Robert puts his hand over mine and gives a gentle squeeze. “Everything will be fine, Wren.”
I shoot him a dark look. It’s easy for him to say; he isn’t about to be an object of intense scrutiny.
After waiting for an hour in a crush of carriages, our coach is finally allowed through the imposing gates of Buckingham Palace. The palace beyond is so large and formidable, I suddenly feel quite ill-prepared, as though even the creamy-beige stones of its neoclassical architecture have judged me and found me wanting. My eyes are drawn up to the wide stone balcony, and even farther up, to the Royal Standard flying limply in the rain.
“Remember to curtsy to not only the queen, but the princesses as well,” Grandmama says as I am unceremoniously pushed out the door of the carriage. Men in palace livery move forward immediately to assist me.
“No one is to accompany me?” I ask, my eyes pleading with Rob for help.
“Do not be daft, child,” Grandmama snaps. “It is your debut, not ours. Just follow the others, do exactly as I instructed you, and you will do splendidly. We will await you at the ball.”
With these dubious words of wisdom, the door is shut behind me, and the carriage rolls away.
I join the queue of other debutantes entering the palace. They titter excitedly like ostentatious white peacocks, but I can only gape about like the country girl that I am. Lucy would absolutely love the majesty of the palace, with its color scheme of cream and gold, as rich as its sovereign. These colors are broken up by vibrant crimson in the carpeting and wall coverings, until the interior of the palace resembles a room of jewels: pearls and rubies all encased in gold.
One of the palace officials halts our procession in the antechamber outside of the Throne Room in Buckingham Palace. A buffet table laden with petit fours, biscuits, and other sweets along with refreshments has thoughtfully been provided for us—most likely to keep us from fainting beneath the weight of our gowns. A photographer holding a large, square camera takes photos of us, a parade of debutantes falling upon the golden buffet table like a flock of seagulls, and I cannot stop myself from enjoying the delicious treats laid out for us.
I choose a variety of petit fours as light as air and take a bite.
“Careful, dear,” a familiarly snide voice calls out, “you wouldn’t want to spill anything on your lovely gown.”
Eliza trills a laugh as she bumps into my elbow, nearly causing me to spill my tea all over the front of my dress. I down the rest of my drink to prevent her from repeating her little trick, since I am fairly sure such a horrible stain would bar my entrance to the Throne Room. I glare at her back as she makes her way to the front of the queue and poses with her ridiculous bouquet of flowers for the photographer.
“You do well to ignore her. She has always been rather cruel,” a soft voice says beside me. I turn to see Lady Hasting’s daughter, the girl who had played the piano so beautifully at the supper we attended. She holds out her gloved hand, and I shake it. “I believe we’ve already met. Miss Sinclair, is it? I’m Penelope Hasting.”
I smile. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Penelope. And please, call me Katherine.”
She leans in closer. “Are we not a lovely bunch of brides . . . er, debutantes?”
A sort of joyful relief at the rareness of our shared way of thinking bursts through me like a firework. “Do you think it is the veil or the train that most gives away the true purpose of this tradition?”
“It’s difficult to say, though I think you shouldn’t forget the bouquet when creating your list of evidence.”
“Indeed, it would be wrong of me to do so. Yours is lovely, by the way.”
She holds the bouquet, larger than her head, to her nose like a blushing bride. “You’re a darling to say so.”
We both laugh, drawing the attention of the photographer away from Eliza. As he snaps our picture, she glares at us with petty malice. But before she can formulate some new plan of vindictiveness, one of the lords-in-waiting invites us to queue up before the doorway of the Throne Room.
My heart flutters against my chest as I take my place in line. Beneath my elbow-length white gloves, my palms are damp—partly from holding the weight of my nine-foot train over my left arm. My mind chooses this exact moment to regale me with images of myself tripping over said train and crashing to the floor in front of the entire Court.
