And the dress. It was a gauze robe dress of primrose over a pearl silk slip, with Chinese buttons down the front. It was so elegant. Finer by leaps and bounds than anything Sarah had ever worn before. She stroked a finger over the sleek, expensive, beautiful fabric.
“I am so pleased,” Esme exclaimed. “Madame Buillard does lovely work. Do you know she designed my court dress last year?”
“I’m not surprised.” Sarah looked over at Esme’s dress, a white satin with a light pink slip overdress trimmed in black velvet and with black velvet sleeves. Satin slippers, white kid gloves, and a pink satin hat wreathed with fresh roses completed the ensemble. “Everything is so beautiful, my lady.”
“Yes.” When Sarah turned to the younger woman, Esme was watching her with shining eyes. She moved forward and wrapped her arms around Sarah.
Startled, Sarah almost stepped backward. But she came to her senses quickly and embraced Esme in return. “Sarah, you are like an older sister to me. You always have been. I’m so glad to have the opportunity to share all this with you.”
Sarah’s smile was watery. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I will never forget it.”
Releasing her, Esme stepped back. “This isn’t temporary, you know. You shall remain my companion as long as you wish to.”
“I would love that,” Sarah admitted, but she knew better. “However, you shall marry soon, and I’ll return to my old position under Mrs. Hope.”
“No!” Esme exclaimed. At Sarah’s expression of surprise, she clarified. “First off, I possess no high hopes of ever marrying.”
“Why?” Sarah asked. “You have always said so, but I have never comprehended why.”
Esme just shrugged. “After tonight you might possess a greater understanding. But even if I do marry someday, Sarah, you must remain a lady’s companion. You must never go back to being a housemaid. You are simply too good to hold such a position.”
Something cold twisted in Sarah’s gut at that. She knew Esme meant it as a kindness, but it was a brittle reminder of their essential difference. Sarah wasn’t too good to be a housemaid. When she’d first ascended to head housemaid at Ironwood Park at the age of twenty, she’d been so proud. Someday she’d be qualified to be a housekeeper like Mrs. Hope. Truly, for someone with Sarah’s pedigree, it was a great ambition to aspire to the position of a housekeeper at a great house like Ironwood Park.
She never thought she’d stray from that path. Certainly not to become a lady’s companion, wearing a beautiful dress and attending a ball presented by one of the most esteemed patronesses in London.
It took a long while, even with the help of three maids, for them to dress. When Amy finished pushing the last pin into her hair, Sarah rose from her chair, smoothing her sleek skirts over her hips. She turned to look into Esme’s large oval looking glass… and simply stared.
A primrose princess, dark-haired and pink-cheeked, stared back at her.
“You look lovely,” Esme said.
Grinning, she turned to the younger woman and sighed with pleasure. Esme’s black-trimmed pink dress was rich and warm and brought out the highlights in her dark hair and the shimmering hazel of her eyes. “So do you, my lady.”
“Thank you.” But then Esme’s smile wobbled, and she whispered, “You’ll help me to be brave tonight?”
“Of course. But only if you’ll help me. It’s my first time venturing into London society, you know.”
“I do.” Esme gave a wry chuckle. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” She held out her arm. “Come. Let’s go downstairs.”
Arm in arm, they descended to the drawing room, where Simon awaited him. Sarah stifled a gasp when he turned to greet them. In his black knee breeches, velvet-trimmed black tailcoat over a striped and embroidered waistcoat, he was the most handsome and compelling example of masculinity she’d ever seen.
He stood frozen in a state of suspended silence, his gaze fixed on her.
The blush rose to her cheeks, fast and furious. Deeper, she was sure, than the rouge that one of the maids had brushed lightly over them.
“You look beautiful.” He cleared his throat, and he seemed to forcibly move his gaze to Esme. “Ah… both of you. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.” There was a slight quaver in Esme’s voice, and Sarah squeezed her arm in a gesture of strength and solidarity.
They left the drawing room and went out the front door and to the curb, where the carriage awaited.
