“Thank you, my lady,” she said fondly. “This dress was, indeed, made by a seamstress in London. Though, judging by your gown, you know an even better seamstress,” she added teasingly. Lady Egerton was wearing a dark burgundy gown perfectly tailored to her more curvaceous silhouette. She looked lovely, her thick black hair arranged in a chignon and decorated with a dark ribbon.
“Thank you,” Lady Egerton said with a smile. “I confess that I don’t even remember where I bought this one. James might remember—he had to settle the account.” She grinned at James, who was chatting away to Charles, the duke’s brother.
“What, dear?” he asked, turning around to find Lady Egerton and Sarah staring at him.
“Nothing, my dear,” Lady Egerton said with a grin.
Sarah smiled at both of them and drifted on across the ballroom. Charles, she thought with a fond grin, looked like his brother—he had a long, angular face and the same blonde hair, though most of his face was much more like Lady Egerton. The long, slim nose they all had in common, but Charles and Lady Egerton both had the same soft jawline, and their eyes were more almond in shape.
The duke is by far the most handsome of the three,she thought, her face heating with the thought. She cast her eyes around the room, still trying to spot him. She strained her eyes, studying the guests without wanting to stare. Men in tailcoats and high-collared shirts, their legs clad in knee-breeches, stood conversing with ladies in long gowns with high waists and puff sleeves, the fabrics of their gowns every single shade that Sarah could imagine from white to deep blue.
Some ladies had turban headdresses married women sometimes covered their hair modestly, though it was not strictly expected—while most wore their hair styled in ringlets or chignons. Sarah reached up and tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear and into the chignon that Abigail had styled for her. She wore no adornments in her own hair except for a silver clasp to hold the chignon in place.
More guests had arrived and the noise in the ballroom increased, the sound of talk and laughter swelling around her like a wave. Sarah glanced across to the door where the guests entered. It was open, but there was no sign of anyone entering. The duke was not there yet.
He will soon be here, she thought calmly. He had not mentioned that he would not attend—Caroline would certainly know.
She smiled and chatted to some of the friendlier guests and drifted across the room towards the back doors. The roomwas hot, with so many people pressed so close. Her gown had puff sleeves that ended in the middle of her upper arm, the neck a low-cut square neckline, but she still felt overly warm. She passed by the refreshments table, and the tall glasses of lemonade drew her eye. Her mouth felt parched just thinking about a cool beverage. She reached for one, accepting a glass from the footman standing behind the table.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied, seeming shy. Sarah smiled at him again, frowning to herself at the dazzling grin she received in return, and stepped back to allow the people behind her to make their choice. The footman’s friendly response still confused her.
Maybe I really am beautiful,she thought. It was a possibility that had genuinely never occurred to her before. She could see that she looked striking in some colors—especially the lilac gown—but actual beauty? It was a quality she had never thought that she might be graced with.
She was still considering the possibility, stepping back from the refreshments table, when she almost bumped into two women standing a few inches away. They both had their backs to her—apparently looking out of the ballroom window onto the balcony—and Sarah let out a quiet sigh of relief that they had not seen her, since she recognized them as the duchess—the duke’s mother—and her friend, Lady Bardwell. The two where conversing in hushed tones, and, despite her dislike of eavesdroppers, Sarah could not help but feel curious about what they had to say.
“I tell you, Marcia,” the duchess was saying in a low, firm voice, “it will not do. I will not let it be so.”
“It’s a disgrace,” Lady Bardwell replied, her tone a little louder and more indignant.
Sarah frowned, listening in with real interest and confusion. It was hard to decide what they might be talking about.
“I will not let my son make a fool of himself with that wretched girl. She is a nobody. A baron’s daughter she might be, but whoever heard of Baron Wakeford? No-one!” The duchess sounded harsh. Sarah tensed, her stomach twisting—it was her they were talking of.
“She is nobody. And where was she for so long? Nobody in society has ever heard of her—which is strange in itself, making me think there’s some scandal there.”
“I’ll be honest,” the duchess said. “She’s no debutante. And how could she ever be a duchess? She does not even seem to know proper comportment!” She sounded shocked.
“Racing around with children and stray animals like a hoyden! It’s shocking,” Lady Bardwell agreed.
“No style, no etiquette, no standing in society,” the duchess summed up.
Sarah blinked, her heart aching. Tears gathered in her eyes, threatening to fall. She turned abruptly, hurrying away lest the two women turn around. She did not want them to see her and the tears that ran down her face.
“Cruel,” she whispered to herself as she went through the door that led to the terrace. It was cold outside, her shawl forgotten in the ballroom, but she did not care. “It’s so cruel.”
She leaned on the railing. The stone was cold under her arms and tears ran freely down her face. She had no handkerchief and she did not even reach for one. She let the tears flow as she sobbed and cried, the words like barbs in her heart that worked deeper each time she thought about them.
Nobody. Scandalous. Hoyden. No style or standing in society.
The words hit her like blows and she sobbed again, as if in physical pain. They were indeed like a physical pain, an ache in her stomach as though she had been hit.
“The worst thing is, they are not wrong,” she whispered.
She really was from an obscure family: Papa had not been particularly well-known in London, and he never went anywhere else outside his own barony. She had never really been out in society—a few balls at Almack’s Assembly did not really count. And perhaps she did conduct herself badly. Playing with children and animals was second nature to her—in the endless, empty hours at Wakeford when her father was away in London, she had entertained herself by helping in the kitchen garden, where the staff’s children were often her only companions. No lady would behave like that. They were right. Most ladies had only ever surveyed the kitchen gardens from a distance, and they would never talk to a servant’s child.
“I am a fool,” she whispered silently. She was living in an illusion if she truly imagined that she could become a duchess.