Mama, lend me your grace, I think like a prayer. I close my eyes for a moment, and I can almost hear her voice, telling me, as she always did, that there was always strength within me if I would but reach for it.
The queue of debutantes moves forward until I stand at the threshold of the Throne Room. Royal guards in scarlet line one side of the room, prominent members of the Court on the other. At the end of the long room are the king and queen, seated upon their thrones, but I try not to focus on anything but the veil of the girl in front of me.
I take my first step into the room, my shoe bright white against the red of the carpet. The gold-leafed ceiling soars above me, brightly lit by seven enormous chandeliers. The room is designed to be awe-inspiring in majestic colors of gold and red, but I am too busy praying that I will remember the choreography of all I must do once I reach the throne.
A court attendant moves forward and indicates for me to drop my train. Shakily, I do so. With a golden wand, he spreads the heavy satin behind me until I can feel the weight of it pulling at my back.
Careful not to step on the train of the girl before me, I process forward. The name of the first debutante is announced, and after only a few moments, the next two names are called, until I stand alone before the king and queen.
“The Honorable Katherine Sinclair, daughter of Lord Edward Sinclair, Viscount of Bransfield,” one of the court officials announces.
For one horrible moment, I freeze. Do I kneel or curtsy? Do I kiss the queen’s hand, or do I only bow my head?
Something draws my gaze to the right of the king, and I lock eyes with the Earl of Thornewood. Gone is the characteristic look of arrogance. In its place is a warm smile. “Curtsy,” he mouths to me with a nod.
I sink into a curtsy so low I’m almost kneeling before Queen Alexandra. She extends her hand to me, and I take it and kiss the back of it. Taking care not to step on my train, I move back toward the Throne Room entrance, curtsying to King Edward and again to each of his daughters in attendance, Princess Louise and Princess Victoria.
The court official with the wand replaces my train over my left arm, and with great relief, I am free to leave the Throne Room.
So much angst for so short an event. In the antechamber beyond the Throne Room, I duck into a dim hallway and lean against the wall, my ribs straining against my corset. An official will undoubtedly seek me out, but for now, I enjoy my brief respite.
“I am surprised, Miss Sinclair,” Lord Thornewood says, appearing in the doorway like a specter. “I did not expect to find a newly presented debutante hiding in a darkened corridor like a wanton woman.” I take a steadying breath. I cannot keep my hand from nervously smoothing my skirt, especially when his eyes trail over my dress.
To my chagrin, heat flushes across my cheeks. My eyes flick over his inky black velvet jacket and trousers. His ivory shirt and cravat are the only bright things on his body. I try to ignore how darkly handsome he is, how even the curve of his lips has my pulse jumping to life. “Is it a crime now to seek out a moment of peace?” I snap.
His grin only grows wider. “Such a tone I am greeted with, though I did my best to see you through your debut.”
The warm smile he bestowed upon me in the Throne Room flashes through my mind and chips away at my defenses. “The awful truth is you’re right. You did help me, and I am grateful.”
He steps forward, so close if I but leaned toward him our lips would touch. “How grateful, Miss Sinclair?” I hold my breath as he reaches out and trails his fingers down the edge of my jaw. “Ah, but I shouldn’t tease you. Tempting as you are, with your flushed cheeks, I am a
man of honor . . .” A self-deprecating smile touches his lips. “Though the gossips may say otherwise.”
Just as I am sure I will give in to my base desires and kiss the teasing grin from his face, a voice calls out from the room beyond, “Miss Sinclair?”
I jump away as though I have been burned and rush to the doorway. “Yes?” I say.
“There you are, my lady,” a relieved-looking court official says. “Your carriage awaits you. Shall I show you the way?”
I flash a smile at the official. “Oh yes, of course. Thank you.”
I glance back at the hallway, but there is no sign of Lord Thornewood—a small blessing, as I shudder to think of the repercussions if I were to be found alone with him in the palace, of all places.
There is no doubt in my mind: the man is a rake.
