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29
Romy smoothed down the skirts of her ice-blue gown, smiling when her fingers stuck against the small pocket hidden within the folds of silk. The gown had been delivered by one of Madame Dupree’s assistants only this morning. The waist, with its series of tiny pleats, required Daisy to lace Romy's corset a bit tighter than usual, but the look was worth it.
Lady Compton walked past, crimson skirts sweeping out around her.
A lovely design. Lady Compton had been assured the gown had been created completely by Madame Dupree. The modiste had gone to great lengths to ensure every one of her clients knew the whispered rumors of Lady Andromeda Barrington designing gowns were patently ridiculous. Yes, she admitted, Lady Andromeda had a flair for color and fashion, a talent which she was only too happy to share with those who frequented Madame Dupree’s establishment. But to suggest a pampered duke’s daughter was a modisteandMadame Dupree’s partner? Ludicrous.
Thankfully, the talk had begun to die down, though Romy was infuriated Lady Beatrice Howard had found out her secret. She was forced to avoid Madame Dupree’s, a concession she’d made at the request of the modiste herself, though Romy still sent designs with fabric suggestions and other notes.
Yet another reason to dislike Lady Beatrice Howard. Romy didn’t bother to acknowledge the other.
Carefully, Romy picked her way through the crowd. The skirts of her gown were much fuller than usual, belling out around her and giving Romy cause to avoid some of the younger gentlemen who didn’t watch where they stepped. Lady Ralston’s ball was a complete crush, as usual. Pomade, perfume, and shaving soap along with the acrid scent of too many bodies pressed together singed her nostrils as she struggled to make her way to her mother’s side.
“She’s no coward, I give her that much.”
The words floated on the air just to the left of Romy.
“Walking about with her head held high. The Beautiful Barringtons.” A snort. “One should call them theBrazenBarringtons. I wonder if she made the gown herself?”
Romy glanced out of the corner of her eye. She wasn’t acquainted with either of the women, though she recognized one as a client of Madame Dupree’s.
“I can hardly merit such talk. I doubt she can sew a hem.” A sharp giggle. “Though perhaps her mother taught her. I’m sure the dowager duchess learned to thread a needle as a lady’s companion.”
Romy’s fingers curled inside her gloves, but she pointedly ignored both women. Now that she was no longer encased in her bubble of ignorance, it was illuminating to hear how society viewed the Barringtons. No one woulddareoffend the Duke of Averell or her family outright, but now Romy heard the snideness beneath their courteous words and the thinly veiled insults hidden inside genteel conversation.
She blamed Granby for destroying her blissful ignorance.
While the talk about the Duke of Averell’s sister secretly masquerading as a modiste was scoffed at, the gossip about Romy enticing Granby enough so he tossed aside Lady Beatrice Howard had not. Beatrice was painted with angelic and saintly brushstrokes while Romy was forced into the role of scheming enchantress. She was now the owner of a battered reputation.
“Ignore them. I do.” Her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Averell, sidled up next to her, taking Romy’s arm in hers. “They’re merely jealous. All will be well, Sister.”
The current situation became more intolerable to Romy each day. It wasn’t just the gossip, though that was certainly unfortunate. Nor the damage done to her reputation. It wasn’t even being banned from visiting Madame Dupree’s.
It was Granby.
His massive shoulders and giant booted feet had not visited the Averell mansion again, which Romy told herself pleased her, even though it didn’t. Nor had she seen him stomping about at the events she’d attended. The only reason she knew the Duke of Granby to still be in London was an item appearing in the gossip columns claiming that Granby had been seen calling on Beatrice.
A group of ladies clustered at the far wall, her mother and Cousin Winnie among them, waving their fans. Cousin Winnie refused to leave her mother’s side, feeling it her duty to protect her cousin’s widow from any who would cause her distress.
Romy’s mother looked beautiful in her off-shoulder gown of gunmetal silk. And very angry.
Lord Torrington danced into her field of vision, a bored Rosalind held in his grasp, her skirts swirling about her ankles.
Rosalind caught sight of Romy and lowered her eyes, likely still feeling guilty over directing Beatrice to Romy’s room at The Barrow. She’d forgiven Rosalind, of course, because how could her cousin know Beatrice would simply waltz in without knocking? Or that Romy had left her sketches out?
“He’s here, by the way.”
“Who?” Romy said, knowing full well who Maggie referred to.
“Granby.”
Romy scanned the ballroom, but for a man so large, Granby was surprisingly impossible to spot in the crush. She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle in her skirts, determined to stop the twist of excitement at seeing him. Though she’d refused him, the love in her heart had not quieted.
“Is my mother faring well this evening?” This was not the first outing Romy and her mother had attended as of late, simply the largest. Together, with Tony and Maggie at their sides as well as the indomitable Cousin Winnie, they’d tolerated the whispers at the theater and at a small soiree given by Lady Hatterfield.
But this was Lady Ralston’s ball.Everyonewas here.
“Amanda is fine, Romy. Your scandal has given her incentive to be out amongst society. Frankly, I’m more concerned for Cousin Winnie. I’ve never seen her so upset. And stop changing the subject. Granby ishere.”
