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“Why, you—” said the old dame, laughingly lunging at him.
Amid all this merriment, the coach doors were closed. The coachman and footmen hopped back on their perches. Mr. Smith, wrapped in a plain, black cloak, jumped onto the front box seat next to the coachman. And they were off—with the London street folk yelling after them and cheering them onward.
* * *
Worthington House was one of the finest townhouses in London, architecturally. In the moonlight, its white limestone and granite facade radiated symmetrical, classical splendor.
His Grace of Clover’s party mounted the stone steps, passing fearsome marble lions on either side of the front entrance. The Worthington coat of arms was carved above massive mahogany doors.
Once inside, the ladies were swept to one side to a large, well-appointed ladies’ cloakroom, where female guests were relieved of their wraps. Ladies sat in front of gilded vanity mirrors, while their maids touched up their hair and adjusted their gowns.
“Coo blimey!” said Lady Josephine, imitating the Cockney dames of earlier that evening. Although the dukedom of Clover outranked the earldom of Worthington, Worthington House clearly outspent the Clovers in lavish grandeur. “No wonder they need my fortune, to keep this up!”
“Lady Josephine!” hissed her cousin from behind her. “You are required to behave yourself this evening. No coarse antics. His Grace your lord father is counting on you.”
“I know, I know,” Lady Josephine said. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
“She’s just nervous,” said Ducky, patting her protégée on the shoulder. Lady Seraphina snorted incredulously.
“Iamnervous,” Lady Josephine defended herself. “Don’t you understand, my entire future waits for me down there. I’m walking into a prison. I fear I’ll be trapped for the rest of my life.” Her voice rose by several pitches.
Lady Seraphina wanted no outbreaks of tears or hysteria this evening. Her uncle the Duke would blame her. She decided on a tough response.
“Cousin, we are all trapped. All of us women, high or low. At least you, my dear, are walking into the most gilded, padded prison in England. So pull yourself together and show us the courage your lord father is always bragging that you have. Come. The men are waiting outside.”
* * *
Lady Josephine took her father’s arm at the top of the grand staircase. Below them lay Worthington House’s ballroom, opulent with its massive crystal chandeliers. Couples were already dancing, although with each carefully timed announcement of guests, the dancing would briefly stop.
Their names were duly announced. “The Lady Josephine Wallace...accompanied by His Grace, Horace, 10th Duke of Clover,” said the master of ceremonies in stentorian tones. They descended down the staircase.
“My dear,” whispered the Duke, “I am so very proud of you. This is the proudest moment of my life.”
His daughter’s eyes filled with tears, which she struggled to blink away.
He loves me so much! Whatever the future does or doesn’t hold for me, I will always know that I was loved—that my Papa loved me this much.
Once in the ballroom, ladies curtsied and men bowed as they passed. This was Lady Josephine’s debut into Society, after all. Very few of the people here had ever seen her before. Lady Josephine, who had decided to be as brave as her lord Papa believed her to be, smiled brilliantly and curtsied to them all in return.
I won’t let this crowd from thehaut tonwin out over me. And I won’t let the thought of Ace, with his anger and his coldness, spoil this evening for me.
“They said she was a country mouse, cosseted away from Society out at Cloverdene, then sheltered at that girls’ school. I expected a biddable, frightened little thing!” murmured one formidable Society matron to another. Lady Josephine heard the talk behind her, of course.
“She doesn’t look that biddable to me. The Dowager Countess may be taking on more than she realizes,” replied her friend.
The Duke of Clover led his daughter all the way across the ballroom floor, to where a small, wizened but straight-backed old lady sat in a velvet, tufted chair. Standing around her, as if ready for the painting of their formal family portrait, were a man and two women in their middle years.
“My dear Dowager Countess,” said the Duke, his eyes twinkling, “How lovely to see you again. It’s some years since we all roamed the heather together, shooting grouse. Far too long! May I present my only child, my daughter, Lady Josephine?”
Lady Josephine sank into the deepest, most graceful curtsy she could make.
“My grouse-hunting days are past, sadly, Your Grace,” said the old lady. “But what a lovely young daughter you have. Rise, my child.”
The old noblewoman’s words were pleasant. But Lady Josephine got a better glimpse of the Dowager Countess’ face as she rose. It was bitter and twisted. It was not a kind face.
She looks like an old crow, with those beady dark eyes set in her wrinkled skin. Why, she looks as if she’d rather slap my face than welcome me as a daughter-in-law.
“May I present my son, the 6thEarl of Worthington?” said the Dowager Countess, as haughtily as if she were introducing the King of England.
The tall, broad-shouldered man by her side stepped forward and bowed deeply, just as Lady Josephine sank into her finest curtsy again. They rose simultaneously, and for the first time, each got a good look at the other.
Who knew what the Earl’s first impressions of Lady Josephine were?
For her part, she saw a fine figure of a man in the full dress blue uniform of an admiral in His Majesty’s Navy. The left side of his chest was encrusted with colorful medals. The view of those medals was blocked by a fine blue silk sash draped across his chest, adorned with several royal orders and awards. His white silk stockings and white dress gloves emphasized shapely, large hands and well-turned ankles.
He had blondish, curling hair and skin as fair as a girl’s. His face was just short of handsome, his dark eyes were a little too protuberant (although that was a trait of the Royal family, too, and therefore fashionable). His nose was just a touch too long and thin, giving him a haughty, self-satisfied air. And his lips were over-full and red, like a girl’s. She disliked him on sight. And when he daintily offered her two fingers of his cold, gloved hand and said, “Shall we dance?” she found his clammy touch distasteful as well.
