Page 1 of A Sham Engagement

Chapter One

Nineteen-year-old Elenora Wetherby gazed around at the sea of people attending the Amberley House ball in something akin to terror. Beside her, Cousin Petunia, whose first ball it was as well, drew in a deep, awe-laden breath. “Just look at all these sumptuous gowns, Ellie. Although none are as fine as ours. And the gentlemen, too. Look at their fancy waistcoats and their hair. And how handsome the soldiers are in their regimentals. I think I shall swoon with happiness.” She gave a little squeal of excitement which made Aunt Penelope turn her head with a warning frown, and Mama give her a frosty look.

Elenora regarded her cousin, of whom she was fond, but in the rather tolerant manner she would have been fond of a puppy, and huffed. “I suppose they look well enough.” Why Petunia was getting herself in such a state of excitement, she had no idea. Although the same age as Petunia, from time to time she felt as though she were much the older and more sensible of the two. And this was one of those times.

Petunia gave a snort of disgust at Elenora’s lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, pooh and fiddlesticks. Even you have to agree that nowhere could be gathered a more beautiful assembly. And we are part of it, at last! Our first ball. I’ve waited so long for this day, and it’s a dream that we should both come out into society together.” She gave a little skip, but neither Aunt Penelope nor Mama noticed this time.

Elenora did not join in. The crowd of these noisy, brightly colored birds of paradise was hemming her in far too close on all sides. Too many people for comfort. Far more than she’d imagined would be at a ball in London. Her first proper ball, because, according to Mama, you couldn’t count the country affairs at the Winchester Assembly Rooms. Petunia was different, though, being as determined to enjoy it as she was with everything. Something that could be more than annoying.

The sound of garrulous chatter rose in the warm air toward enormous glittering chandeliers where they hung from the stuccoed ceilings, and the scent of perfume, oozing in an almost visible fug from both men and women alike, cloyed in Elenora’s sensitive nostrils, inducing a vague sense of brewing nausea. Laughter echoed, raucous as a tin shed rattling, and the dreaded sound of dance music tumbled in from a room she couldn’t see. Oh, the torture of having to dance with people she didn’t know. Men she didn’t know. A little nervous shiver ran through her.

Unlike her cousin, Miss Petunia Dandridge, Elenora did not want to be at the Amberley House Ball.

She glanced down at her own gown, which was indeed worthy of examination. Nothing she’d ever owned had been as beautiful as this. Delicate gauze covered a pale blue silk underskirt, both richly decorated with blue and silver embroidered roses. All around the low neckline, tiny, matching-silk roses had been attached by the dressmaker in Albemarle Street. The woman’s name, Mrs. Bean, had made Elenora want to burst out laughing, which Mama would have frowned upon, while Aunt Penelope would have added it to her list of her niece’s many perceived eccentricities. It must be a long one by now.

On her feet sat delicate, pale-blue slippers, and her long gloves were of the same hue. She was a vision of exquisite innocent beauty, Mama had said with pride, on looking at her just before they set out. Men would fall in love with her at first glance.

Elenora and Petunia had exchanged glances but stayed silent, because both Aunt Penelope and Petunia knew very well how much hung on Elenora finding herself a rich husband, although only Petunia was privy to how she felt about that prospect. How she was praying this season would be both short and her last, and not because she’d have found herself the required husband. To do her credit, Petunia had tried to understand her cousin’s reasons, but, like Elenora’s four younger sisters, she’d failed. She did know, however, that the last thing Elenora wanted to be was a vision and have people look at her, much less fall in love with her.

Elenora sighed. None of this was helping her cope with the unnerving sensation that everyone was indeed staring at her. That if she looked up from studying her entwined hands, she’d find hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on her, prickling her skin with their accusing gaze like so many irritating arrows.

If only she hadn’t been cursed with a mane of luscious blonde hair (her sister Augusta’s slightly envious description), a pink and white complexion worthy of a goddess (Mama’s words) and wide eyes of a deep, cornflower blue (Papa’s delighted description, as they were just like his). If she hadn’t, life would have been a lot easier. But she was the only one of Mama and Papa’s seven children to have inherited dear Papa’s tall, golden good looks. All the others, from her oldest brother Jolyon down to darling little Phoebe, who was only eleven, looked as much like their short, dark-haired mother and each other as to have been described as peas in a pod.

Luckily, she hadn’t also inherited Papa’s propensity for gambling. No, that had gone exclusively, as far as they all knew, to Jolyon, who was continually on his uppers and dunning Papa for money he didn’t have. Didn’t have because he’d already lost it at the gaming tables himself. As oldest daughter and Mama’s unwilling confidante, Elenora knew all about her father’s gambling losses. How much easier to have been Phoebe, still in the schoolroom and, ignorant of the family’s money troubles, without a care in the world.

Instead, here she was in London at her long-dreaded first ball, with Mama determined she should make a match with the richest man there in order to shore up the ailing Wetherby coffers. Or, if not the richest, then the most titled, but preferably one who was also in possession of a sizeable fortune of some kind. Mama had been very explicit about that. Elenora cringed inside at her own similarity to the mythical fatted calf that was always sacrificed for the good of others. Because not only did she not want to be married off for money to the highest bidder, she also didn’t want to ever get married at all. She wanted to remain at home at Penworthy with nothing changed. Forever.

