‘Oh, I see.’ Lady Jersey was clearly disappointed in this undeniably mundane explanation of Dorothea’s acquaintance with one of society’s more rakish bachelors. She returned her attention to Lady Merion.
After a further five minutes of acidly social intercourse the coachman was told to move on. As Lady Jersey fell behind, Lady Merion drew a deep breath and bestowed a look of definite approval on her elder granddaughter. ‘Very well done, my dear. Now we just have to keep it up.’
What she meant by that became rapidly apparent as they engaged in conversation after conversation with dowagers and matrons and occasionally with mothers with unmarried daughters. Without fail, the incident at the inn would somehow find its way into the arena, in one version or another. After her success with Lady Jersey, undoubtedly society’s most formidable inquisitor, Lady Merion let Dorothea deal with all these enquiries, only stepping in when some of the younger ladies seemed anxious to lead the description into areas too particular for her ladyship’s sense of propriety. Cecily, absorbed in the Park and its patrons and too young for the matrons to waste much time over, largely ignored these conversations.
Almost an hour later they stopped to talk to the Princess Esterhazy. After the introductions were performed, the sweet-faced and distinctly plump Princess smiled sleepily at the girls. ‘I saw you talking with Sally before, so I’m sure she must have promised you vouchers?’
Lady Merion nodded. ‘She feels my girls will liven up proceedings.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly, I should think,’ agreed Princess Esterhazy.
At this point two elegant young gentlemen detached themselves from a group that had been eyeing the beautiful young things in the Merion carriage and approached. ‘Your servant, Lady Merion,’ said the first, raising his hat and sweeping a graceful bow, copied by his companion.
Lady Merion, turning to see who had addressed her, promptly exclaimed, ‘Oh, Ferdie! Is your mother in town yet?’
Assured that Mrs Acheson-Smythe would be in the capital by the end of the week, Lady Merion introduced her granddaughters to the elegant pair.
Dorothea and Cecily looked down upon two stylishly correct gentlemen, both clearly of the first stare. Neither was tall or broad-shouldered, yet both contrived to give the impression of being well turned out, a perfect fit for whatever niche they occupied in the ton. Mr Acheson-Smythe was slim and fair, his pale face characterised by a pair of frank and guileless blue eyes. Mr Dermont, of similar build, was less confident than his friend, letting the knowledgeable Mr Acheson-Smythe lead the conversation. Knowing that Ferdie Acheson-Smythe could be trusted to keep the line, her ladyship returned to her gossip with the Princess.
Seeing the girls’ attention claimed by the young men, Princess Esterhazy took the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity. ‘But tell me, Hermione. What is the truth of this story that Hazelmere rescued one of these two from a prize-fight crowd at some inn?’
By this time Lady Merion had the answer by rote. ‘Such a lucky thing he was passing, my dear. Dorothea had gone down to find her coachman, not realising that the gentlemen had already arrived.’
‘I had not realised your granddaughters were acquainted with Hazelmere.’
‘Most fortunately, Dorothea had been introduced to him by his great-aunt, Lady Moreton. You must remember, she died last year, and Hazelmere was her heir. The Grange borders Moreton Park, and Cynthia, my daughter-in-law, and Etta Moreton were close friends. Dorothea! Where was it you first met Hazelmere?’
Dorothea, who had been trying to follow two conversations at once, turned to hear her grandmother’s question repeated. She answered easily, ‘Oh, out driving one day. He was taking Lady Moreton for a ride in his curricle.’ She turned back to Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, as if the details of how she had met the Marquis could not be of any possible consequence to anyone.
Her lack of consciousness convinced Princess Esterhazy that the story was the truth. In her opinion, no young lady who had met Hazelmere in any ineligible way could possibly look as unconcerned as Dorothea Darent.
On their return to Merion House shortly afterwards, Lady Merion led the way upstairs to her private drawing-room. Throwing her elegant hat on a chair, she subsided in a cloud of stylish velvets and breathed a heartfelt sigh. ‘Well! We did very well, my dears. That was an excellent start to your Season.’ She settled into her chaise-longue and, supplied with tea by Dorothea, consented to answer their questions.
