The Season of Lady Chastity
The Undaunted Debutantes, Book Four
Christina McKnight
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Christina McKnight
Cover Image by Period Images
Cover Design by The Midnight Muse
ISBN-13: 978-1-945089-49-7
La Loma Elite Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
[email protected]
Dedication
For every reader who believes in the
MAGIC of the Christmastide Season!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
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Also by Christina McKnight
Author’s Notes
About Christina McKnight
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Downshire Place
London, England
October 1815
Lady Chastity Neville climbed the seemingly endless flight of stairs, set on her course: Downshire Place’s attic. Her legs burned at the exertion needed to ascend to the top of her family’s London townhouse. It had been many years since she’d last visited the attic. Though the musty, stale air had always driven them back to the more frequently used floors of the house, she and her older sister Prudence had still loved to hide among the aged, dusty trunks and cloth-covered antique furniture. When they made the journey before, they had sought comfort in things of the past: memories of their life before their elder brother had moved away and their father had taken yet another wife…a woman not far removed from Chastity’s own age.
Nothing about this voyage to the long-forgotten, cavernous room above the servants’ quarters was about hiding—or escaping life.
As soon as the decrepit door swung open on rusty hinges, Chastity observed that the attic hadn’t changed, and it appeared—at least from the thick layer of dust coating every surface, including the floors—no one had entered the room since their last visit.
It was comforting, yet at the same time, it irked her.
The overlooked room was much like her and Prudence’s mother.
Forgotten.
Something from a bygone era to be locked away and put out of one’s thoughts.
Normally, she’d stay out of her memories; however, Chastity had no recollection of her mother, Lady Downshire, Clara Neville, the second wife of the Marquis of Downshire.
“Do hurry up,” Prudence scoffed on the landing behind her. “We haven’t all day.”
Oddly enough, they did have all day. Without altering their schedule, they could remain in the attic for a fortnight before anyone would likely notice their absence. Their father was away from London visiting his third wife, Esmee, at her new home, and Triston, their brother, resided with his wife at a townhouse they’d procured in Berkeley Square.
Chastity knew better than to mention the abundance of free time they had to her sister and, instead, stepped into the musty room to survey the collection of wooden trunks gathered in the center of the space, the walls lined with various items from their childhood nursery.
Their crib, twin rocking chairs, and a tall, lavender wardrobe.
The only remnants of their infancy. Chastity longed to gaze upon the tiny chairs or push the crib until it rocked gently to and fro.
Triston had told them stories of when they were young, about how their father had doted on his two baby girls. How he held them, sang to them, rocked them to sleep—one in each arm. Despite the ten months that separated Prudence and Chastity, they’d always been nearly identical in height and looks.
Neither Chastity nor Pru remembered those tender moments with their father; they were just as elusive as recollections of their mother.
The softness of Chastity’s mother’s skin, the melody of her voice, the scent of her hair…they were all things Chastity would never know.
Holding a candelabra high, Prudence pushed past Chastity and stomped across the room, her shadow stalking the far wall, ominous and looming. “I do not see why we need to come up here.”
Chastity slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and felt the invitation that’d arrived with the morning post.
“Lady Luci is wedding Montrose, and we must find gowns to wear,” Chastity replied.
“We have two closets brimming with dresses of every color and style to choose from in our own chamber.”
“Suitable gowns.” Chastity sighed, not wishing to start another row with her sister. “It will be a Christmastide wedding, with four days of activities. We need something special to wear.”
“It is not as if anyone will pay us any mind with Edith, Luci, and Ophelia in attendance.” Prudence placed the candelabra on a low, dusty table. “And that is exactly as we want it.”
We…them…they.
Common phrases used by everyone in their acquaintance when they spoke of the Neville sisters.
A pair.
A matched set.
Indecipherable from one another.
Many suspected them twins, yet no one spent the time needed to become acquainted with either sister. If they did, they’d quickly learn that there was more to Chastity than what they saw on the surface.
Chastity’s annoyance flared. Even Prudence saw them as two like-minded women who wanted the same things for their future.
Namely, to remain in the shadows. Wallflowers content to wile away their youth until the age of spinsterhood was solidly upon them.
If one attended a soiree, they would need look long and hard to spot the Neville sisters hiding in the palms bordering the ballroom, or in the shadows of the veranda as dashing, eligible men led elegant ladies onto the dance floor.
Chastity was tired of being cast into the role of wallflower: a plain miss with no prospects for her future despite her wealthy, titled lineage.