Sarah had learned quickly that while London was vast, the area of the Duke of Trent’s social sphere was somewhat smaller. The drive to Lady Bellingham’s house only took a few minutes.
Nerves fluttered in Sarah’s chest, but it was nothing to what Esme was experiencing. The younger woman had gone completely rigid in her seat, her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were white.
Sarah didn’t know how to help her.
Neither did Simon, apparently, or perhaps he didn’t notice that his sister was sitting on the squabs as stiff as a mummified corpse.
Sarah couldn’t quite fathom why this should be so terrifying to Esme, but she remembered the solemn looks on people’s faces when they spoke of Esme’s Season last year. Esme had never mentioned it to her, and Sarah hadn’t dared ask.
Whatever it was, Esme still suffered from it – that much was apparent in her current pale-as-death countenance. Yet Esme had gone along with all the preparations for the ball with nary a complaint.
“Remember not to speak of the situation with Mother tonight,” Simon reminded them as the carriage drew to a halt under a circle of golden-hued gaslight. “It is important for us to give the appearance that nothing is amiss. But keep your eyes and ears open for any information.”
“Right,” Sarah said.
Esme hadn’t seemed to hear him. Instead, she was staring at the carriage door as a footman opened it.
“We’ll do this,” Sarah breathed into her ear. “I won’t leave your side. I promise.”
“Yes,” Esme whispered, and she took the footman’s proffered hand and stepped out of the carriage.
The house was a lovely Palladian structure, one of the few in London with a curving driveway and a front lawn – Trent House didn’t have either, though it bordered on the Green Park which gave it a bit more of a feeling of openness than most.
Bright lamplight made the white façade of Lady Bellingham’s house gleam gold. People milled about everywhere, departing from carriages, gathering to converse in the cool spring air.
It was chilly for Sarah, though, with her short sleeves and no shawl to cover her arms, and she was glad Simon led them directly to the open door. They passed through the line, shaking the hands of a host of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, all of whom seemed to know Esme and Simon and appeared pleased to meet Sarah.
She kept an eye on Esme throughout – despite her rigid, silent demeanor in the carriage, she seemed to be managing well enough now, smiling and nodding and speaking quietly when spoken to.
They entered the vast – and already crowded – ballroom. Unlike outside, it was warm in here – and loud. People milled about, drinking champagne, talking in groups. With Simon’s comforting presence just behind them, Sarah’s confidence rose. She stayed close to Esme, almost pressed against her side, as she took in the visual feast the ballroom provided.
An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the center of the carved ceiling, flanked by two complementing smaller ones, each holding what looked like hundreds of wax candles. Gilded sconces dotting the walls provided more light, creating the effect of a blazing sunlit day.
Sarah’s gaze wandered toward the upstairs gallery and the ornate bronze railing that lined the upper story of the massive room. Scores of people stood there and chatted, and a cluster of musicians took up the whole of one corner, warming their instruments.
“Your Grace!”
Sarah, Esme, and Simon turned to see a young man bounding toward them. He pumped Simon’s hand vigorously.
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br /> “Whitworth. Good to see you,” Simon told him.
Whitworth laid eyes on Esme and smiled. But Sarah noted some tentativeness to it. “Lady Esme. I am so pleased to see you back in London,” he murmured with a bow.
She curtsied, but her words were blunt. “I didn’t expect to be here.”
When she didn’t add anything to soften her response, Sarah and Simon glanced at each other. Sarah knew she shouldn’t speak since she hadn’t been introduced to this gentleman yet, but Simon cut in, saving both her and Esme.
“I just brought my sister from Ironwood Park a few days ago. Thought it’d be good to have her and her companion visit for a while. Oh – have you met Miss Osborne? Miss Osborne, may I present Mr. Whitworth, Lady Bellingham’s second son.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Sarah curtsied. She could see the resemblance between this man and the regal lady she’d met as they’d entered. “I am so happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Whitworth.”
“And you as well, Miss Osborne,” he said politely. He turned back to Esme. “Do you have a partner for the country dance, my lady?”
“No.”
