Prologue
April 1857
Beth
Beth wishes Mother could just leave well enough alone. The alcohol stings against her back and she shudders as Mother blows on the spot at the bottom of her left shoulder. Beth really doesn’t think one blemish would be the death of her. They’re lucky she didn’t break out in hives in front of the queen; one pimple can’t make that much difference now.
Beth stares at her reflection in her bedroom mirror as Mother adjusts her shift. Her makeup’s been done, dull brown hair coiled and wrapped artfully high on the back of her head, with careful pieces left framing her face. She looks no less a painted peacock than she did this afternoon, only now she’s exhausted, and hungry, and they haven’t even wrestled her into her hoop yet.
“You look wonderful,” Mother says, wrapping her arms about Beth’s shoulders and leaning down so their faces are level.
“You look wonderful,” Beth corrects.
Viscountess Cordelia Demeroven always looks perfect. High, sharp cheekbones, dark piercing brown eyes, bountiful hair swept back in an elegant chignon—she’s beautiful, and graceful, and (now that she’s out of her mourning colors) cheerful. She’s a constant social delight. Beth would rather sink straight into the floor than muster up that energy.
“You’ll be the talk of the ball,” Mother insists, gingerly nudging Beth’s head with her own. “The queen thought you beautiful, and I’ve already arranged a number of morning calls for us. All you have to do is smile.”
Beth glowers at her mother, who simply laughs and reaches around to tickle her. Beth shrieks and jumps away. Mother snickers. Twenty years and she’s never managed to curb that reflex, and Mother still revels in it any chance she gets.
“See,” Mother says, pointing at Beth’s suddenly flushed cheeks and reluctant laugh. “Beautiful. Now, let’s finish getting you ready.”
Beth sighs, but dutifully lets Mother help her into her corset, adjusting the modest padding. Beth has a naturally trim waist, but even the tightest stays can’t give her a bosom. Mother, by contrast, has ample curves beneath the lavender lace across her chest—modest, but coquettish.
She looks stunning in her purple skirts and Beth wishes for the thousandth time that she was more like her mother than her late father. They’ve divested themselves of everything else of his, but Beth’s figure isn’t something she can lock away in a trunk, out of sight, out of mind. Her round face, flat chest, and skinny frame are all his side of the family.
Beth steps into the hoop cage and helps Mother gather it to settle on her small waist. Together they adjust the hoops and then gingerly slip a petticoat over the curved steel and taping. Beth marvels at the lightness of her skirt and smiles as Mother winks. It beats the seven petticoats she would have worn last year, had she been presented as planned.
Beth steps to the side to allow Mother to slip around her and pick up the skirt from her bed. Her hoops knock the vanity chair, and it scrapes loudly against the wooden floor. Beth groans and Mother laughs.
“You’ll adjust,” she promises.
“Right. I’ll knock them all over,” Beth says, going for playful, though she can tell by Mother’s frown that she’s come off more petulant and anxious.
“You’ll have fun. You might even meet someone special tonight.”
Beth narrows her eyes. “I thought I was to go into this with a sensible head for a good match.”
“There’s nothing that says a good match can’t be a love match,” Mother says firmly.
“Only that I’ve just the four months to fall madly in love or we’re dying in a hovel,” Beth counters. Mother’s frown deepens and her eyes turn downcast. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. Let’s do the dress.”
Mother steps in front of Beth, blocking her view of the mirror so Beth’s left looking at her quietly devastated face. She really didn’t mean to bring this up, tonight. She shouldn’t beat a dead horse.
“I hope you find someone you want to marry. That is what I want for you.”
Beth nods, biting her cheek as Mother takes her hands. “I know.”
“And I’m very sorry. I hope you know that too,” Mother insists, ducking her head to catch Beth’s eyes.
“I know,” Beth agrees.
It’s not her mother’s fault they’re in this situation. And she’s spent almost her entire settlement as it is for their dresses. Now it’s Beth’s responsibility to make sure her mother’s sacrifices pay off. They need somewhere to live come the end of the season, and if Beth fails to find a husband—
“Let’s get you into this beautiful gown, shall we?”
