Colours of a Lady
Chelsea Roston
Copyright 2014 Chelsea Roston
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
As she stood at the top of a suitably elaborate staircase overlooking her own ball, Lady Emma Daphne Wren remembered how much she hated such affairs. How easily she deluded herself over the winter! She spun wild cottony dreams of the magic of the Season. By the time end of Twelfth Night, she was ready to head back to London. Through the fittings and her dance lessons, she maintained the rosy view of the Season. Visions of charming earls and devastating dukes danced across her mind.
Her delusions disappeared when the curling rod first burned her neck. Though her hair twisted itself into tight coils naturally, they were not the fashionable type of curl. Though the men certainly matched the handsomeness of her daydreams, they never smiled at her with more than practiced politeness. Emma had gone through the Season once before. She adored the filmy gowns and detested the forced small talk. Not that Emma had much to say beyond small talk to strangers, she just hated it all the same.
She had to marry. This circus was a necessary evil to achieve that. This particular ball kicked off the Season. Her mother, Lady Sheridan, hosted it every year. All of the elite families of the ton attended the event. Their daughters hoped to make a good impression on both the bachelor sons and their snooty mothers. Emma, too, hoped for the same. If last year was any indication, no one would seek a union with her family, unless it was through her elder sister.
Emma thought again of marriage. To be frank, she knew well to whom she would like to be wed. Her eyes raked over the bucks of the ton who milled about as they paid court to their favourites. Second sons wasting away in debt. Military heroes on leave from the war. Heirs to earldoms eager to sire an heir. Then, she found him, the Catch of the Season.
She guiltily focused upon the long-legged male with coal-black curls. He exuded the same perfection he always had. His eyes crinkled as a quick smile crossed his lips. He was too far away for Emma to see the colour, but she knew from memory that they were grey, the shade that reflected the English sky most of the year. She had known this man since she was but a child. A silly, boisterous child with too many thoughts and too high of dreams. He was not for her. The finely shaped ear in which he whispered belonged to her elder sister.
“Caroline,” Emma muttered. Her sister of the offensive good looks. The flaxen hair. The ocean-blue eyes. The porcelain skin. She had been created to entrance men. Caroline did it with such an innate grace that Emma had not the heart to hate her. She may find her infuriating and want to cut off her silky hair, but surely all sisters felt that way. What was the use of a sister if one could not hate her on sight one day and be thankful for her a minute later? Not that Emma would ever utter such words to her.
If Emma thought of God more than when she was obligated to in church, she would be certain he had laughed the day she was born. A foil to her bright sister. Unruly coils of hair the shade of strong tea and a pair of too big eyes to match. Her olive skin proved prone to darkening with even a sliver of sunshine in the sky. Visitors and distant family felt no shame at all in comparing them to the sun and the moon. Emma thought to compensate with her obstinate yet charming ways.
“Emma dear!” Her father's voice boomed up the flight of stairs. The Earl of Sheridan stood at the bottom; his brown wisps of curls greyed at his temples. A few guests cut off their conversation to peak up the stairs at the missing debutante. Emma ducked back down the hallway. She needed to find the strength to face this onslaught.
“Emma!” Another shout. This one feminine and threaded with mirth. Emma turned back towards the staircase and saw a ginger ball of energy bounding up towards her. It was unmistakably Helena Mallory, daughter of the deceased Viscount Mallory. The title now belonged to her brother, Lord Hector Mallory.
Helena could never remain tidy for even a single hour. Her lavender skirts were muddied on the hems and wayward tendrils of her copper hair escaped the shoddy silver pins. Emma noted a few new freckles across her nose though her skin retained its fair tone. Though not as fair as the alabaster maiden who glided up the stairs after her. Her white-blonde hair was strewn with ivory pearls in a simple knot. Her pale blue eyes focused determinedly straight-ahead, never straying from that invisible target.
“Lettice, how regal you look this evening,” Emma said. The girl lifted her head in greeting, gaze trailing over to the bouncy Helena. Her lips drew down at the corners.
“The streets are covered in snow. How on earth did you become so muddy?” She inquired.
“Of that I am not sure,” Helena replied with a shrug. “Oh do not give me that look, Lettice. I shall die right here on these very steps if you dare chastise me tonight.”
Lettice rolled those almond-shaped eyes to the heavens. “Emma, why ever are peering through the bannisters like a naughty child? Enjoy yourself.”
“I find myself overcome with the most frightful case of nerves.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should retire for the night.”
“Over my dead body,” retorted Helena. Emma looked to her friend and tilted her head to the side.
“You are awfully morbid tonight.”
“It is my third season, how could I not be?” She replied. Emma had the supreme luck of a doting father. He thought nothing of allowing her to retire to the country for one year instead of debuting as her friends did, so this was only her second season. She needed to be in her best looks for the marriage market. Two years did not transform her into a swan as she had hoped. Her skin had lightened nearly a shade, but she felt plumper than usual. All hips and thighs that did not look well in the fashionable high-waist gowns. As much as Emma loved the Greeks, she wished their aesthetics were not so popular with the London elite. Perhaps some fleshier Renaissance aesthetics would be better. Then at least she would have a chance. As it was now...Emma let out a sigh. This would not do.
