A Ravishing Beauty in Disguise: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  Back home in Hampstead, Harriet busied herself with her cousins, who’d invited her to prepare for the ball. Although Zelda was now 28 years old, it was clear that she was unwilling to take a step back from the dancing festivities. Her stunning, maroon-coloured gown was filled with flounces, twirling a few inches off the ground to ensure the crowd could spot her incredible dance steps.

  Zelda had always been regarded as one of the supreme belles of the ball, a woman who upheld the old-time traditions with grace. Frequently, Harriet’s mother had asked Harriet whether or not she would take a cue from Zelda, learn from her, walk and dress and talk like her. At this, Harriet forced herself not to roll her eyes, to instead murmur, “Of course, Mother. Zelda always has something to teach me.”

  Zelda peered at herself in the tiny golden mirror above her commode, slipping a pearl necklace around her neck. Harriet hung back, stretching her fingers across her waist. She felt the flatness of her tummy, then eased her fingers along the top portion of her milky thighs. Beneath the light green frock, she felt feminine yet powerful. Perhaps—and this, she knew, mattered very little—she would catch the attention of someone special that night.

  Renata ambled into the dressing room, still wearing a corset and her underthings. The corset was tight at her breasts, making them bulge towards her neck. She fell back onto the fainting couch and batted enormous eyes towards her sister and cousin, allowing her lower lip to bulge out.

  “It’s just too tight,” she moaned.

  Zelda cast her an eyeroll, then returned her sights to the mirror, stitching a final curl into place. “Darling, you know that pain and beauty are synonymous.”

  “I don’t know how you don’t just roll on the ground with the pain of it.”

  “Perhaps you should think better of eating so many biscuits at tea time,” Zelda said, arching her brow.

  Harriet again stifled an eye roll. She took several steps towards the back of the fainting couch, then slipped her hands across Renata’s back. The little mounds of fat were soft and pliable, like bread dough. “Let’s just loosen it just a tiny bit,” Harriet murmured. “There’s no use going to the ball if you’re just going to faint when we arrive.”

  “No. What will Hayward say?” Renata whispered. Her eyes glowed with fear. “He’ll surely see me as some sort of sloppy, fat, horrific …”

  “No, he will not,” Harriet said, her voice stern.

  In fact, Hayward Pennbrooke should have counted his lucky stars to have caught the affection of the young spitfire, Renata. Those eager eyes, atop his squat frame—they should have swept across every single orifice of Renata’s beautiful body, regardless of a stitch here and there of fat.

  “How do you know?” Renata groaned, still allowing Harriet to loosen the strings of the corset. Slowly, Harriet could feel her cousin’s lungs fill with air. “How do you know that he won’t take a single look at me, decide I’m disgusting, and run off with — with Zelda!”

  Harriet gave her a small smile. “Renata. I love the drama of it all. But I just don’t think Zelda would do something like that. Now. Can you breathe better?”

  Renata nodded and lifted from the fainting couch. She reached for her bright yellow gown, still hanging near the curtains, and began to slip it over her frame. Zelda mouthed to Harriet a “thank you,” before returning to her preening.

  “Besides, Renata,” Zelda said, her voice bright. “You know I wouldn’t belittle myself with going for the likes of Hayward. If anything, I have my eye on the Marquess.”

  “He’s married!” Renata cried.

  “Oh dear, I very well know that,” Zelda said, her voice difficult to read. Was she being sarcastic? She spun back towards her sister, looking conspiratorial. “But of course, I know for a fact that he hasn’t been incredibly faithful to his wife in recent years. Tatiana, herself, can attest to that.”

  “That’s just a rumour!” Renata returned.

  “Sure. But there are all sorts of rumours about the old Marquess, aren’t there?” Zelda said, her voice taut. “What was it Father said about his mansion? He more or less robbed it from the rightful owner, his third cousin, when the two of them were no more than 23. Something about the paperwork, a bribery. I can’t entirely remember.”

  “Where’s the cousin now?” Harriet asked, hating the way her voice jumped up an octave.

  “Well, some say he fell into poverty.” Zelda shrugged. “Father didn’t seem to know. And he said that the Marquess, of course, hasn’t a care in the world about what he did to him. In fact, Father says he still gloats about it sometimes. Saying if it weren’t for the idiocy of his cousin, he might live in a pauper’s home. Although I suppose, he would think anything beneath that sort of mansion is fit for a pauper.”

  “What do you think he thinks of the poverty in London?” Harriet asked. Again, she felt her voice come out like a bark.

  Zelda guffawed. “If he thinks about the poverty in London at all, I’m sure it’s only insofar as much as it affects his daily life and comforts.”

  “What do you mean?” Harriet demanded.