EIGHT
LATER in the evening, after my grandmother has allowed me to change into a soft blue evening gown, the carriage delivers us to a building with a façade that seems flat after the awe-inspiring architecture of the Palace. The red brick is faded and devoid of any embellishments save for an iron fence and lampposts. Still, the very sight of it fills me with trepidation. Especially now I am to be escorted by the earl instead of Robert.
As Robert helps me out of the carriage, my eyes are immediately drawn to a dark figure leaning casually beside the door, his face a bored mask.
Even with such an unwelcoming expression, my heart races at the sight of him. “This cannot end well,” I mutter, irritated once again by my traitorous body.
When Lord Thornewood notices us approach, he pushes himself away from the wall and walks toward us. “My dear Miss Sinclair, I am delighted to see you again so soon.”
Robert raises his eyebrows slightly in question, but I ignore it.
Carefully I say, “Indeed, it was so lovely to see you at Court.”
“You made it much more interesting, without a doubt.”
Now Rob’s interest is piqued as he glances between the two of us like a spectator at a tennis match. “You will be escorting my sister to this ball tonight, I understand?” he says, leveling his gaze at Lord Thornewood.
“I do have that honor, yes, though I am sorry to say I typically spend most of my time playing cards rather than dancing. She may have preferred a more attentive gentleman had she the choice.”
Robert grins. “My sister has shown no preference for any type of gentleman as of yet.”
“Robert,” I hiss in warning.
The earl lifts his eyebrows. “I’m astonished. No country gentleman to pique your interest?”
My blush deepens, and I falter for words. I’ve never been so happy to see my grandmother approach.
“Lord Thornewood,” she says with a gracious smile, “how kind it is for you to meet us here.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he says, his eyes shifting to mine. “The conversation so far has been fascinating, I assure you.”
Grandmama’s lips tighten slightly, but she maintains her smile. “I hope the rest of the evening will be just as entertaining.”
“I intend to make it so, believe me,” he says with a wicked grin.
“Shall we go in?” I interrupt before he manages to truly make my grandmother angry—an amusing pastime, no doubt, but one that will only make my life more difficult.
“Yes, I fear the rain will begin again soon,” Grandmama says.
The earl offers me his arm. I hesitate only a moment before looping my hand through his crooked elbow. His arm is firm and unyielding, and I can feel the thick bands of muscle even with my light touch. I take a deep breath and will myself not to blush again. I refuse to be reduced to a simpering fool around him.
His face is in profile to me as I risk a glance. His sooty eyelashes frame even darker eyes, and I follow the straight line of his nose to his mouth, the edges of which are tipped up slightly in his characteristic aloof smile. I drop my gaze before he can catch me staring and focus instead on each step that brings me closer to the moment when I will have the attention of all in attendance.
In some ways, my debut in court before the king and queen was easier. There, I was one of many. I was expected to perform my perfectly choreographed series of curtsies and be on my way. Once I entered on the arm of the earl, my every word and action would be subject to censure.
“Are you always so tense?” he asks, his voice a quiet rumble above my ear.
I try without success to at least relax my shoulders. “No, my lord. Only when I’m forced to do something I very much do not want to do.”
He glances down at me quickly, as if surprised. “You are not one of the hundreds of ladies in this assembly dying for the moment she will be welcomed into society?”
“Perhaps if it didn’t involve standing in front of everyone like horseflesh at an auction.”
His body shakes with quiet laughter. “What an interesting comparison. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put in such a way.”
I try to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. Only a few debutantes separate us from the entrance to the ballroom where they will announce my name, followed immediately by the earl who escorts me. I picture the reaction of Eliza and girls like her and suppress a shudder.
“You truly are nervous,” the earl says as if it is just occurring to him. I meet his stare, expecting to find teasing censure, but his expression is one of sympathy.
“I do not relish being the center of attention,” I say quietly.
His left hand is warm on mine. “I will be with you the entire time. All you need do is smile. I promise it will be brief.”
