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Lady Alexandria, eldest daughter of the Earl and Countess of Wilshire, and the unequivocal toast of theton, held her head high as she descended the grand staircase into a pool of admiring peers.
Audible gasps could be heard when guests crowded around, craning their necks and perching on the tips of their toes in order to be the first to see what she was wearing. Alexandria’s fashion sense was as renowned as her beauty, and the name of her dressmaker one of the best kept secrets in London.
She stopped on the bottom step and waited patiently, a smile fixed on her face as she let them stare and study. Some of the more industrious ladies even whipped out clothbound journals and jotted down notes to bring to their modistes first thing in the morning. By week’s end, there would be a small army of Alexandria lookalikes marching about Hyde Park. If imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, than she was drowning in adulation. And it was only about to get worse, for tonight, in honor of the Belingrove Ball, the most prestigious event of the entire Season, her dressmaker had truly outdone herself.
The gown was yellow, but shimmered like gold under the dancing firelight cast by glittering chandeliers. It fit Alexandria’s svelte frame like a silk glove, hugging her voluptuous curves at the bodice and hip before falling away in a waterfall of satin and chiffon. The scalloped train trimmed in lace fanned out behind her as she descended the final stair, rippling across the glossy marble tile as if lifted on the wings of doves (or so the gossip papers would read in the morning).
Her hair, a rich honey strewn through with ribbons of amber, was piled high on the crown of her head and held in place with diamond-tipped pins. Two tendrils framed her heart-shaped face, illuminating the high arch of her cheekbones and the bold blue of her irises.
Glossed with a thin, almost invisible layer of beeswax, her lips were pink and full. Courtesy of a translucent powder comprised of talc, lead dust, and kaolin clay, the rest of her countenance and collarbones boasted a subtle glow.
She didn’t care for the powder. Every time that she wore it, she woke up the next day with a terrible headache. But her mother, Lady Wilshire, insisted that she wear it. So she did, as the headache from the powder was preferable to the headache brought on by her mother’s cold disapproval.
The countess walked beside her now, bony fingers resting lightly on the crook of Alexandria’s gloved elbow as they cut a swath through the middle of the ballroom. Alexandria didn’t have to look at her mother to know that Lady Wilshire was staring out into the crowd, her dark gaze shrewdly calculating as she automatically dismissed any eligible bachelor whose title and wealth did not meet her high standards. Were dukes not in such alarmingly low supply this Season, she wouldn’t have bothered to set her sights on anyone lower in rank than a marquess. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and what no one knew about Alexandria–not the gossip columns, not her admirers, not even her modiste–was just howdesperateher family had become.
Destitute.
That was the word she’d heard her father use last month. A word that had been punctuated by a slammed door. A word that had sent her mother straight upstairs with a terrible megrim. A word that had left a queasy feeling in her own stomach. And while she wasn’t privy to the bills and the ledgers and the open accounts that had formed a veritable mount of parchment on her father’s desk, she had a fairly good idea of where all their money had gone.
A small percentage to dresses, of course. Fabric was ghastly expensive, particularly the kind that was used to create Alexandria’s gowns. But her wardrobe wasn’t the reason they were facing debtor’s prison. No, by and large, the Earl of Wilshire’s fortune had been lost at Epsom Downs. And Newmarket Square. And Goodwin in Yorkshire.
Horses.
Their money had gone to horses.
Slowhorses, as her father’s pockets were always noticeably flatter after he returned from the races than before he left. Proving that while Lord Wilshire was a tolerable husband and a decent father, he was a wretched gambler. And the problem with being a wretched gambler, as far as Alexandria could tell, was that you went to great lengths to prove youweren’twretched. Which, of course, only made you more so.
Aside from whispered conversations overheard behind closed doors, her parents hadn’t come right out andsaidthey were poor. Admitting financial distress of any sort was not something that the nobility did.
But there had been signs.
Signs that had become alarmingly more frequent as of late.
Paintings were conspicuously absent from the walls. Two scullery maids were now doing the work of five. They hadn’t hosted a formal dinner since last month, and not a single trunk had been packed for their annual trip to Southwold where they rented a lovely cottage by the sea. But worst of all was the increasing sense ofdemandplaced upon Alexandria’s slender shoulders. The inescapable and daunting feeling that marriage was no longer a choice to be made at her leisure, but a necessity that needed to occur sooner rather than later.
For her debut Season, she’d played the part of a demure damsel to perfection, mostly upon her mother’s insistence. Ladies who put themselves out of reach made themselves more desirable, like a fat-bellied trout that tucked itself under a rock and watched the hook from afar. While Alexandria hadn’t exactly enjoyed the comparison, she’d understood it. People–men in particular–wanted what they could not have for no other reason than they didn’t want anyoneelseto have it first. By refusing every courtship and proposal (eleven, at final count), she hadn’t dissuaded her suitors. She’d left them frothing at the bit.
During her second Season, she had been permitted to venture out from beneath her rock. She’d gone on carriage rides, and attended the theater, and had a marvelous time touring Kensington Gardens with Lord Haberworth, a baron of excellent humor.
Alexandria had liked Lord Haberworth. She had liked him very much indeed, as one might like a loyal spaniel or a warm mink stole. But her mother wouldn’t hear of such a lowly match, and this spring, the baron had married Miss May Bennett, a wallflower with a shy smile and parents who had been overjoyed to have their daughter marry anyone at all.
Which brought Alexandria here, to this night. To the last ball before thetonadjourned to their country houses for Christmas. To her final opportunity to snag the attention of a wealthy husband who would save her family from ruin.
The impending holiday had kept the creditors at bay. Cheer, and goodness, and all that. But when the New Year arrived, Lord Wilshire’s debts would come due. And if he couldn’t pay them…if he couldn’t pay them, Alexandria shuddered to think what might become of her family.
Adjusting her step, she pried her mother’s fingers off her arm one by one. Her skin was hidden by her glove, but under the ivory silk she was sure that it was marked red by Lady Wilshire’s tight grip.
“I should mingle and fill my dance card,” she said in a not-very-subtle attempt to be free of her mother’s hovering. “Lady Hathaway is right over there by the ferns. You should go speak with her. See if they plan on joining us in Southwold.”
“Southwold.” Lady Wilshire’s lips, already thin, nearly disappeared. “Yes, you’re right, dear. I should have a word with her. It’s what she would expect.” She brought her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word has it that the Earl of Chesterfield will be in attendance this evening, if he isn’t here already. Do make sure that his is one of the names to go upon your card.”
Alexandria’s nose wrinkled imperceptibly.
She knew the Earl of Chesterfield.
Knew him, and disliked him.
Lord Duncan White’s title and obscene wealth had him on the top of her mother’s list of eligible candidates, but his arrogance and lack of humor had him placed on the bottom of Alexandria’s. They’d first been introduced at a luncheon three years ago, where she–still shy and not yet the diamond that she was today–had complimented the color of his waistcoat and he–conceited and bored–had brushed her off as if she were some bothersome gnat.