  “Just, say, if he sees someone begging in front of him and it affects his view. Or, say, if the smell off the street mucks with his breakfast time. Those sorts of things.” She sighed.

  Harriet wanted to point out that Zelda didn’t seem terribly displeased by the entire affair. Rather, she seemed like she harboured this story with a bit of relish, perhaps because it seemed to be shocking Harriet so greatly. Harriet drew her arms across her chest slowly, cupping her elbows.

  “Of course, that’s not all,” Renata said now. She slipped a jewelled comb into her curls, stitching it just above her ear. “Didn’t you hear what he did to his recent business partner?”

  Zelda shook her head. Harriet felt too frozen to speak.

  “It’s rather wretched,” Renata continued, lengthening her spine with the pleasure of having such fresh information. “It seems that they were going to purchase a wide track of land, just outside of Hampstead. But you know the Marquess. He simply doesn’t like to share. He bribed the man who was selling the land to insist that the business partner couldn’t be involved at all. Then, I heard that after the business partner bought his own land and house, just a few miles away from here, the Marquess actually had the mansion burnt to the ground—as it was too close to his own space.”

  “What?” This news felt like a smack across Harriet’s cheek. Her skin felt disconnected from its frame. She shook her head slowly at Renata, who nodded in return. “Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me there aren’t such evils in the world.”

  Zelda’s voice was glossy with boredom. “We really should be leaving soon.”

  “To attend the ball of this—this wretched man? This man who probably stomps all over the elderly, who robs from his best friends, who …” Harriet spat wild words, sensing the volatility that brewed behind them.

  “Calm down, darling,” Renata said. She furrowed her brow. “It’s not as though we have to act like the Marquess to enjoy his party.”

  “But think of it,” Harriet said, her throat tightening. “Eating his food. Drinking his drink. Speaking with his friends …”

  “His friends are all of London.” Zelda sighed. “We can’t very well not attend. Besides, our mother and father—and, I’m fairly certain, yours, as well—would insist that we go. It’s not as though missing the first event of the season presents a good face to the world. And I’m saying this as a 28 year old, ageing …”

  “You’re not ageing!” Renata cried. Her cheeks flashed red.

  The tension broke in the room. Harriet collapsed onto the fainting couch, drawing her hands across her thighs. Zelda swept towards the hallway to announce to her mother that they were very nearly prepared for the ball, that a carriage should be awaiting them in ten minutes’ time. Still, Harriet’s head grew heavy with this fresh information. Her fingernails dropped into the skin on her opposite hands, drawing blood.

  The next minutes were a whirlwind, a
panic, until finally, the three girls heaved their massive skirts and lithe frames into the carriage. Their parents planned to meet them there. Even now, Harriet could see her mother and Zelda and Renata’s mother, toiling away in the foyer of the big house, muttering about their various fashion choices. At the Marquess’s ball, everyone was there to see and be seen.

  The trek from Hampstead to the Marquess’s home filled Harriet with dread. Despite the lateness of the hour and the greyness of the clouds above, she still felt that the carriage was passing slum after slum, slapping mud and dirt across the little pathways and self-made beds of the people who lived on the streets of London. As Zelda and Renata’s voices tittered in the air above her, Harriet felt herself slip lower in her chair.

  “You’re looking ill, Harriet,” Zelda offered, tilting her head. She drew her palm across Harriet’s forehead. “You’re a bit clammy, perhaps. Renata, do you think she’s clammy?”

  Renata followed suit. Now, Harriet felt the sticky fingers of both of her cousins, drawing lines across her cheeks. She tossed her head back, feeling her curls flail across her shoulders. “Really, is this necessary?” she gasped. “I can’t imagine a world in which this is necessary.”

  “Fine. But if you faint when we arrive …” Renata began.

  “That was never going to be me,” Harriet snapped. “I didn’t latch my corset into my lungs.”

  “I’m just saying. If you feel ill …” Zelda began.

  But already, the carriage came to a sudden halt. Zelda peered ahead, announcing. “Ah. Already, we’re at the back of the line.”

  “What a line,” Renata murmured.

  “It’s the biggest event of the season,” Zelda echoed, as though these were words that needed to be said again and again to note their importance. “I really can’t imagine a better way to begin the summer. When I’m an old lady, I will remember this gown. I will remember the glittering smiles. The partners and young lovers as they help one another out of the carriages and rush the steps to that glowing—”

  “Such poetics,” Renata said, her voice teasing.

  “Shh.”

  Finally, the carriage arrived at the front steps of the mighty Marquess’ home. Seeing it in its mighty grandeur, all lit up, with gorgeous women mounting the steps, filled Harriet with a unique sense of rage.

  She forced her legs to move, to follow her cousins up the trek towards the foyer. But with each step she took, she remembered the vision she’d newly had for her life: one in which she took the law into her own hands. Slowly, she began to cultivate her own strategy.

