Page 1 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter One

The Honorable Ysella Carlyon, youngest sister of Viscount Ormonde, stepped with dainty care out of the carriage that had transported her and her mother, the elegant dowager viscountess, to the Duke of Denby’s London house. The stuccoed façade of the enormous house glittered in the glow of many oil lamps and the steps up to the imposing front doors were lit as brightly as if it were daylight still.

Ysella paused on the wide pavement for a moment, drawing in a steadying breath. This was to be her first large ball after her presentation at court, and her heart was beating in a frantic rhythm of excitement within the tight restriction of her stays. Of course, she couldn’t count the few dances and routs she’d attended up until now, as they had been small by comparison. Nor those she’d been to in the country, while she and Mama were residing at Ormonde Abbey, her brother Kit’s country seat. And anyway, she’d been just a girl then. Now, with her presentation behind her, she felt she’d become a young woman at last.

“Come along, Ysella,” Mama, a veteran of two much older daughters she’d brought out and seen safely married off, said with a sigh. “Let us go inside before you catch a chill.”

The possibility of this was real, as the night was cold and Ysella was wearing a gown of the finest silk and chiffon, with no sleeves and only her long silk gloves and a light, gauzy shawl to keep her warm. She followed her mother up the steps, past the waiting, liveried footmen, and into the enormous hallway of the house.

Not as big as the one at Denby Castle, which Ysella knew well. She’d been there many times over the years, as Denby lay only ten miles from Ormonde Abbey, so she wasn’t about to be overly impressed by the magnificence of the old duke’s townhouse. Not that he’d be here. Last year he’d suffered another of his turns and was now confined to his room at the castle, with, according to Ysella’s maid Martha who knew everything, not long to live. No. Tonight was to be hosted by his only son and heir, Jasper, Marquess of Flint.

And there he was, waiting near the foot of the stairs to greet his guests. A corpulent man in his early fifties, Jasper might once have been handsome, but the years had not been kind to him and Ysella had no memories of him as anything other than the rather roly-poly gentleman now taking her mother’s hand and kissing it.

“Elestren!” He beamed at Mama. “Lovelier than ever, I declare. And you’ve brought Ysella with you. Delightful.” He turned slightly to the young woman standing by his side. “Allow me to introduce you both to my wife, the new Marchioness of Flint, Charlotte.” His smug glance at his wife betrayed a certain amount of pride. “Lady Ormonde, my dear, and Miss Carlyon, her youngest daughter.”

Ysella regarded Jasper’s new wife with interest, as she’d once had a fleeting fancy to pair him off with her best friend, Morvoren. Luckily for Morvoren, who now happened to be happily married to Ysella’s brother, the viscount, this hadn’t succeeded. The cut of the new young marchioness’s gown fought a losing battle to disguise the swell of her stomach. She must be in the same delicate condition as Morvoren, although perhaps not so far along. Morvoren’s state accounted for the fact that only Mama had brought Ysella to London. Kit had remained at Ormonde Abbey with his wife, sending almost daily reports to Mama and Ysella. A nervous father, Mama had said only this morning when the latest missive arrived, her smile knowing and indulgent.

Apart from her delicate condition, the marchioness had nothing of particular notice about her and for a moment Ysella, never averse to speaking her mind, wondered why Jasper had chosen her out of all the available young ladies of the ton. Luckily, she didn’t voice this doubt out loud. Mama had cautioned her extensively about not speaking her mind.

The marchioness possessed mousy brown hair piled on top of her head in prettily arranged curls, and her gown was of the most beautiful brocade and silk, but nothing could disguise her plain face. However, she did have a look of robust and sturdy health about her. Mama would say, and indeed had said on several occasions, that Jasper had gone for stamina this time, not a fortune such as his late first wife had brought him. Along with six daughters. He must be hoping fervently that his new wife would present him with the son and heir he needed this time. How funny would it be if it were to be another girl, though.

The marchioness executed a creditable curtsey for someone so unbalanced by her stomach. “Delighted to meet you, Lady Ormonde. Miss Carlyon.”

Mama spoke a few polite words to the marchioness, complimenting her on her healthy color, while Ysella’s eyes roamed the gaudily clad crowd. She managed to remember to bob an elegant curtsey herself, and she and Mama moved on into the ballroom.

Ysella caught her breath. The candles on the many chandeliers suspended from the ornate ceiling spread an almost ethereal light over the gathered company, making the ladies look like glowing fairy sprites in their shimmering gowns. Most of the men had chosen more muted colors for their immaculately cut coats, but amongst the crowd sparkled the scarlet of regimentals, like bright berries on a holly bush in winter. Soldiers back from the continent on furlough, no doubt, or perhaps officers of the local London militia.