Whitworth hesitated, waiting, and when no further words were forthcoming he said, “Would you care to join me as my partner, then?”
Sarah watched Esme, whose gaze was on Whitworth. “Surely you’ve heard I’m a hopelessly wretched dancer, Mr. Whitworth?”
“What?” Sarah cried. “No, indeed you are not, my lady. You are a very fine dancer.”
Esme gave her a bleak look. Simon cleared his throat. Whitworth’s hand went to his cravat as if to loosen it, then dropped back down to his side, fingers curling. “I would like to dance the country dance with you, should you care to,” he said quietly.
What a kindhearted man, Sarah thought, giving him a look of approval.
Where Esme had been pale as death ever since the carriage ride, she now flushed profusely, her round cheeks turning a mottled pink. “All right. Yes. Thank you.”
He inclined his head at Esme, smiled at Sarah, and nodded at Simon. “Well, then. I’d best see if my mother has need of anything.”
As he strode away, Sarah released a slow breath. She was beginning to see the nature of the problem with Esme. Odd, after so much instruction in etiquette with Miss Farnshaw, but then again, their lessons with Miss Farnshaw had occurred in the privacy of a quiet room at Ironwood Park, not in a crowded ballroom in London.
Sarah wished she knew how to reassure Esme, but she already felt the assessing gazes of the ton raking over them both. Anything she said to Esme here might be overheard. And she wouldn’t add to Esme’s embarrassment. Instead, she gave the younger woman an encouraging smile.
Esme didn’t smile back. She looked stricken. “I was quite awful to him, wasn’t I?” she whispered.
Sarah couldn’t answer because more people were approaching them. Everyone wanted to greet the Duke of Trent, and by extension his younger sister and Sarah. By the time the dancing formally began, Sarah had been introduced to forty-three members of London society she hadn’t previously known.
As the highest-ranking gentleman in attendance, Simon would open the ball partnered with Lady Bellingham. When he finally left them to escort the lady to the floor, Sarah and Esme found a pair of empty seats in the line of maroon-velvet-upholstered chairs that stretched along the length of the grand room.
For the first time in a good hour, no one accosted them. She supposed it was because Simon was no longer with them. Beside Sarah, a young debutante whispered to her companion as the dancing began, “That’s the Duke of Trent. Oh, how I wish to be introduced.”
“What would you say to him if you were?” her friend asked.
“I’d fall to my knees and kiss his toes and beg him to choose me for his duchess,” the young woman said. Both girls tittered but kept rapturous eyes on Simon over their fan tops.
Sarah watched him, tall and handsome, as he switched partners, smiling down at the new lady. His lips moved. The lady, a plump woman a few years older than Sarah, gushed something Sarah couldn’t begin to comprehend, then turned pink to the tips of her ears.
“Lady Esme!”
Sarah and Esme both turned. A beautiful young woman and her older counterpart were approaching. By the similarity of their features, Sarah assumed they were mother and daughter.
Esme rose, a bit of her dress catching between her seat and Sarah’s, and she yanked it out as Sarah rose, too.
“Good evening, my lady.” She gave an awkward curtsy over her chair. “Um…” She looked at Sarah. “This is my companion, Miss Osborne.”
Sarah smiled, waiting for the ladies’ names. But Esme was finished, so the older woman, after sliding her gaze one last time to Esme, said, “Miss Osborne, it is lovely to meet you. I am Lady Stanley, and this is my daughter, Miss Stanley.”
“Good evening.” Sarah curtsied, trying not to wince at the breach of protocol Esme had necessitated.
They stood there far too long in an uncomfortable silence. Sarah studied the young woman, who in turn studied Esme with an interested, coolly assessing gaze.
She was beautiful. A blond angel dressed in white with a shimmering silver trim. Blue-eyed, with a healthy glow in her cheeks. She was the quintessential maiden shopping in the marriage mart with her matchmaking mama. Sarah had heard of Baron and Lady Stanley – their country home wasn’t far from Ironwood Park. But they’d never visited, and the duchess had never spoken of having them as guests. Sarah had no idea why, especially since the daughter appeared similar in age to Esme.