“Elenora, my dear,” Mama cooed, making great play with her ivory fan, a skill she and Aunt Penelope, with the assistance of a resigned Petunia who considered it a pointless undertaking, had been endeavoring to drum into Elenora for over a month. “Do lift your chin a little and stop gazing at your feet. You make your shoulders look quite stooped. Look over there. I see Lady Routledge herself. I must introduce both you girls to her. She’s one of the most influential hostesses in London, and, if she takes to you, all sorts of invitations will follow. And dear Lady Sedgemoor as well. We came out together as young girls. It’ll be such a pleasure to renew our acquaintance. Come along.”

What Elenora would have liked to do right now was bolt, decorously of course, back outside into the damp and foggy London night air, to find their carriage and have Aunt Penelope’s coachman drive her home. Preferably not to Aunt Penelope’s elegant town house, but to Penworthy, Papa’s small estate in Hampshire. Posthaste.

It had been bad enough being expected to smile sweetly and curtsy to their host when they arrived. Meeting new people always made her nervous and on edge, and as he was an earl, no less, her fears had multiplied. On top of that, she’d been sure that Lord Amberley, a tall, stiff-backed and white-haired gentleman, had peered down his long aristocratic nose at her and Mama and Papa, and thought them jumped-up little country squires. He’d had the sort of look on his face that said he knew to within a penny how near to ruin Papa was, and didn’t want Mama husband hunting at his ball.

As if all the other mamas here weren’t doing the same thing. Aunt Penelope certainly was, but in Petunia’s case it was because she wanted to get married, not because she had to in order to save the family fortunes. Uncle George had left Aunt Penelope a very nicely off widow, or so Papa kept saying with a decided air of resentment whenever he was out of his sister’s earshot.

With an inward sigh, and keeping her head lowered so she wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye, Elenora followed her mother and the ever-enthusiastic Petunia through the crowd to where two imposing elderly ladies stood near the doors into the next room, fans fluttering as they surveyed the press. One was tall and stately as a galleon in full sail and possessed of jowls a bulldog would have been proud of, the other short and as scrawny as Parson Dobbs’ underfed wife at home in Penworthy, but both were so bedecked in jewelry and ornate gowns that nobody could mistake either of them for anything less than a duchess.

Although, in fact, only Lady Routledge was a duchess, and a dowager duchess at that. Mama had spent a long time going over the names and titles (and desirability as husbands or mothers of prospective husbands) of everyone Elenora was likely to meet during her first season. Aided and abetted by Aunt Penelope’s encyclopedic knowledge of the upper echelons of society, of course. Most of this information had passed directly through Elenora’s disinterested head, but a few bits had stuck, and Lady Routledge was one of them. Because Lady Routledge was in possession of a Mama-approved son, the young Duke of Routledge, a person Elenora intended to avoid as though he was suffering from the plague.

Two sets of appraising eyes fixed for a moment upon Mama, perhaps in surprised recognition, before switching to stare at Elenora. If only she could just vanish. No, if only everyone else but her could vanish. That would be best. She’d be fine here if it was empty of people.

As if suddenly remembering their manners, the owners of the eyes, in unison, reverted their gazes to Mama.

The stately galleon extended a beringed hand to Mama. “Lady Wetherby, dearest Fanny, how delightful to see you here. I had no idea you’d come up to Town for the season. And Lady Dandridge, as well. When last I saw you, Penelope, I believe you mentioned to me how settled Fanny was in her rustic surroundings. Where was it? Hampshire, I think you said. Quite charming and bucolic, I imagine, and I’m sure it suits you well, Fanny.”

Elenora frowned. Was this pompous lady being rude to Mama and hinting that Penworthy was in the back end of beyond? Hard to tell, but an insult to Penworthy was not one Elenora was about to forget. Although its proximity to “the back end of beyond” suited her very well.

Mama clasped the tips of the stately galleon’s gloved fingers briefly and smiled her sweetest smile. “Lady Routledge, Lady Sedgemoor.” She and Aunt Penelope swept graceful curtsies to which were returned the barest of nods.

Mama ploughed on. “Of course, you couldn’t know that I’m visiting dear Penelope for the season in order to present my oldest daughter at the same time as she is presenting her own delightful offspring.” Her own fan worked in overtime. “One has to abandon one’s rural idyll whether one likes to or not, eventually, and the entertainments in Hampshire are nothing as compared with the balls and soirées of the Beau Monde. May I present my daughter, Elenora. You will see how fresh she is from the schoolroom. Such a delicate flower. And I believe you already know my niece, Miss Dandridge?”

The stately galleon bestowed a condescending smile on Elenora and Petunia. “Quite charming, and such a modish gown your daughter has. Country dressmakers must be improving, Fanny.”

Elenora cringed as she made her own respectful curtsy, wishing the ground might open and gulp her down. Again. Her and her expensive gown. This, of course, was why Mama had insisted on a wardrobe of new gowns ordered and made in Town over the past month. None of the old ones she’d left behind at Penworthy, ones that had passed muster to attend a few local events, would have done for London society, or so Mama had pronounced to an increasingly horrified Papa.

Acutely aware of how much her new wardrobe must have cost, Elenora rose from her curtsy with warm cheeks and took a better look at the two most well-known hostesses in London.

Lady Routledge, a redoubtable dowager—Elenora had read the gossip papers as well as listened to Mama’s gazetteer of the Ton—was the stately galleon. An amazon of a woman, she’d produced no less than twelve surviving children for her husband, although only one of them had been a son, the young duke—also gleaned from the gossip papers. This lady wore a thick layer of makeup she must have intended to disguise her age. It hadn’t worked and the powder she’d dusted her cheeks with only served to emphasize her wrinkles.