  From the foyer, the women heard the swell of string instruments, the bounce into one of their favourite dances. Renata’s eyes scanned the horizon, surely hunting for Hayward. Suddenly, he appeared, almost as though the crowd had given birth to him. He nearly leapt towards her, his cheeks red with drink. He bowed to the three of them.

  “Good evening to the Arnold ladies,” he said, his stomach bulging out over his cumber bun. “I dare say, there are no finer batches of women across this dance floor.”

  “Hello, Lord Pennbrooke,” Harriet said, appreciating that her voice wasn’t making its wayward bounces, as it had been back at the Arnold estate.

  “Hayward,” Renata murmured, her eyes sparkling. “Do you really mean it?”

  Hayward bumbled a bit, drawing his hand across his upper chest, near his heart. Harriet had scarcely seen a man so anxious in his own skin.

  “I was hoping I might ask you for your first dance, My Lady,” he said. “Only if you haven’t arranged another.”

  Of course, Renata agreed wholeheartedly, a shark-like smile snaking from ear to ear. She whirled away from Harriet and Zelda, seemingly caught in her own daydream. Beneath her gown, her feet tarried away with the beat, soft and angelic next to the thudding ones that belonged to Hayward. Zelda let out a little laugh.

  “I can’t see what she sees in him,” she offered.

  “Perhaps that’s the beauty of it,” Harriet returned.

  Moments later, Tatiana Bellington and her good friend, Ursula Maverick, appeared to greet Harriet and Zelda. Throughout their seasons, the girls had crafted a sort of quasi-friendship, one that allowed for these gossip-filled moments at balls whilst other members of their group were whisked away. Both women were 24 years old, and neither had yet to fall into an engagement, although Tatiana had been close the previous year.

  Her suitor, a man called Thomas Manfred, had ultimately abandoned her to pursue another woman named Sarah Schneider, who had up and abandoned him for another man just before he was planning to ask her to be his wife.

  The entire affair had been scandalous, leaving no one but Sarah Schneider happy. It was known amongst the members of society never to speak the name of Thomas Manfred to Tatiana, nor to Ursula. It would incite an endless bout of anger, from which no one would recover for the evening.

  “You’re looking splendid, Harriet. Zelda,” Ursula said, kissing them both. Tatiana followed suit. “It really is remarkable that yet another whole year has gone by between parties at the Marquess’s.”

  “Isn’t it?” Zelda said.

  “And another whole year of his getting away with whatever it is he’s up to,” Harriet said, unable to control herself.

  Tatiana blinked at her, her head tilted. “I don’t suppose I understand what you mean?”

  “Don’t mind her.” Zelda sighed. “She’s only just learned about the purported treachery of the Marquess.”

  “Oh? It’s something I so frequently forget about,” Tatiana tittered. She glanced to the left, towards the edge of the ball. “There he is now. So handsome. It’s devilish what the rich and handsome can get away with, isn’t it? I suppose we allow it because of that ridiculous smile of his. Just look.”

  Harriet cast her eyes towards the Marquess. As was his custom, he looked far more regal than the others, his vest a purple colour, his curls sweeping towards his shoulders. He was in the midst of some kind of banter with a man perhaps ten years his senior, one that caused him to toss his head back with volatile laughter. Harriet again swirled with rage. How could he possibly fill himself with expensive champagne, bubble himself through the night, when so much of London was scrambling to survive outside?

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Harriet murmured. “I would really like to have a drink.”

  Without waiting for their answer, Harriet whirled towards the table alongside the ballroom, where an enormous line of glittering glasses of champagne awaited. She snuck her thin fingers around the stem of wine and drew the glass back, drinking it down to the last drop. Then, she tapped the empty glass beside the others and grabbed another, feeling her eyebrows lower. She felt like a woman on the brink of war—a Joan of Arc figure at a glitzy ball.

  Harriet marched past the Marquess, lending him her most demonic glare, before reaching the servant in the far corner. The servant had his hands latched behind his back and blinked out across the crowd, seemingly waiting for someone to call his name. The servant’s face was gaunt; his cheekbones stretching out too far over hollow cheeks. Harriet wondered if the Marquess even managed to feed the members of his own staff. How could anyone be so evil?

  “Hello,” Harriet said. She announced it directly into the servant’s face, as though she was in the midst of an argument. She swallowed hard, trying to force herself to press forward without fear.

  “Good evening, Madame,” the servant returned. He ensured that his voice offered no hint of surprise. “I hope that everything is to your liking this evening? Can I be of service in any manner?”

  “Actually, you can be,” Harriet said. “I want to ask you a series of questions.”

  “Questions?” the servant asked. His eyes turned towards the Marquess, then returned to her. “I don’t quite understand.”