Ysella followed Mama around the crowded perimeter of the room, gazing in fascination at the little groups of ladies wielding their fans, their headdresses bobbing. The eyes of these young women strayed sideways in flirtatious glances as they chattered, towards young men gathered in similar groups almost as though both groups were wary of each other. Just as they’d been at the ball Kit had held at Ormonde, and the one she’d attended with Morvoren last year at Denby Castle. Only everything here was bigger, more splendid, more exciting.

Mama spotted someone she knew and sped up, and Ysella, nervous at being lost within this crush of people she didn’t know, hastened in her wake. Who had Mama seen?

Cousin Marianne, darling Fitz’s older sister, but nothing like him to look at. Whereas Fitz had inherited all the Carlyon good looks from his ne’er-do-well, late and unlamented father, Papa’s younger brother, Marianne took after her mother’s side of the family. Not that Aunt Elizabeth hadn’t been a beauty in her time. She had. But sadly, her looks had come from her own mother and Marianne’s all came from the Denby side. Every bit as tall as her brother, she possessed unbecomingly broad shoulders and a waist that had never been small even with the aid of stays when she was young. Heavy brows, a square chin and small, too-close-together eyes did nothing to enhance her looks, even with her squeezed into a dress that could have been called the height of fashion.

Mama greeted her like a long-lost friend, even though they scarcely ever met. “Marianne, my dear, how lovely your gown is. It’s such a long time since I saw you.” Well, Mama could hardly say Marianne herself was lovely, now could she? Not with her looking like a well-built man in a dress. Ysella stifled the smile that wanted to escape—how shocked Mama would be if she could read her thoughts. Ysella was beginning to learn to keep her irreverent thoughts to herself. At last.

Beside Cousin Marianne, Mama, who Ysella guessed to be a good fifteen years her senior, had the appearance of a dainty and dazzling flower. Her dark hair had been arranged by her maid in a style befitting a matron, but at the same time emphasizing her exquisite features. Features Ysella had been lucky enough to inherit, along with the dark hair, of which she was not quite so fond. She nurtured a secret longing to be a blonde, like dear Morvoren.

“Elestren!” Marianne gushed, perhaps genuinely pleased to see her relation, although it was always hard to tell with her. “And you have dear little Ysella with you.” She beamed. “What a coincidence that you should be presenting Ysella in the same year I’m presenting Charlotte.”

For the first time, Ysella’s attention, that had been wandering around the crowds in the ornately decorated room, focused on the girl standing beside her cousin.

Charlotte made an elegant curtsey and rose, her muddy brown eyes meeting Ysella’s in something that might have been a challenge.

“I believe you girls know each other already,” Marianne said with a wide smile. “I’m sure Charlotte has mentioned to me that you were at school together in Bath.”

School? That had been a thankfully short-lived experiment in Ysella’s life, but she remembered Charlotte very well. The girl with glasses who’d always had her nose in a book. Such a boring bluestocking. Well, no glasses now, so maybe she’d changed. Ysella dredged up a polite smile and bobbed a return curtsey. “Charlotte. Of course I remember you.”

Charlotte, whose hair had been confined in a rather austere bun on the back of her head with just a few tendrils of hair framing her face, didn’t smile back. “And I remember you,” she said, the edge to her tone hinting that the memory wasn’t a good one.

A wave of heat washed up Ysella’s neck to her cheeks. Of course. She and some of the other girls had teased Charlotte dreadfully for her studious ways, taking and hiding her books, hanging her shoes on a tree Ysella had climbed, putting a frog in her bed. The list was endless, or it might have been had the headmistress of the school not decided Ysella, despite being the sister of a viscount, was too much trouble to keep. She had packed her off home to finish her education with a governess. Something Ysella had been very proud of. Not so her brother and mother, who had added this shame to the list of her other perceived misdemeanors to chide her with. Regularly.

“Shall we go through and take a glass of lemonade?” Marianne asked Mama. “Charlotte and I have been here a full half hour already, and all the talking I’ve been doing with my friends and acquaintances has made me quite thirsty. Walk with me and our girls can accompany one another.” From her tone, it seemed likely she didn’t know what Ysella had done to Charlotte at school. Thank goodness.

They set off through the throng towards the refreshment room. At the far end of the ballroom a small orchestra was playing, but the noise of chatter almost drowned out their music. Some couples had taken to the dance floor already, and others promenaded around the edge of the room, young ladies in dazzling gowns with flowers or jewels in their hair simpering on the arms of immaculate young men. The scent of perfume filled the air—from both the ladies and the gentlemen present, and a slight breeze blew in from a pair of open French doors. No doubt someone had thought the room already far too hot.

“I didn’t see you at court,” Ysella said, having scraped around to find something to say to Charlotte. “When I was presented.”

Charlotte turned her head and narrowed her eyes. “I saw you though.”