“Let us descend,” Lettice spoke up. “Your mother keeps looking up here. She may drag you down there herself.”
“Oh dear, I cannot have that, can I?” Emma shook out her sage green skirts. She hoped they would fall along her curves in a becoming fashion. Of course, she might as well wish to have lost a stone or two over the winter.
Emma pushed her shoulders back and held her head high. Lettice and Helena fell in step behind her as she summoned her learned grace to lead the way downstairs.
The matrons of the ton shared sidelong glances. Everyone present watched the daughter of the house dance and flirt with the Season's most eligible buck. They would be the toast of the Season. Surely, they would marry. One did not do the Season to dawdle and flirt.
“But,” stressed a somber matron, “that girl is in her fourth season with no marriage offers despite her great charms and fortu
ne.”
They all sniffed in agreement. It was peculiar that this paragon of beauty was still unmarried. Lady Sheridan, however, the maid's mother, could not contain herself at the sight of her daughter's beau. With her peacock feathers shaking with excitement, she scurried away from the huddled women and sough to share the news with her husband.
Lord Sheridan took a long, deep swallow from his glass of his watered-down wine, listening to the chatter of a few young debutantes. They chattered at great length about Caroline and Lord Hartwell, the Duke of Kellaway’s son.
“They must marry,” said a dour looking girl. “See how they look at one another? A love match.”
“As the daughter of an earl, she is an acceptable choice for a future duchess,” agreed another with wide set eyes.
“I feel bad for Lady Emma though,” began the first one. “She will never have such a brilliant marriage. Why, I would be surprised if she ever married. She is far too dark. Even her dowry will not help her case. It is her second season and I just feel bad for her.”
Her friend turned to her with a surprised look. “Lady Wren is in her third season. Why do you not feel the same shame for her?”
“Because she must be choosing not to marry while Lady Emma has no choice but to remain so.”
“You are a fool.”
He let out a heavy sigh. Just like last year, his daughters would remain an important part of gossip. Until they married, which seemed to be never. Despite what the rest of the ton thought, he thought both of his daughters were beautiful. He knew from the first day he set eyes on Emma that her genteel life would not be as gilded as her sister’s.
Other fathers felt bad for him and his lack of an heir. They also claimed that boys were easier to raise. They sent them away to school until they were finished and then pushed them out on the world to find a suitable wife. It also did not hurt to hope they were not selfish fools who sought to claim their inheritance early.
But daughters, Lord Sheridan signed again. He had to agree they required a little more finesse. Oh they were quite some work. For sixteen or seventeen years, one had to keep them busy with governesses in a vain attempt to make them marriageable. Then, at the end of those years, you were forced to fund their first Season with dresses for every single hour of the day and enough fripperies to drive a man mad. Of course, one could never be sure that it would be a single Season. There was also the matter of ruination due to someone's son. Lord Sheridan shuddered to think of the scandal that could cause. Of course, she would be either paid off with an annual stipend or forced into marriage. Both seemed to be better options than a spinster daughter who would be nothing more than a burden to her surviving relatives. He knew he was being far too harsh. His daughters had great inheritances and would live well even if they chose to remain unmarried.
How many more years did he have left of this dance? These routs and musicales stuffed full of people he had never liked much. Time spent in their company only worsened his opinion of them. Like that horrible woman, Lady Worthing and her son, Percy. That boy must have fallen from a tree at a young age and knocked his head a few times.
Lord Sheridan was taken from his thoughts once he caught sight of the outrageous feathers that only his wife would consider fashionable. He braced himself with a swig of the wine for whatever absolutely pressing news she had to relay.
“Lord Sheridan, I have absolutely wonderful news! Our dearest, lovely daughter is talking to Marquess Hartwell, the Duke of Kellaway's son! I do sense a match coming along, do you think not?” She beamed at her husband, exposing the too white teeth of which she was fond. Her face still retained remnants of her prized beauty.
“I do hope you mean our dear Emma, instead of Caroline, my dear. Seeing as we decided to focus on Emma this Season, since you did not take her too many events last year,” he replied dryly.
“Do not be silly, it is Caroline. Emma has ensconced herself with those friends of hers instead of making herself known,” she rebuked with a sniff. “But, dear Caroline, the apple of her dear mother's eye, will certainly make a match this Season.” Lady Sheridan stated, puffing with maternal pride. Her eyes fell upon her younger daughter, standing near the dancers with her two friends. They were a perfect trio: a redhead, a blonde and a brunette. Emma had the poor sense to inherit thick dark curls that remained woefully out of fashion.
“Perhaps you should advise her to curtail her flirtations as a way to settle upon one man and giver her sister a chance.”
“Oh dear, there is never any harm in too much flirtation. Caroline will make the match within a month. She will be a duchess!”
