Page 32 of Maid for the Marquess

“I’m not sure I know either. Dancing, watercolors, playing the pianoforte…”

“None of which you will be asked to do at dinner,” Lydia pointed out. “Lord and Lady Beckett are friends of the marquess. I cannot imagine he would keep company with anyone who is uncharitable enough to judge you for lacking the refinement your father denied you.”

Lydia was right, and I had been telling myself the same. But somehow, hearing her affirmation quelled my concerns in a way that nothing else could.

“You are right, of course, my dear friend. I am sure they will be most kind.”

“Of course they will, and if they aren’t, I’ll sneak into their chambers and hide frogs under their beds,” Lydia teased.

I laughed and impulsively reached for my friend, taking her hands in mine. I wore my customary kid gloves, and I had not as yet determined how I would avoid removing them at the table. I would somehow muddle through.

“I am so happy you are here with me, Lydia,” I told her. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Lydia gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze. “Of course you could. But I am glad to be here with you too, and far from the reach of the odious Mrs. Wells.”

“As am I.” I took a deep breath. “I suppose it’s off to dinner with me.”

“Just be yourself, Maddie. They’ll love you just like everyone who has come to know you does.”

I took my leave of the chamber, Lydia’s words echoing in my mind with each step. Not everyone loved me, but I had left my father and Cliffwood behind forever. It was time to turn my mind toward the future awaiting me, a future that was filled with more hope than I ever could have fathomed not long ago.

“I hope you don’t mind a few unexpected guests for your wedding,” Lady Beckett told me in conspiratorial fashion in the drawing room after we left the marquess and viscount to their port following dinner.

Thanks to my tête-à-tête with Lydia earlier, I had entered the dining room with tentative confidence that had bloomed over the course of the meal.

“Of course not, my lady,” I reassured her. “You honor us with your presence.”

The viscountess beamed back at me. “Please, you must call me Constance. We are to be dear friends, I can already tell, and I refuse to stand on ceremony.”

“Then you must also call me Maddie,” I invited, still feeling a bit shy.

Our shared meal had gone a long way to ease my concerns. It had been clear that Lord Beckett held the marquess in high regard and that the feeling was mutual. Lady Beckett—Constance—had been welcoming and warm. The four of us had fallen into an easy pattern of conversation, discussing everything from London to the weather to Lord Wheaton’s latest property acquisition.

“It would please me greatly to do so,” the viscountess said. “You are a dear heart to be so understanding about our arrival. When Wheaton wrote to my husband with news of your impending nuptials, I decided that we simply had to be here to join you.”

“I hadn’t realized he wrote you.”

What had he said about me? Had he mentioned the unusual circumstances surrounding our betrothal? I rather hoped he hadn’t.

“You mustn’t be cross with Wheaton for doing so,” Constance said. “He wrote to ask for my aid in sending a gown from London that you might wear on your wedding day. My modiste is a godsend, and she offered up a gown that I hope you will find more than suitable. I didn’t dare entrust it to a servant, however. What if it were to become lost or dirtied? No, I knew that I needed to deliver the gown myself.”

“You needn’t have gone to such efforts on my behalf. Mrs. Dougall was able to secure a handful of dresses from the village that would have served me.”

The moment the words left me, I realized that I had revealed too much. No ordinary lady would require a housekeeper to find gowns for her in the village. She would already have a wardrobe of her own. Embarrassed heat scalded my cheeks.

But if she took note of my error, the viscountess graciously chose not to comment upon it.

“It is no trouble at all, I assure you. Beckett considers Lord Wheaton a brother, and neither of us could countenance the notion of the two of you marrying without our being in attendance. It pleased me to think that I might be of assistance in some small way with the dress. I directed my lady’s maid to take it to your chamber whilst we were at dinner, so it ought to be awaiting you when you retire. I do hope you will find it suitable.”

“I am certain I shall,” I managed, overwhelmed by this woman’s generosity and my sudden change in circumstances.

The luxury of a wardrobe all to myself was naught but a distant memory. My mother had always seen to such matters. I had vague recollections of being measured, selecting fabrics, of paging through engravings from Gallery of Fashion. I had been but a girl dreaming of her debut then, and my mother had been gone before any of those hopes had a chance to materialize. When she died, so had my future, along with any love I had known.

How I wished my mother could have been here with me now.

“You will need to try it on before the wedding,” Constance continued, eyeing me as she warmed to her task. “I do think the gown shall fit, though we may need to make some alterations to the bodice, perhaps let out a few seams.”

My cheeks warmed again at the viscountess’s tactful reference to my breasts, which were far too large for a woman of my diminutive size. To accommodate them, I was accustomed to hiding my body in overly big gowns. The fitted nature of my new dresses had been yet another surprise to me, though the décolletage of my evening gown was the most daring of all.