Witnessing Edith, Luci, and Ophelia fall in love had been enough to make Chastity long for the same. There were far worse fates than securing a match with a dashing and handsome lord who had eyes only for her. Her and Prudence’s first Season had been less than stellar with no lords—or gentlemen at all—showing either woman mind. There had been no social calls by matrons seeking advantageous matches for their titled sons, no rides in Hyde Park with gallant lords, and nary a request for even so much as a dance.
However, Lady Lucianna’s Christmastide wedding to Montrose would be the perfect opportunity for Chastity to cast aside her wallflower ways. Five glorious days at Montrose’s country estate, Oxburgh Hall. There would be riding excursions, charades, card evenings, a wedding…all of it culminating in a grand ball to celebrate the wedded couple. Chastity had even heard word of a fox hunt.
It was to be a smal
l gathering of family and close friends, which meant the fawning debutantes of London’s beau monde would not be in attendance—though Montrose was sure to invite his friends; perhaps some unattached, dashingly handsome lords of marriageable age.
Chastity made certain to keep her excitement contained as she knelt beside a large trunk and unlatched the lid. During their childhood, she and Pru had escaped their governess and hurried up the several flights of stairs to spend hours slipping into their mother’s old gowns, trying on her silk, elbow-length gloves, and dancing about the attic. Each dress was precisely tailored and made of the finest silks, satins, and muslin.
If Chastity were to be noticed, she needed the perfect gown for the grand ball.
The trunk opened to reveal a stash of fabrics in every hue: vibrant emerald, canary yellow, blood red, tangerine orange, and royal blue. Satins, silks, and brocades. Fine lace, and beaded overlays.
Each garment was exquisitely beautiful, and nothing she’d ever dreamed of wearing outside the confines of their townhouse.
Since their introduction to society earlier in the Season, Pru and Chastity had favored pastel-colored gowns with modest necklines and few adornments.
“None of these will do.” Pru crossed her arms over the bodice of her morning dress and tapped the toe of her half boot.
If they’d searched through the gowns only a few months earlier, Chastity would have agreed with her sister. They were all far too bold with their cascading necklines and beaded adornments that were certain to earn notice.
However, much had changed since Chastity had been introduced to society.
She reached into the trunk and pulled out a royal blue dress, the silk wrinkled from years of being hidden in the attic but without any other blemishes. It had a daring neckline, a high waist, capped sleeves, and black beads sewn into the folds and across the bodice.
The gown was exquisite.
Perfect for a Christmastide ball.
“You cannot think to wear such a gown,” Prudence scoffed.
“I aim to do exactly that.” Chastity held the gown up before her. The length was perfect, and the style seemed almost wicked for being at least fifteen years old. “Help me slip it on.”
Chastity pushed the gown into Pru’s grasp and started unfastening the line of black pearl buttons trailing down the back, refusing to allow her sister the opportunity to object.
Prudence’s narrowed glare spoke clearly of her disapproval, making words unnecessary, though her sister was never one to allow an occasion to chastise another pass her by. “It will draw too much attention.”
“And what is the harm in that?” Chastity finished with the buttons and reached down for the hem, gesturing for her sister to help her slip the garment over her head.
With only a small sigh, Prudence held the gown high as it fell down Chastity’s body and over her morning dress. It was a bit snug at her hips but, otherwise, the gown hugged her in all the correct places. Chastity smoothed her hands down the dress, her eyes drifting closed as she imagined her mother attending a soiree outfitted in the gown. It did not take long for the image to fade as, truly, Chastity only possessed one likeness of her mother. It was a portrait suspended above the hearth in the sisters’ shared room, their mother sitting heavy with child, Prudence as an infant nestled in her arms, and their father standing rigid and stiff behind his wife with his hands hanging by his sides.
The family portrait had been commissioned only three weeks before Chastity was born—and her mother died. It had nearly been thrown into the rubbish bin when their father wed Esmee, his third and current wife.
Chastity opened her eyes, praying for the memories to flee.
“It does look lovely on you,” Prudence conceded with a frown. “Though, I cannot think of why you would want to wear such a thing.”
Chastity’s annoyance at her sister’s dour mood fled. It was not Prudence’s fault Chastity had always been too reserved to speak of her own wants and desires, or that they had in no way ever aligned with Pru’s need to remain in the shadows.
“Thank you, dear sister.” Chastity stared toward the open chest. “What of you? You will need an evening gown, too.”
Pru waved off her sister’s question. “I have a pale green muslin dress I’ve yet to wear. It will suit adequately.”
