The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses

by Janna MacGregor

  Addressed on the folded piece of vellum was her name. The signature unmistakably Michael’s. She should know as she’d practiced it for nearly a week before she’d summoned enough courage to write her first embezzling letter to his solicitor.

  Carefully, she broke Mademoiselle Mignon’s seal, then read the note.

  Dear March,

  I couldn’t resist when I saw this beautiful fabric. The other items were hand selected by the duchess. Trust me, she has excellent taste. I want you to feel as if tomorrow night is the introduction to society that you missed so long ago.

  I’ll be looking for that lovely girl. Your undeniable beauty will enhance the splendor of the fabric.

  Don’t.

  I can hear you denying it now. Please for both of our sakes, let yourself dream of more than your sheep. Tomorrow night, set yourself free.

  I want to dance with you in this dress. My only condition is that I pick the time.

  Yours,

  M

  March carefully untied the ribbon and folded it neatly. When she opened the first box, she inhaled sharply. Inside, a silk chemise and the faintest pair of pink clocked stockings lay nestled in exquisite rose-scented paper. Accompanying the stockings were the softest silken ties she’d ever seen.

  She was almost afraid to touch the delicate fabric since her rough hands would undoubtedly mar the weave if it caught on her callouses. There was only one solution—when she prepared for tomorrow night’s ball, she’d ask for assistance when she dressed. The duchess had kindly assigned two lady’s maids to her and her sisters during their stay.

  The next box was slightly larger. It contained an elegantly embroidered pair of stays that perfectly matched the chemise. Since this was a studier garment, she allowed herself to pet the soft fabric and caress the intricate pale pink and green flowers. The pattern was reminiscent of her old court dress, but much more intricately detailed. She took a deep breath and sighed. He must have told his mother about her dress.

  With her lips tugging upward, she opened the third box. Inside the white paper, a pale-pink pair of dancing slippers decorated with seed pearls scattered throughout the silk begged to be touched. Reverently, she removed them from the box and discovered they were a perfect fit.

  Finally, she opened the last box, the biggest of the four. When she uncovered the wrappings, her heart pounded, and she pressed her eyes shut. She carefully pulled out the most exquisite gown she’d ever laid eyes on. Made from the same blush-colored velvet she’d admired in Mademoiselle Mignon’s shop, the gown was the height of fashion. Cap sleeves met with a décolletage that dipped low. The lowered waist would emphasize her flat stomach while the slightly fuller skirt would hide her generous hips. It was daring and bold but with a hint of innocence that she loved.

  Wearing such a dream ensemble would make her feel feminine for the first time in her life. A matching velvet wrap was included in the box with another note from Michael. Just in case we stroll outside were the only words on the card.

  Unable to contain her joy, she burst into laughter. In her entire life, she’d never received such an elegant gift. For a moment, the thought that she shouldn’t accept the dress and the accompaniments stole her happiness—a joy she was starting to recognize regularly came from Michael.

  Quickly, her common sense came to the forefront and pushed the hint of impropriety away. If the duchess had helped Michael shop for the magnificent clothing before her, who was she to refuse?

  She held the dress to her body and stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror that faced the wardrobe. Instinctively, she swayed as she hummed a little ditty her mother had taught her.

  It was a shame society’s strictures dictated she could share only two dances with Michael. If any more, The Midnight Cryer, the biggest gossip rag in all of England, would declare them married the next morning.

  However, in her heart, a hope refused to grow quiet. She had truly started to care for the lovely man.

  Indeed, he was a friend. But could she dare to hope for more?

  She climbed into bed and refused to allow the lovely evening be ruined by her doubts. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to imagine and enjoy the dream of a husband and marriage.

  She closed her eyes and imagined her husband lowering his lips to hers for a kiss. Before the generous curve of his mouth touched hers, she glanced in his face.

  It was her David.

