A few minutes after three, the doorbell rings and our small talk comes to an abrupt end. We stand up and I wait while Leslie goes to answer the door. As they warmly greet each other, I check my outfit nervously, examining my blouse for any creases and patting my hair.
I put on a big smile as Leslie appears in the doorway.
“Come on through, Victoria. Let me introduce you to Sophie Breeze, the secret bridesmaid.”
Leslie steps aside and a tall, elegant woman enters the room. My smile freezes.
“Sophie, I’d like you to meet my friend,” Leslie announces, “the Marchioness of Meade.”
CHAPTER SIX
Here’s the thing: I have no idea how to greet a marchioness.
Seriously, I’ve never had to greet one before. Is it a curtsy? Or a handshake? Or both?No one teaches you how to greet a marchioness.
I’m frozen to the spot, overwhelmed by this turn of events, as Lady Meade stands before me in a pale blue dress, with a matching jacket, and a designer handbag looped delicately over her wrist. Her thick dark hair is neatly twisted back into an elegant updo, showing off her pearl-drop earrings, and she’s one of those women who seem never to age, her skin impossibly glowing with barely a wrinkle. Her striking chestnut-brown eyes are framed by expertly penciled bold eyebrows, complemented by an understated nude lipstick.
“Uh… hi. Hi, Lady Meade, it’s lovely to meet you,” I blurt out, my brain kicking into gear.
I stumble toward her and she smiles graciously at me, putting out her hand. I shake it while instinctively attempting a small, awkward curtsy.
“Are you all right?” she asks, her grip tightening on my hand, pulling me up. “What’s the matter?”
My curtsy is so clumsy, she doesn’t even realize what I’m trying to do. This is a bad start.
“Yes!” I say hurriedly, letting go of her hand. “Yes, great! I…um… I just… Foot cramp! I got a bit of a foot cramp there. Sorry.”
“I did wonder,” she says, gliding across the floor toward one of the sofas.
“I’ll fetch the tea,” Leslie says, with a bemused smile, and disappears to the kitchen.
I go back to my seat, placing myself opposite the marchioness, and sit in silence, embarrassed by my introduction. I amlividwith Leslie Thompson for not giving me a heads-up. The Marchioness of Meade? After the royal family, this is the most famous, most aristocratic familyon the planet.She didn’t think to mention that?
This is like a weird dream. A crazy, weird dream. Because if Leslie thinks that Lady Meade might want to hire me, that means she’d be hiring me for her daughter, Lady Cordelia. Lady Cordelia Swann.
“Do you often get foot cramps?” Lady Meade asks, breaking the silence.
Well, this is mortifying.
“No,” I say, trying to look calm and collected. “Just… sometimes.”
“Strange. Perhaps your shoes are too tight.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Perhaps.”
Oh,God,this is the weirdest conversationever.Quick, Sophie, change the subject. Think. I glance around the room for inspiration. “Do you like macaroons?”
She blinks at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“Macaroons,” I repeat, gesturing to the cake stands. “Do you like them?”
She hesitates. “Yes.”
“Me too. Macaroons are great.”
Macaroons are great? Do you even know what you’re saying?
Please, please, kill me now.