Finally, seemingly unable to bear the silence any longer, Lady Stanley said, “I hear you have only recently arrived in London.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Esme said.
“We arrived just a few days ago,” Sarah supplied.
“I see. I wouldn’t have expected to see you in Town without your mother,” Lady Stanley said. “Did she remain at Ironwood Park?”
“She is…”
Esme swallowed hard, and again, Sarah finished responding for her. “The duchess was unable to join us.”
“Oh my. I do hope she is well.”
Sarah looked closely at the older woman. Her face was a mask of polite concern, yet there seemed to be a slight insincerity to the way she’d said that. Had something unpleasant occurred between the women? Was that why the Stanleys never came to Ironwood Park?
“We will convey your good wishes,” Sarah said simply, not wanting to lie and yet not wanting to give anything away, either.
Miss Stanley seemed uninterested in this topic. Her gaze had moved from Esme to the dance floor, where the musicians had just finished playing the last strains of the minuet. Moments later, Simon rejoined them. After greeting the lady and her daughter, he politely asked Miss Stanley to dance the quadrille. She accepted with a brilliant smile.
Simon had to leave to escort another lady into the next dance. Miss Stanley’s partner came to claim her, and Lady Stanley spotted a friend and wandered off, leaving Sarah and Esme alone again.
As they resumed their seats, Sarah snapped open her new fan and fluttered it over her face as she watched the ladies continue to fawn over Simon.
Two more dances were punctuated by awkward conversations with acquaintances of Esme’s from last Season. And then the quadrille came, and Sarah watched Miss Stanley dance with Simon. She didn’t blush or simper as most of the other ladies had. She was open and gregarious and laughing with him, always brightening when she returned to him in the dance. She flirted with him in such a subtle yet entrancing way, Sarah couldn’t tear her gaze away from them.
She wondered what Simon was thinking. He smiled down at Miss Stanley, but he’d smiled down at every other lady, too. Yet with Miss Stanley, it was different. Sarah couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but it was, and it made her skin feel tight over her flesh.
She thought, not for the first time, of what it would be like when Simon married. When a new mistress came to Ironwood Park to take on the role of the
Duchess of Trent. What would happen to their uncertain relationship then?
She wanted to ask Esme more about the Stanleys, but she couldn’t, not in this environment. And she didn’t want Esme to see how… well, how jealous she was.
So she sat there, loving Simon more than ever, envious of the ladies who so openly touched him and flirted with him, and pretended that none of it mattered.
Georgina Stanley gazed up at Simon, her light blue eyes encircled by a dark ring of blue and fringed with lashes that she swept downward as she turned away.
Her eyes were blue… like Sarah’s. Yet so different. Sarah’s eyes were a deep blue. When he looked into them, he saw so much more than their color. He saw understanding and interest and depth. Hers were eyes that could burrow under the shell of the Duke of Trent and understand the man that lay beneath. She knew him.
He clenched his jaw as he turned Miss Stanley. He shouldn’t be thinking this way. Shouldn’t be comparing other women to Sarah.
Miss Stanley didn’t really know him. Despite the fact that they had danced countless times and conversed a significant portion of those, she didn’t know anything about his family or his home. Or him.
Simon was acquainted with her father from Parliament and from his club. The man had been hinting at an association between their families for months. Simon had been noncommittal – he hadn’t made public his intention to find his bride this Season. God forbid – if he had, the matchmaking mamas would wage a full-fledged assault.
He took the hand of the dark-haired lady to his right, and they walked to the center, meeting the other couples, stepping back, where they turned again, and he found himself face to face with a third lady, who murmured a shy, “Good evening, Your Grace.”
He greeted her with a smile, then they separated.
Still, most everyone knew who he was. They knew his age, and they knew enough about him to know he intended to marry and father an heir one day. The Stanleys weren’t the only family that had turned their focus on Simon as a potential husband for their daughter.
He reached for Miss Stanley again, resting his right hand firmly across her lower back.
The Duchess Hunt Page 8