It had always amazed Chastity that her elder sister was so utterly content remaining on the fringes of society. While the latest crop of debutantes was being pranced and paraded about ballrooms and gardens all over London, Prudence embraced invisibility. She cared naught for dancing or introductions.
She strove to be everything but a successful debutante.
And, due to their closeness, Prudence assumed Chastity wanted the same. It was likely all the years they’d spent together, inseparable, bonded in a way most siblings never achieved. They’d lost their mother before either knew her. With their father’s remarriage, they had, in a way, lost him too—even though he was very much still alive.
Their brother, Triston, was everything Prudence and Chastity were not. He was handsome in a Greek demigod kind of way, or at least Triston’s wife, Edith, was fond of saying. Chastity had never met a man—nor woman, for that matter—who was not drawn to Triston. Despite the attention and fuss made around him, he was humble and kind. Most of all, he loved his younger sisters. So much so, that he’d been by their sides during their Season and had attended every ball, musicale, and afternoon in the park with them.
Never once had he pushed them to be anything they were not.
The trio had even found a spot of trouble now and again…and exposed their stepmother for the vile woman she was. Yet, that was before Triston had declared his love for Lady Edith—and many months before Lady Lucianna had met the Duke of Montrose.
Through Triston, Chastity had met Edith, her new sister-in-law, and Edith’s two bosom friends, Ophelia and Lucianna.
Since gaining an acquaintance with the young women, Chastity’s longing to do away with her wallflower ways had increased. She wished she had Luci’s coy smile, or Edith’s forward nature, or Ophelia’s adventurous spirit.
Their stay at Montrose’s country manor would give Chastity the freedom to be whom she wanted to be but on a fairly small scale. She was not ready to cause a stir before all of London; however, a few adventures at Oxburgh Hall could not hurt. She may come to realize she enjoyed it, or perhaps she’d find she loathed the change. Either way, Chastity was determined to explore who she could be.
She and Pru could not remain together always.
“Let us get that dress off you. The filth covering the room clings to it.” Prudence grasped the skirts of the blue gown and lifted it over Chastity’s head, a button briefly snagging on Chastity’s light brown curls and sending a sharp pain through her scalp.
She reached up and untangled her hair just as a piece of paper fluttered to the floor between her and Pru.
They both froze, staring at the slip of parchment.
They’d scoured the trunk many times when they were younger and had never noticed any papers tucked away within the folds of the gowns.
The object appeared to be a meticulously folded letter, the paper yellowed with age. Whatever was written on it did not show through the thick stationery.
“What do you think it is?” Prudence asked in a breathless whisper, her brown eyes meeting Chastity’s.
“I haven’t any notion.” But Chastity was going to find out. She leaned down and retrieved the paper, her hand trembling as she slowly unfolded the note. She scanned the page, shock coursing through her as she read the scrawling, decidedly feminine script. “It appears to be a letter of sorts—”
Prudence snatched the paper away, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to read in the dim light. After a brief moment, she stepped closer to the candelabra.
“What does it say?”
“It is mother’s handwriting. I would recognize it as the same from her stationary desk.” Prudence’s uneasy tone should have concerne
d Chastity, but instead, she pushed closer, excited at the prospect of seeing her mother’s handwriting and reading words she’d written. “This is peculiar.”
“Give it over,” Chastity demanded. The pair had only a handful of notes written by their mother—a modiste slip, a kitchen list, and a meal proposal for a dinner party their parents had hosted before Chastity’s birth.
“Do wait, I shall read it to you.” Prudence cleared her throat and began.
My dearest Cam.
My heart beats ever for you—and only for you. My very soul thrums with pure agony when you are not near. My fondest wish is for your desires to match my own. Despite my time away—dreadful as it was—it was only thoughts of you that saw me through our separation. If your heart finds life at the sight of me, I beg of you…meet me after the second cotillion. The terrace outside my father’s study. We shall, at last, be one this night, though it may be all we will ever know.
With all my love and utmost longing,
Clara
Chastity pressed her palms to her cheeks when they flamed with embarrassment at her mother’s written words. The note was meant to be private, and she could not escape the feeling that they’d stumbled upon a long-held secret.
Love. Desire. Longing.
Present in the letter was all the subjects that had taken up residence in Chastity’s mind over the last several months.
“Who is Cam?” Prudence asked, irritation evident in her tone.
Chastity had been so taken aback by the letter that she’d failed to notice that Dearest Cam was clearly not an address to their father, Horace Neville. “I haven’t any idea.”
The Season of Lady Chastity (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 4) Page 1