  Chapter Eleven

  The somewhat daunting and endless parade of guests finally trickled to a few dozen who stood in line to greet March and her sisters. The Duke of Langham stood between Bennett and March followed by Faith, Julia, and the Duchess of Langham. Though children weren’t normally allowed at such events, the duke had insisted Bennett stand in the receiving line to meet the members of parliament who attended. The duke considered such introductions part of Bennett’s education as to how to be a productive member of the House of Lords. Lord William had joined the receiving line midway through the introductions.

  March had never seen so many people in her entire life. Everyone who was anyone had attended the duchess’s ball for the Lawson sisters. However, the most heartwarming were the men who had remembered her father and his service to the Crown. Bennett and her sisters were enchanted with the stories about their parents. She’d been struck by how generous the duke and duchess had been in the introductions, effusing how remarkable the Lawson sisters were and how much they enjoyed having them at Langham Hall.

  Lady Pembrooke’s personal physician, Dr. Wade Camden, received a warm welcome from the duke and duchess. Tall with tawny-colored hair, the doctor was the epitome of grace and kindness.

  When his attention turned to March, he didn’t hesitate in his introduction of his friend. “Miss Lawson, may I introduce Dr. Mark Kennett? He’s a colleague of mine from the University of Edinburgh,” the handsome doctor offered.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lawson,” said Dr. Kennett.

  March extended her hand, and the doctor sketched a bow. With dark red hair and a Scottish burr, the man exuded confidence and a sense of ease.

  “Are you newly arrived in town, Dr. Kennett?” Faith asked. She leaned slightly, the movement a cause for concern. Faith had little tolerance for standing long periods of time.

  “No, Miss Faith. I have a fellowship at the Royal Academy of Physicians.”

  “Kennett’s caught a case of modesty, I’m afraid,” Dr. Camden offered. “He recently presented to his distinguished peers a paper about the importance of exercise and manipulation of muscles as a way to increase one’s ambulatory abilities, and it was wildly praised.”

  Dr. Kennett’s ruddy complexion turned redder as he flushed briefly. His gaze fell to Faith’s cane. “May I have one of your dances this evening?”

  Faith stood a little straighter at the doctor’s request. The smile on his face was genuine, and March held her breath to hear her sister’s response.

  Faith dipped her head but refused to meet his gaze. “That would be lovely. I may not manage to last long on the dance floor.”

  He nodded in response, and the two handsome men moved down the line to greet Julia and Lord William.

  “He seemed to be a nice gentleman,” Faith whispered. “Do you think he could help me?”

  The hope in her sister’s voice hit March square in the chest. Her sister’s suffering was always present, and she couldn’t help but wilt a little at the desperation she’d heard in Faith’s voice. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ll find out,” March offered.

  Faith nodded then turned her attention to the next guest who waited to meet her.

  March took the opportunity and studied the ballroom. Glowing like a jewel, the room was magnificent. Streams of silver and gold silk hung from the massive windows. The refreshment tables sparkled with silver serving pieces polished to perfection. Gold candles littered the silver chandeliers and transformed the room into another world, almost as if the heavens had descended to entertain the guests
this evening.

  She glanced at the crowd of people hoping to catch a glimpse of Michael. He was nowhere in sight. The duchess had decided that the duke would dance with March, Michael with Faith, and William with Julia for the first dance.

  For a moment, her confidence deserted her as she gazed at all the handsome men and beautiful women who crowded the outer edges of the ballroom floor. Suddenly, the truth slammed into every corner of her being. She was ill equipped to meet the expectations society would place upon her, namely a well-bred lady who was accustomed to such events.

  The musicians had already started tuning their instruments. Boisterous laughs and the buzz of conversations floated toward them. The ball was officially set to begin.

  The duke took the duchess’s arm. “Shall we, my love?”

  The duchess stretched up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek. “As long as you save every dance after the first for me.”

  He colored slightly. “You never have to ask,” he gruffly answered.

