Radcliff slowly smiled. “She thinks you are too full of yourself.”
“Ha! So I am. Which is none of her concern. Agreed?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Clara stood. “Now, help me with this blasted gown.”
The box rested on the bench at the foot of Clara’s bed, and Radcliff lifted the lid, then frowned. She plucked a small piece of foolscap from within the box. “There is a note.”
Clara took it, smiled, then read it to Radcliff. “If your mama needs a fitting before the ball, keep the dress as-is. After, look for the yellow threads on each side. A quick snip-snip and an inch will give. Still slim. More air. She will never know.” She laughed as Radcliff pulled the gown from the box, spread it across the bed, and found the bright yellow threads basted into each side. A quick clip from Radcliff’s scissors, and the threads slipped out of the fabric, revealing the more secure side seams in the bodice.
The gown still fit quite snuggly, but without the feeling of breathless restriction. The box also contained a light silk pelisse in cream and gold—intended to complement all of the duke’s outfits for the season, cream silk gloves, and two copper-colored feathers for Clara’s hair. The slippers remained a size too small, and her scalp still ached, but the overall effect was almost as magical as the modiste had promised.
As Clara descended the main stairs to the entrance, both her parents waited in the foyer, and her mother actually gave a quick smile before looking away to tug on her gloves. The earl, however, beamed, holding out a hand to assist her on the last few steps.
“You look magnificent, my child.”
Your burdensome child.“Thank you, Papa. Madame Adrienne is quite the magician.”
“Not at all. You are lovely.”
Clara stared at him a moment, then looked away, unsure of what to say. Her father had always been kind, but never complimentary. “I—” She tried to take a deep breath but only managed a short cough. “I appreciate you saying so.”
Honora spun on her heels. “Let us go, girl. We are later than usual.” She marched out the front door and down the steps to the waiting carriage.
“Good luck,” her father whispered as he released her hand.
The carriage ride was both mercifully short and silent, with Honora spending almost the entire trip staring out a window into the dark. She broke the silence only long enough to remind Clara of the importance of pleasing the duke. They arrived at the entrance of the Blackwell mansion just as a light sprinkle began to fall, which Clara knew would be the primary topic of conversation for the first hour. It was the first rain London had seen since the aberrant storm two weeks earlier, renewing hopes the summer drought had come to an end. Men would hope it would continue, watering parched country estates, while women would complain about what it would do to their hair. Her head still throbbed, but Clara realized she should probably be grateful for the new style, given the intent to impress a fussy duke.
Said duke waited for her, approaching just after she and Honora were announced. His face beamed as his gaze traveled over her, feathers to hem, and he gleefully took her hand when she offered it, his lips grazing the gloved knuckles. “Just as I anticipated, Lady Clara. We make for a matched pair.”
She smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “Like a pair of matched bays for the ducal carriage.”
“Clara!”
But the duke laughed, pulling her closer and tucking her arm into his as he escorted mother and daughter to a spot near the head of the dance floor. “Exactly so. Do you not think that a duke and duchess should lead their estate together, much as the crown fronts the ship of state?”
“I am not sure the king would relish being compared to a wooden figurehead.”
“Oh, dear God,” Honora muttered. But Wykeham’s low chuckle seemed to pacify Clara’s mother, who murmured something about ratafia and excused herself with a curtsy to the duke.
Wykeham paused and released Clara’s arm. “I do look forward to evenings in your company,” he said,sotto voce, as the orchestra began to tune their instruments. “But we should not spend too much of this night together.”
Clara stepped away from him. “Other eggs to tend?”
He gave a single nod. “And other business. Men do more at these things than entertain the ladies.”
“I have no doubts about that.”
Wykeham held out his hand, and Clara lifted her arm, letting her dance card dangle before him. He pressed it into the palm of his hand and used the pencil attached with a narrow ribbon to add his scribbled name to two of the dances. He bowed as she curtsied, then turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
She peered at the card. He had claimed a cotillion and a quadrille. Safe. They would barely touch, much less converse, but she suddenly wondered who he would choose for the Scotch reel, his favorite dance. It would be telling, she thought, and definitely reveal which lady of thetonheld the duke’s eye as well. Business, he had said. He would be conducting “other business” at tonight’s ball. Since Clara knew he saw their potential marriage as “business,” she knew that if she paid attention, she would learn much more about the duke than he might expect.
She wandered through the expanding crowd, greeting several friends, most of whom complimented her on her new gown or hair style. Smiles broadened and she heard words like “lovely” and “beautiful.” Two of her female friends pointed out how “elegant” she looked in the new style, although they stumbled over the word. She knew what they meant: thinner.
And more than ever, she wanted to hide. Her head hurt, her ribs ached, and her toes felt squashed. Clara moved farther away from the dancers, who had finished the first reel and were lining up for the next dance. She slipped in next to a potted fern on a tall pedestal. Since every move caused her pain in one place or another—and her mother had given her strict instructions about dancing with other men—Clara decided to play observer for most of the evening, staying away from both courtiers and tables of refreshment. With luck, Hadleyton and his friends would be missing from the limited invitation list.
As events of the season went, the Blackwell ball was a smallish affair, one that Lord and Lady Blackwell held more out of obligation than enthusiasm. A former ambassador, Lord Blackwell had been a privy acquaintance of King George III, and his son a close associate of the Prince Regent, now George IV. Both royals had developed the rather unfortunate habit of showing up at Blackwell events unannounced, entourage in tow. The result was that the Blackwells felt obligated to host at least one ball each season, and since their home had only a moderately sized ballroom, they limited any event to two hundred guests—making it one of the most desired invitations of the season, despite a smaller orchestra and simpler decorations. Clara’s fern, in its Grecian-themed pot with a few spotty orange ribbons, was one of the more elaborate displays of the evening.