“Kellaway's son, you say?” inquired her husband, hazel eyes darting to the dark-haired man. Their families had neighbouring estates some hours away from London. Lord Sheridan had always been good friends with Kellaway. The two families spent Christmas and Twelfth Night together every single year. When the Duchess died ten years ago, the celebrations moved to the Earl's abode. Marriage between the two families, without a doubt, would not put a damper on their tradition. There was little worse than introducing a daughter-in-law who seemed intent on changing the ways of a family.
“Why, of course! Who else? Shall she have a summer wedding?”
“It may be too soon for such plans for him to marry Caroline. He is dancing the waltz with Emma.”
With a gasp, Lady Sheridan twisted back to the dancers and lost her footing. She stumbled, sending the young debutantes all a twitter. Lord Sheridan hid his own amusement and waited for his wife to compose herself.
“That girl takes after you far too much. Such an upstart!” declared Lady Sheridan. “Is she trying to embarrass her sister by making a better match? The younger daughter should never marry above her sister.”
He rolled his eyes and patted his wife on her shoulder. “My dear, your elder is unmarried so you married above her.”
She sputtered and waved him away with her fan. “That is not at all the same, dear husband. Eleanor, as you well know, joined a convent in France. She is married to Jesus Christ, so, she technically married above me,” she explained, casting a meaningful glance to the sky. Lord Sheridan chuckled.
“You have me outwitted, my dear.”
Emma felt the last dredge of hope slipping from her fingers. Firstly, her sister's gown was more elaborate, adding to her fair beauty making Emma feel like an ugly child. Secondly, Emma found that the pink of the ton tended to flock around an entirely different set of girls than those that she called friends. Not to say they were ill-favoured, but frankly it seemed to be the case. Thirdly and most importantly, she had no care for balls. It was not the dancing, but the dreaded crowds.
Yet, she did adore her dress though she now despaired over it being too juvenile. It was sewn from the finest Indian silk in a soft pale green. It complimented her dreaded olive complexion, which her mother always fretted over. The neck was low enough to be fashionable, but modest enough for Emma to feel comfortable. Her slippers were the same pale green silk with matching ribbons that laced up her calves. The gown had cap sleeves, trimmed with a small band of embroidered white roses. Her brown tresses had been set into an elegant Grecian design with long curls hanging from the back to tickle her neck. She wore only a pair of pearl drop earrings and a matching necklace.
When Emma descended the stairs tonight, she felt the familiar dread settle on her shoulder. She often felt out of sorts within the confines of the ton and even in her own home. She loved her family dearly, despite their faults. Mother and Caroline did not the capacity to understand her frustrations. Mother told her to try harder to fit in with the ton if she felt so out of place. Caroline had the ability to squash any confidence or elation she felt. Such as she did tonight when, in a flurry of pink muslin skirts, she joined Emma in the main hall.
Glittering pink diamonds dotted her blonde hair. The becoming curls surrounding her face had taken short of four hours to construct. The rose pink muslin was woven with gold thread that made it glint in the candleligh
t. Her over-skirt was three inches off the ground, displaying an underskirt of precious gold silk. Caroline had even cajoled her maid into applying rouge and a lip stain, further accentuating her ivory cheeks and bright blue eyes. Most considered cosmetics to be more suited to an actress or prostitute and not the daughter of an Earl. But Caroline wore it, chin uplifted, despite not needing the enhancements. She enjoyed the reaction from men who could not help but fall at her feet in supplication.
Emma bit back a grimace. She reminded herself why she did this: to find a husband. Any husband. She was close to accepting the first man that offered for her. Knowing her luck, however, it would be Percy Worthing. No one wanted to marry a man named Percy, especially this one. He embodied all that the name Percy implied. All she hoped was that her marriage would come soon, so she could lead her own household until her dying day. If not then at least until her son married an ungrateful woman who would push his dear mum out to the dower house.
The sadness overwhelmed Emma once more when she spotted her sister with the pink of the pinks, Lord Thomas George Blake, Marquis of Hartwell and the Duke of Kellaway's heir apparent. He was five years Emma's senior placing him at four and twenty.
Lord Hartwell had the sort of charm and elegance to which all others aspired. Not only was he tall, she mused, but he also had the broad shoulders, slim waist and muscular legs that set off the day's fashion to its best. Girls swooned at his charcoal eyes that peeked from beneath the forest of his black curls. She had often dreamed of those eyes in her youth. The way his dimples appeared with the slightest twitch of his mouth had caused a great increase the sale of smelling salts.
Yet, she stressed mentally, it was laughable to even think that Lord Hartwell took a romantic interest in her. He had made that clear with the manner in which he fawned over Caroline. All men stuck with the sort of women that were their type, the sort they always courted and would someday marry. They rarely strayed from said formula. It was even rarer that Emma Wren was ever a first choice for the bucks of the ton. That was not to say she was lacking in beauty of grace. She found herself lacking in that elusive quality which set hearts aflame.
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