  After they entered through the doorway, the duke and duchess stood aside so March and her sisters could enter. Side by side, the trio strolled into the brightly lit room. Suddenly, Faith stumbled. March grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. Absolute silence descended, and the entire gathering gawked as if they were some type of carnival act.

  “I’m so nervous. Please forgive me,” Faith whispered.

  March cursed under her breath. She straightened her shoulders and pasted her best smile on her face. The sea of faces before them was transfixed on Faith.

  With a sideways glance, March stole a peek at her poor sister. Her earlier rosy glow had paled. The pain of Faith’s embarrassment stabbed March’s heart, and she wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all. How could this have happened now? Resplendent in the light orchard silk the duchess had Mademoiselle Mignon design, her beautiful sister appeared ready to burst into tears.

  “Nonsense, my love. There’s nothing to forgive.” March took her hand and squeezed, hoping Faith would take every piece of strength and courage she could offer. “They’re all entranced by you and your beauty. Take my place and dance the first set with the duke. That will set everything to rights.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, the duke started forward, but he was too late.

  A man brushed against her, and March felt a caress of his hand on her lower back. “Softer than I could have dared imagine,” he whispered in her ear. “Tsk, tsk, March. You shouldn’t be trying to rearrange the dance cards just yet. I have the honor of the first dance with Faith.”

  A towering Michael emblazoned with a smile, one brighter than the light from the room’s largest chandelier, hurried past and stood before Faith. His black evening coat and breeches emphasized his athletic build, and the ivory waistcoat, shirt, and neckcloth were perfection against his olive skin. When he leaned toward Faith and whispered, the ruby pin in the center of his neckcloth caught the light and glimmered as if it were a living creature.

  Whatever he had said made her sister laugh. The beautiful sound rang through the silent ballroom. He extended his gloved hand in a commanding movement. Tentatively, Faith took it. Briefly, he turned back toward March and winked with a translucent smile only for her.

  She couldn’t stop, couldn’t rein in the hope, and couldn’t help but return a smile that mirrored his. Michael’s breath visibly caught, and his smile grew even bigger. His eyes followed the line of her dress before returning to her face. For a moment, his gaze caressed hers, and her heart joyfully danced in reply. In the next split second, all sound shushed as the crowd waited.

  That was when it happened. Between the opening first three notes of the waltz and the three fast beats of her heart, she fell—tumbled—then finally plummeted hopelessly and irretrievably in love.

  With the Marquess of McCalpin, a powerful enigma of a man, who with his simple gesture of wrapping his strong and resolute arms about Faith’s waist, proclaimed to the world that he, and only he, would have the first dance with Miss Faith Lawson.

  Her David in his splendor had captured her heart, and March didn’t even fight back or try to protect the pounding organ in her chest. Determined not to think too logically about what had just happened, she happily resigned herself to witness the magnificent moment her sister danced for the first time in public.

  William escorted Julia to the floor, and March’s tears threatened to spill at the sight. All she’d wanted for the last year had come to fruition tonight. Her lovely, beautiful sisters made their grand entrance into society because of Michael and his family’s graciousness and charity.

  The duke stood beside her, then bowed before her. “March, by the look on your face, I’d say the evening is a smashing success?”

  March curtsied in response. “Indeed, Your Grace. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my life. Thank you and your lovely family for”—she waved her hand toward the dance floor in a tiny half circle, offering proof of the magic of the night—“all of this.”

  “You’re welcome,” the duke whispered.

  The smile on his face robbed her of her breath. It resembled Michael’s smile, the one that left little doubt there was genuine affection for the recipient.

  “May I have this dance, my dear?” he asked.

  Without a second of hesitation, March nodded.

  The last five minutes of her life burrowed into a place deep inside her and took root. She’d recall this evening whenever she found herself lonely or unhappy. Forever engraved on her heart, it would provide hope in times of darkness.

  Though she couldn’t deny how lovely it would be if the night never ended.