Beth nods, breaking eye contact. She raises her arms so Mother can lower the skirt their housekeeper, Miss Wilson, laid out before they shooed her away to rest for the evening. She watches as Mother adjusts the fabric until it sits comfortably over her hips and then helps slide her arms through the short capped sleeves of the bodice.
She does look nice, she supposes. The blue compliments her pale skin and dark hair. Her hair can’t hold a candle to Mother’s, but she always enjoys wearing a few of her mother’s family jewels studded into her braided bun. Makes her think of when she and Mother used to get dressed up and throw their own fake balls when she was small—just the two of them alone in the country in their ball gowns while Father stayed in London for the winter season.
Mother finishes up the buttons and does the top clasp, settling the vee across Beth’s shoulders. She pushes close and wraps her arms around Beth’s waist, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
“I promise tomorrow we’ll have hotcakes for breakfast and sleep until noon, all right?”
Beth smiles and leans back into her, gripping at her hands. “All right.”
* * *
Gwen
“You’re cheating!”
“You’re cheating!” Gwen insists, glaring at her father through her mesh hood, as she teeters on the edge of the stone wall around the garden pond.
“You didn’t riposte,” Father argues, foil still pointed at her, waiting.
“You attacked twice,” Gwen says. She backs along the uneven stones, one arm out for balance, the other hand still brandishing her foil. “And it doesn’t become a man to quibble.”
Father snorts and jumps up onto the wall in front of her, the two of them balanced precariously. They begin to trade attacks again. Gwen advances, but then retreats as Father bears down on her. She feints, trying to throw him off, but much as it rankles, he’s got moves she can’t hope to parry.
Instead, Gwen leaps suddenly from the wall, taking off toward the house at the opposite end of the garden, cackling. Father shouts behind her and gives chase. She twirls around, ready to return his next attack, when the foil is plucked from her hand.
“Hey!” she says, spinning to find their housekeeper, Mrs. Gilpe, frowning down at her.
“En garde!” Father yells, striking her in the back.
Gwen revolves, glaring as she pulls off her helmet. “Foul,” she declares.
“Not so,” Father counters, removing his own mask. “Mrs. Gilpe is but an obstacle. A true opponent would have kept up her guard.”
“You’re a filthy cheat,” Gwen huffs, crossing her arms. Father grins at her, boyishly smug.
“You’re both ridiculous,” Mrs. Gilpe says, her voice fond but firm. Gwen turns to take in her unimpressed glare. “Get inside. The carriage will be here in an hour.”
“One more round?” they exclaim together.
Mrs. Gilpe rolls her eyes, her narrow face still hard but her lips twitching. Father glances at Gwen and the two of them put on their best pouts. But nothing will sway Mrs. Gilpe today.
“If you want to attend the Halyard Ball drenched in sweat with matted hair, be my guest, but neither of you can really afford to start the season that poorly, can you?”
Gwen looks back at Father, who maintains his pout for a moment before his shoulders slump. “Cuttingly astute as ever, Mrs. Gilpe. All right, Gwennie, go up and let the girls turn you into a young lady again.”
Gwen withers under Mrs. Gilpe’s eager look. “Couldn’t we just—”
“Mrs. Gilpe’s right,” Father says, adopting what Gwen considers his “stern father face.” “Tonight is important. We can have a rematch tomorrow.”
“Or you could admit you’re a cheating cheater and we could match again now.”
“The carriage will be here in an hour,” Father says in a credible imitation of Mrs. Gilpe, who tuts.
“Like it matters if we’re on time,” Gwen says.
“Regardless of your feelings on the matter, we must still attempt to make this season count, no matter how onerous.”
Gwen narrows her eyes at his tone. “Are you going to be a gentleman, then? Stand with all the fathers and ignore the debutantes this time?”
“I have never gone after a debutante,” Father says quickly.
“No, no, just the opera singer, the dancer, the other opera singer, the widow Loughton, the widow Chastley—”
“The Dowager Pinches,” Mrs. Gilpe puts in.
Gwen gasps. “You didn’t!”