I feel my body soften at his words.
A footman dressed in crisp red and white livery holds the door for us. I tighten my hold on the earl’s arm, and he glances down at me. “Just smile,” he murmurs.
My lips curve upward, but I know this action does not banish the nervousness from my eyes. We enter the ballroom and pause at the top of a wide staircase, a sea of fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen before us. So many people. Their whispers begin as soon as they catch sight of the earl beside me.
The earl stands quietly at my side, much closer than is strictly proper. Instead of making me uncomfortable, my tension eases as if the warmth radiating from him has a sedating effect. Just as it was in the Throne Room, my name is called, only this time, it is followed by the earl’s. He gives me a gentle pull, and we descend the stairs into the main ballroom. I smile up at him.
He glances down at me, his eyes returning my smile. “You will find I am a man of my word,” he says. “Was it not brief?”
“It was, my lord,” I say. “I can only hope the rest of the evening will go as smoothly.”
He pauses a few feet away from Robert and my grandmother. Taking both of my hands in his, he says, “It was a pleasure escorting you, Miss Sinclair. If you promise to save at least one dance for me, I will make sure your evening is very enjoyable indeed.” His look turns rakish, and though his words are terribly arrogant, my breath catches in my throat. He leans down and kisses the back of my hand.
For once, I find myself incapable of responding as he walks away.
“So your coming out is complete,” Robert says when we enter the main part of the ballroom. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am. I found the entire process tedious and agonizing.”
I elbow him in the ribs, but a nervous giggle escapes from my mouth. “Yes, I’m sure riding through London in a coach only to arrive at a sumptuous ball with endless refreshments was sheer torture.”
“Ah, but I have been with only Grandmama for company,” he says in low tones and with a glance back at our grandmother.
“Indeed, you do have a point,” I say as Grandmama joins us.
“This is a terrible crush,” Grandmama says, but she is smiling so widely you’d think she was the one to make her debut. She steps closer to me. “We must make the most of our time before supper is served at midnight. But first, some things to keep in mind. Though you did well during your namin
g, you will find Duchess Cecily’s ball is no country dance,” she sniffs pretentiously, “there are rules.” She is so serious that I must keep my eyes very still to prevent them from rolling back into my head. “Though Lord Thornewood has agreed to escort you to this ball, you must not cling to him through several dances. To do so is of extremely poor taste. I will seek out other suitable partners for you.”
“Can I not simply cling to Robert instead?” I ask, and he snickers.
She levels a mean glare at us both. “You’d do well to take this seriously. May I remind you that not only is your reputation on the line, but your family’s is as well.”
I stifle a sigh. God forbid I lighten the mood in this stuffy place. “Yes, Grandmama.”
“As I was saying, coquetry, excessive attention paid to one’s dancing partner, and undue contact between one another is entirely inappropriate in dancing. Also, should you become overheated, you may go out onto the balcony, but never in the company of a gentleman.” She gives us a look of extreme weariness. “Though in this case, I suppose, Robert is the exception.”
“I should hope so,” I say, quietly enough for her to ignore if she chooses, which she does.
She pauses to scan the room. “There, I see Lady Hasting. She promised to introduce us to an eligible cousin of the family.”
We follow as she weaves her way through the elegantly dressed men and women. Lady Hasting is easy to spot since she has adorned another ridiculously opulent hat, this time with beads and lace surrounding a fully intact pheasant. She and a slender man I assume to be the eligible cousin face away from us.
“There’s my Penelope,” Lady Hasting says to the man. “Does she not dance beautifully?” She turns when she notices my grandmother. “Oh, Lady Sinclair, I’m so glad you sought me out. Here is the delightful cousin I spoke of, Lord Russell Clemens, Baron of Blackburn. Lord Blackburn, may I present Lady Lucille Sinclair, Dowager Viscountess and her grandchildren, the Honorable Robert and Katherine Sinclair.”
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