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CHAPTERONE
Beatrice Ivanry was ecstatic. The assembly hall stood proudly before them, beckoning the three women inside with the warm glow emanating from its windows.
“It is a shame that Lord Ivanry could not join us tonight,” Beatrice’s grandmother, Pandora Ivanry remarked. “His greedy eyes would have loved to see such wealth in one place.”
Beatrice and her sister, Penelope giggled quietly at their grandmother’s wit. “Girls, compose yourselves,” the matronly woman reminded them. “We are about to enter the lion’s den.”
For being such a well-regarded matron of high society, Beatrice’s grandmother held a dim view of society’s romantic pursuits. She made every effort to temper her granddaughter’s social duties with lessons on the importance of one’s freedom. This balance resounded so strongly in her soul that she often recounted her own coming out into society to Beatrice and Penelope.
“When I was young, women were only expected to know their husband’s minds and hearts, but I want you girls to know your own as well. Certainly, there is an excellence in duty and obligation, but it cannot come at the cost of yourself, yoursoul.”
Beatrice knew that her grandmother had been paraded around like a trophy, sought by eligible gentlemen for her money and status. On the carriage ride over, she had solemnly said, “Penelope, Beatrice, my dears, pay attention to Miss Saumon tonight. Note her countenance and the way she carries herself, for these things will tell you if she is planning to marry for money or love.” Beatrice knew Minnie like a sister and had often seen the way Mr. DeLancy gazed at the girl of one-and-twenty. Their shared glances spoke volumes when words could not, and there was no doubt in Beatrice’s mind that Minnie loved her soon-to-be husband.
* * *
They were announced at the door by a servant to whom they handed their cloaks, the material still dusted with the snow that had begun to fall. Beatrice and her sister gazed around at the finery decorating the place, the elegant, scarlet flower arrangements no doubt chosen by Lady Saumon herself. They found the ballroom even grander, full of twirling ladies in the most exquisite gowns and well-mannered gentlemen guiding their movements with effortless grace.
It was the middle of fall, so the ballroom was decorated with cornucopias and wreaths of brightly colored leaves hanging from every wall. Beatrice found herself glancing around the ballroom, entranced by these wonderful sights until her hazel eyes landed on the Viscount of Randlay’s grandson, Anthony Grayson. Subtly, so as not to draw suspicion, the young woman studied his movements. They were so confident and sure, fitting of a future Lord but lacking in the delicacy required for such social standing. Beatrice could see how his broad gestures and the cocky grin on his lips had earned the man the reputation of being arake.
Penelope noticed her younger sister’s infatuation and cupped her elbow gently, drawing Beatrice’s attention to her. “He is handsome, is he not, Tris? The other ladies seem to think so – do not let them catch you staring at him, or we will have to manage their jealousy in addition to Grandmother’s matchmaking.” Beatrice nodded, imagining how awful it would be for this night to be ruined by fruitless gossip amid the endless search for a suitor.
“Here she comes to announce the hunt,” Beatrice whispered jokingly, motioning to their grandmother who was marching over to them followed by two gentlemen.
And so began Penelope and Beatrice’s introductions for the night. Pandora Ivanry was as relentless as a bloodhound when it came to finding suitable matches for her beloved granddaughters. The young ladies were presented to a set of brothers who could not stop looking across the ballroom to the ladies engaged in a dance, an oily baron whose mustache was as distinguished as his attitude, and a confirmed bachelor whom their grandmother included out of courtesy.
When they finally had the chance to find a couch to perch upon, their grandmother leaned over with both hands resting on her simple, mahogany cane, and spoke quietly. “What do you think, Girls?”
Beatrice lowered her eyes to her white, lace gloves while Penelope answered magnanimously. “They were all perfectly polite, Grandmother. Though, perhaps it is too soon in the evening for Tris and me to commit ourselves to a gentleman for a dance?”