  * * *

  After March had danced five sets, she found herself at the perimeter of the ballroom with the Duke of Langham. Needing a respite from the uncomfortably hot and loud crowd on the dance floor, she welcomed his company.

  “Miss Lawson, I’d like you to meet Lord Fletcher. He and his family just arrived.” The duke waved his hand at The Earl of Fletcher, who politely took her hand and bowed.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Lawson. I understand you and your sisters are newly arrived from Leyton.” The silver-gray of his hair caught the candlelight from the chandeliers above their heads. A little older than the duke, Lord Fletcher’s bearing indicated a man quite comfortable in the opulent surroundings of Langham Hall. “London is all the richer for your company.”

  Immediately, Michael joined their group, and in welcome, the candlelight seemed a bit brighter in his presence. Her pulse quickened as she, too, felt the heat of his nearness. Everything about the night was better than perfect. To call it extraordinary was like comparing a tiger to a striped barn cat. With all her senses heightened, she waited for his invitation for a dance. Perhaps, with the heat in the ballroom, he wanted to take a stroll outside. To have a few minutes alone with him would make the rest of the evening pale in comparison.

  The duke nodded to his son, then addressed her. “Lord Fletcher has an estate in Suffolk where he’s imported about one hundred Merino sheep from Spain.”

  The duke’s comment with his sly smile made March immediately take notice. Merino wool was highly valued by the wealthy, but the sheep didn’t care for the cold wet climate of England. They prospered in the dry mountainous areas of Spain. Either Lord Fletcher was a dreamer who believed he could raise the creatures in England and succeed where other more-experienced sheep farmers hadn’t, or he was a fool. Either way, his sheep-raising methods would undoubtedly fail.

  “At my family’s estate, we also raise sheep for their wool, though ours isn’t as fine as a Merino fleece. But we’ve managed to constantly produce wool of the highest quality.”

  The duke smiled as if he approved of her comments. “Fletcher and I will soon ram heads in the House of Lords. He wants to impose a tax on all wool sold in England with the exception, of course, of Merino.”

  March tilted her head in answer. The duke’s comment proved her theory. Fletcher was a fool. “My lord
, wouldn’t that seriously threaten the sheep farming in our great country? The selling price of wool is already too low, and to put any additional financial burden on the farmers would result in dire consequences. In addition, wouldn’t it harm the growing woolen mills in areas such as Leeds? How much of a tax are you thinking of proposing?”

  “A quarter or half a shilling per pound, Miss Lawson,” Lord Fletcher answered.

  She stole a quick glance at Michael to gage his reaction. His normal visage had turned pale, and his brow glistened with sweat.

  As the duke questioned the earl, she leaned slightly toward Michael. “Lord McCalpin, are you all right?”

  He nodded, but she couldn’t inquire any further as the duke caught her attention. “What kind of an impact would a quarter of a shilling per pound have on your estate, Miss Lawson?”

  “An immense impact, Your Grace. I’d be bankrupt.”

  Before she could offer more, Michael whispered, “May I have the next dance?”

  This was the dance he’d promised. Pure unfettered bliss pulsed through her veins. She could almost feel his arms around her. With a slight turn, she delivered her best smile. “That would be—”

  “Of course, my lord.” A typical English beauty with a slight build and blond hair dipped her head and answered Michael at the same time.

  “Perhaps a glass of lemonade before the start would be refreshing.” He held out his arm to the perfect English rose.

  The young woman turned to Lord Fletcher, and immediately March’s stomach twisted into a knot. It was Lady Miranda from Mademoiselle Mignon’s modiste’s shop. Heat blazed through her. She slightly turned away from the couple to hide her embarrassment.

  People weren’t interested in her. Certainly not Michael, and why would he? With her height and her muscular frame from farming, she was anything but what eligible men considered beautiful.

  If she could fall through the floor, it would be the quickest escape. At her inept error, tears stung, but she refused to let them fall.