappear through the earth. China, she had heard, was very nice this time of year, and even if it wasn’t, she was certain it was preferable to the sight before her.
Because the painting, in the style of the old greats, featured a lady reclining on a large lily pad, sheer gauze wrapped across her middle and entirely neglecting to cover her breasts.
The worst part, however, was not the beam of light that gilded the lady’s limbs, or the impossibility of supporting one’s weight on a lily pad, which at best suggested a lack of creative forethought on the artist’s part.