The matron sighed, in agreement with her granddaughter’s implied judgment. “You and your sister deserve more than single-minded boys and men old enough to be your father,” she denounced their company in a hushed whisper, intended only for the girls whom it made smile knowingly. Just then, the wise old woman saw the Viscount of Randlay himself walking toward their small group, and their grandmother straightened her dignified posture.
“Good evening, Lady Ivanry,” Brandon Grayson said, addressing Pandora with a respectable bow. “And good evening to Miss Ivanry and Miss Beatrice,” the Viscount added with a nod of his head to each.
Beatrice and Penelope stood as their grandmother did, accepting the Viscount’s greeting. “Good evening, Lord Randlay,” Lady Ivanry replied. “I see your grandson does not join in theformalfestivities tonight.” Her Cheshire smile did not deter the honorable gentleman, and he returned her barb in kind.
“I am afraid not though I seem to remember you were not at all fond of introductions at your coming-out ball all those years ago, Lady Ivanry. My grandson still has some learning to do when it comes to comporting himself at events such as these…I am sure you can understand him.”
The granddaughters watched as their grandmother blushed slightly before replying, “The young Lord could not be surrounded by finer girls. When I entered society, I was in want of polite company, especially if you were there, Lord Randlay.” Now it was his turn to flush, a bright pink that spread from his collar to his cheeks, and the young women had to stifle their laughter.
“It has been a pleasure conversing with you, as always, Lady Ivanry, but I am afraid I must bid you goodnight,” the Viscount said with a tight-lipped smile before turning on his heel and walking away without waiting for her response.
“What a ghastly old man,” Pandora Ivanry muttered to herself, turning to her granddaughters to say, “I would certainly like to see you both married, but never to someone like that.”
“Of course, Grandmother,” Beatrice assured and they resumed their places on the sofa. But their grandmother was quick to rise again, having spotted a group of gentlemen that had just arrived and had not yet been introduced to her granddaughters. She told them to stay put and study the interactions of those around them while she went and spoke to the gentlemen.
When their grandmother was gone, Beatrice looked up from where she’d been staring at a goldish-green flower embroidered into the arm of the couch. “Penny, would you tell Grandmother that I was in need of refreshment? I cannot bear to sit here another moment longer if she is content to keep us in front of potential suitors all night,” Beatrice begged her older sister.
Forbearance should have been Penelope’s Christian name, for she smiled sweetly at her younger sister and promised, “I will tolerate this for both of us, Tris. Just, please make sure you return before too long.” Beatrice kissed her sister’s rosy cheek and whispered wishes of luck in her ear before she stood.
* * *
The young woman waited but moments for her grandmother to turn her back before sneaking to the entranceway. She was about to leave the ballroom when her eyes drifted to Lord Randlay’s heir, Anthony, again. Though she had never danced with him, for it would have been so against her outwardly quiet nature, Beatrice could sense that he was a man who knew what he wanted. Mr. Grayson always seemed eager to offer his hand first in greeting and looked everyone in the eye, even those in stations above him. His sky-blue eyes flickered with mischief and a darker desire that Beatrice could not put a name to though she often dreamed of it.
As she stood there in a trance for the second time that night, a familiar voice called her name, and Beatrice whirled around. A cold liquid splashed onto the front of her dress and the voice, which belonged to Minnie Saumon, gasped, “Oh my goodness, Beatrice! I am so sorry! Here, let me see what I can do.” The bride-to-be lifted the silky handkerchief bearing her intended’s initials which was resting in her palm and began to dab at the mess.
“In truth, I am glad that we met this way,” Beatrice snickered. “That way I will have something to tell my Grandmother when she asks why I was not sitting with my sister.” She moved closer to the lone candle in the dimly-lit hallway to peer down at her stained gown. “Perhaps it is an improvement,” she noted. “The pink in your punch might make the little roses here more visible.” Beatrice gestured to the tiny blush-colored flowers inlaid in the creamy material.
Minnie huffed and pulled back, unsatisfied with how inadequate the handkerchief was. Then, she looked into her best friend’s eyes and saw only mirth which made her smile in turn.