‘Ferdie Acheson-Smythe?’ she said in answer to one of these. ‘Ferdie is the only son of the Hertfordshire Acheson-Smythes. Of very good family, first cousin to Hazelmere. Ferdie will have to marry some day, I dare say, but by and large he’s not the marrying kind. However, he is an acknowledged authority on all matters of etiquette, so if Ferdie drops you a hint on anything to do with your behaviour or dress you’d be well advised to take heed! He’s also completely trustworthy; he’ll never go beyond the line of what is pleasing. Ferdie is an unexceptionable companion for a young lady, and a very useful cavalier. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be seen with him.’
‘And Mr Dermont?’ asked Cecily.
‘Anyone Ferdie introduces to you as a friend will be much the same style, though Ferdie himself is unquestionably at the head of that class.’
LADY MERION had accepted an invitation to a small party that evening, and both her granddaughters accompanied her. Entirely satisfied with their appearance, she was pleased to see that they mixed easily with the other young people present, although Dorothea, with her stunning appearance and air of calm self-possession, was deferred to as senior to the débutantes and in something of a different category. This was true enough. In a larger gathering, with more mature gentlemen, such as Hazelmere, to claim her attention, her elder granddaughter would not lack for entertaining partners.
Watching Dorothea, she grinned, their words of that afternoon recurring in her head. Cecily had been resting when the rest of Celestine’s creations had been delivered; she and Dorothea had been alone in her parlour.
‘This is exquisite!’ Dorothea had exclaimed, holding up a blue sarcenet ballgown of Cecily’s.
‘Your own are every bit as alluring,’ she had returned.
Dorothea had laughed, turning her attention to yet another of Cecily’s gowns. ‘But it’s Cecily who needs the husband, not I.’
The comment had stunned her to silence. Then, in one revealing instant, she had seen Dorothea through Dorothea’s eyes. Despite her common sense and self-confidence, having lived in relative seclusion until now, her granddaughter had little idea how she appeared to others in the fashionable world. To men. Particularly to men like Hazelmere. It was hardly innocence, rather a lack of awareness. After all, she had never been exposed to such gentlemen before. Intrigued, she had folded her hands in her lap and calmly stated, ‘My dear, if you have visions of becoming an ape-leader, I fear you’ll be disappointed.’
The green eyes had lifted to hers in genuine surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am? I know I’m too old for the marriage mart and I hardly have the requisite looks for an acknowledged beauty. But I don’t repine, I assure you.’
She had snorted her disbelief. ‘You’re two and twenty, girl—hardly at your last prayers! And if you think to be left on the shelf, well! All I can say is, you’ve another think coming.’
But her stubborn granddaughter had only smiled.
Now, as she saw the small but growing knot of young men around her elder granddaughter, a grin of unholy amusement lit her faded blue eyes. How long would it take for Dorothea to wake up and realise that she was likely to be pursued, if anything, with even more dedication than the vivacious Cecily?
THE NEXT MORNING brought the first of the invitations to the larger gatherings. Initially these arrived in a trickle, but by the end of the week, as Lady Merion’s granddaughters became more widely known, the gilt-edged cards left at Merion House assumed the proportions of a flood. As Dorothea and Cecily were only too glad to share the limelight with their less well-endowed
sisters, even the most jealous mother saw little reason to exclude them from her guest lists. Moreover, if the Darent sisters were to attend some rival party then half the eligible males would likely be there too.
Lady Merion insisted that they attend as many of the smaller parties held in these first weeks as possible. She was too experienced to discount the considerable advantage social confidence could give. So Dorothea and Cecily obediently promenaded every afternoon and were to be found at a soirée or party or musical evening every night, polishing their social skills and attracting no little interest. Within a short time, both had collected a circle of ardent admirers. While this was no more than her ladyship had expected, the band around Dorothea gave her endless amusement. In general not much older than Dorothea herself, these lovesick swains were continually vying one with the other for their goddess’s attention, striking Byronesque poses at every turn. It was really too funny for words. Still, thought the very experienced Lady Merion, it was serving its turn. Dorothea was being bored witless, all her social ingenuity being required to keep her temper with her artless lovers. A very good thing indeed if her wilful granddaughter could be brought to an appreciative, not to say receptive, frame of mind before being exposed to the infinitely more subtle persuasions of Hazelmere and his set. Luckily these highly eligible but far more dangerous gentlemen were rarely if ever sighted at the preliminary gatherings.
Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was the most constant of Dorothea’s cavaliers, rapidly attaining the position of cisisbeo-in-chief to the dark-haired beauty. His initial approach to Lady Merion’s granddaughters had been prompted by a chance meeting with Hazelmere. His magnificent cousin had suggested that Ferdie might assist in the squashing of any rumours concerning himself and the lovely Dorothea. It was the sort of thing Ferdie, an adept at social intrigue, enjoyed. And, as the favour was asked by Hazelmere, Ferdie would have thrown himself into the breach had Dorothea been the most unprepossessing antidote. Finding Miss Darent to be far more attractive than Hazelmere had indicated, Ferdie took to his task with alacrity. The result was that within a week a friendship had been established, close to sibling in quality but without the attendant strains, much to the surprise of both participants.
It was at a musical evening at Lady Bressington’s that Mr Edward Buchanan made his appearance. A solid country gentleman of thirty-odd years, he was mildly fair and slightly rotund, his pink face graced by soulful brown eyes at odds with the rest of his robust figure. For reasons Dorothea failed to divine, he made straight for her side, ousting a darkly handsome Romeo by the simple expedient of suggesting that Miss Darent had had enough mindless maunderings for one night.
Miss Darent was slightly stunned. The Romeo, shattered, took himself off, muttering dark and dire threats against unspecified unromantic elders. Mr Buchanan took his place.
‘My dear Miss Darent. I hope you’ll excuse my approaching you like this. I realise we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Edward Buchanan. My father was a friend of Sir Hugo Clere and I looked in on him on my way to town. He mentioned your name and asked me to convey his regards.’
Dorothea sat silent through this speech, delivered in a ponderous baritone. The excuse was hardly substantial; Sir Hugo was a distant neighbour and she could readily imagine the purely formal greetings he would have sent. However, Miss Julia Bressington, a vivacious brunette and one of Cecily’s closest confidantes, was about to start singing, accompanied by Cecily herself on the pianoforte, so it was not the time to make even the mildest scene. She inclined her head and pointedly gave her attention to the players.
Mr Buchanan had the sense to remain silent during the performance, but immediately the applause died he monopolised the conversation, determinedly chatting to Dorothea on pastoral issues. This left the majority of her court, most of whom had no knowledge of crops or livestock, stranded. Dorothea herself was utterly bemused by his unstinting eloquence on the subject. But as soon as the last of her admirers had drifted away, defeated by his dogged discourse, he stopped. ‘Ah-ha! Thought that would do it!’ Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, he explained, ‘I wanted to get rid of them. I knew they wouldn’t understand anything of moment. Sir Hugo gave me the fullest description of you, my dear Miss Darent, but he came far from doing justice to your beauty. You clearly outshine all these other young misses, although I must say I find the favoured style of dress for young ladies these days a little too, shall we say, revealing for one of my years to countenance.’ His eyes had dropped to the swell of her breasts exposed above the scooped neckline of her stylishly simple silk gown. ‘I dare say you feel that in the circumstances, placed as you are with your grandmother, who, I understand, is a highly fashionable lady, you too must play the part. Still, we can overlook such matters, I’m sure. You would feel far different in country circles, where I’m sure you are much more at home.’
Dorothea was rendered speechless by this monologue, which had contrived to progress from over-full compliment to insult in the space of two minutes. Aghast, unable to get a word in edgeways, she was forced to listen to Mr Buchanan’s opinions of fashionable practices, which culminated in a description of his widowed mother’s belief that, in her exposing her only son to the wicked wiles of London society, he would return to her, corrupted in body and mind. Mr Buchanan assured Miss Darent with jocular familiarity that such an outcome was highly unlikely. Dorothea, incensed and close to losing her temper, bit back an acid rejoinder that if London society could teach Mr Buchanan his manners it would have achieved a laudable goal. Instead she said in frigid tones, ‘Mr Buchanan, I must thank you for your conversation. If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with some friends.’ Which, she reflected, was as close to a verbal cut as made no difference. But even as she rose, and with a cool nod moved to Lady Merion’s side, she saw that, far from his taking the hint, the dismissal had not pricked his ego in the least.
BY THE NIGHT of the first of Almack’s subscription balls Lady Merion knew she had a major success on her hands. They were fully booked for at least a sennight and the invitations were still rolling in.
She had started preparations for the girls’ coming-out ball, for which the ballroom at Merion House would be opened for the first time in years. Squads of cleaning women had already been in, and redecoration would soon begin. The invitations, gold-embossed, had arrived that afternoon, and tomorrow they could start sending them out. She had fixed the date for four weeks hence, at the beginning of April, just before the peak of the Season. By then all her acquaintances would have returned to Town and she could be assured of a full house.
As she watched her granddaughters descend the stairs dressed for their first ball, both apparently unconscious of the positively stunning picture they made, she admonished herself as an old fool. Of course, her ball would be the biggest crush of the Season, but its success would owe far more to these two lovely young things than to anything she herself could do.
Dorothea, a vision in pale sea-green silk, lightly touched with silver filigree work, moved to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Grandmama, you look wonderful!’
Hermione unconsciously smoothed her purple satin. ‘Well, my dears, you are both an enormous credit to me. I’m sure you’ll create a considerable stir tonight!’
Cecily, shimmering in pale blue spangled gauze over a shift of cornflower-blue satin, impulsively hugged her. ‘Yes, but do let’s go!’
Laughing, Lady Merion called for their cloaks and then led the way to the carriage.
As soon as they entered the plain and unassuming ballroom that was Almack’s it was apparent that the Darent sisters’ arrival had been eagerly awaited. Within minutes their cards were full, with the exception of the two waltzes. Lady Merion had impressed on them that they were forbidden to waltz until invited by one of the patronesses, who would introduce them to a suitable partner.
The Season was now in full swing and the rooms were crowded with mothers and their marriageable daughters and gentlemen eager to view the new Season’s débutan
tes. Dorothea was thoroughly enjoying herself, being partnered first by Ferdie, with whom she was now on first-name terms, and then by a host of politely attentive gentlemen. Her grandmother, watching over her charges from the gilt-backed chairs arranged around the walls to accommodate the chaperons, noted that Dorothea had attracted far more than her fair share of attention but none of the more undesirable blades had yet sought her company. Talking to Lady Maria Sefton, she watched her elder granddaughter go down the ballroom in the movement of the dance, and then lost sight of her as the music ended and the dancers dispersed.
At the end of the ballroom, on the arm of the charming young man who had been her partner, Dorothea turned to make her way back to her grandmother’s side, knowing that the next dance was the first of the forbidden waltzes. A well-remembered voice halted her. ‘Miss Darent.’
Turning to face the Marquis of Hazelmere, Dorothea swept him the curtsy she had been taught was due to his rank and, rising, found that he had taken her hand and was raising it to his lips. The hazel eyes dared her to make a scene, so she accepted the salute in the same unconcerned way she had previously. Then her eyes met his fully, and held.
There followed a curious hiatus in which time seemed suspended. Then Hazelmere, becoming aware of her awkward young cavalier, nodded dismissal to this gentleman. ‘I’ll return Miss Darent to Lady Merion.’ Faced with a lion, the mouse retreated.
To Dorothea he continued, ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Miss Darent.’ He placed her hand on his arm and deftly steered her through the crowd.
She had seen him among the throng earlier in the evening. He was dressed, as always, with restrained elegance in the dark blue coat and black knee-breeches currently de rigueur for formal occasions, with a large diamond pin winking from the folds of his perfectly tied cravat. She had thought him attractive in his buckskin breeches and shooting jacket, and more so in his morning clothes. In full evening dress he was simply magnificent. She had little difficulty in understanding why he made so many cautious mothers distinctly nervous.
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