Father goes red, turning a glare on their housekeeper. He starts backing toward the house. “That was years ago. She wasn’t the dowager then,” he says, his voice cracking.
“Lord Havenfort’s right,” Mrs. Gilpe says mildly. “The late earl’s mother hadn’t yet passed.”
“Father!” Gwen squeaks, hurrying after him. The Dowager Pinches is almost seventy.
“We waltzed a few times,” Father defends, putting up his hands before slipping through the door to the solarium.
“Sure you did,” Mrs. Gilpe says under her breath, holding the door for Gwen. “Come along.”
“Father,” Gwen protests, hovering just outside.
“It’s time,” he says, dropping his indignance. He hangs up his helmet and turns to her with a raised eyebrow.
Gwen reluctantly steps inside, tempted to keep arguing. She thinks she could wear him down, given enough time. They both hate balls, and the Halyards even more. The season is wretched, and neither is happy to be back at the London house for four months of tea parties and discomfort.
“I’ll behave if you will,” Father bargains.
Gwen tosses her helmet at him. She highly doubts that. “You get to drink and gamble. Hardly a fair trade.”
“You’re gambling,” Father says, catching the helmet. “Think of every dance as a bet. Be charming and poised and the educated young lady I’ve raised you to be, and the payout could be enormous.”
Gwen groans. “That’s horrible.”
Mrs. Gilpe tugs the door shut and nudges Gwen forward. Maybe he’ll buy Gwen another pony if she keeps stalling. She did get her own landau last year as a consolation prize for ending the season without a match, again. Better yet, he could buy her a racing horse this year when she comes back husbandless. Surely after four seasons she deserves a racing horse. They could bet on it together.
“All kidding aside, you’re a beautiful, accomplished young woman, and I’m proud of you,” Father insists, taking her hand to drag her toward the foyer.
Gwen bites back a grimace. She hates when he gets sincere like this. Makes it so much harder to argue with him. “Father,” she whines.
“Give it a real try this year, that’s all I ask,” he says. “You deserve a husband, and I know if you open yourself up to it, you can find one. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
They reach the bottom of the stairs and Gwen hesitates. “You’ll behave?”
Mrs. Gilpe steps up beside her, sighing impatiently.
“Cross my heart,” Father says, starting to smile as her defenses come down.
“Fine,” Gwen says, tugging off her gloves to whack them into Father’s chest. “Let’s get this over with,” she says to Mrs. Gilpe.
Father gives her a playful bow, and Mrs. Gilpe takes Gwen’s arm. Gwen huffs but lets Mrs. Gilpe guide her up the stairs, back to hoops and skirts and a frankly disgusting number of hairpins.
The Earl of Havenfort, Dashiell Fredric Bertram, may be the best catch of every season, dubious reputation and all, but the apple doesn’t seem to fall close to the tree. For all Father’s insistence that if she lets down her guard she’ll attract a good husband, Gwen’s not so sure. Beauty and poise and accomplishment she can fake, but deep down, she knows she’ll make a horrid wife. She’s sure they can smell it on her, like dogs do fear.
“Just remember, the Halyards have the crab puffs you like,” Mrs. Gilpe says as she marches Gwen down the second-floor hallway to her room.
Gwen laughs, startled. “That’s true. Want me to bring you some?”
Mrs. Gilpe purses her lips, reluctant to agree as they come into Gwen’s room. Her lady’s maid, Mrs. Stelm, is already waiting with the hoops and corset and makeup all laid out.
“Please do,” Mrs. Stelm says. Mrs. Gilpe throws up her hands. “What, you don’t want any?” she asks, grinning at Mrs. Gilpe, green eyes bright with mirth.
“You’re all incorrigible,” Mrs. Gilpe says, spinning Gwen around to strip her out of her fencing uniform.
“We try,” Gwen says, winking at Mrs. Stelm, who giggles in return, ignoring Mrs. Gilpe’s frown.
Gwen listens to them bicker as they dress her, transforming her from the comfort of home into the puffed-up show bird of the opening night ball. And though the pink gown, stylishly braided blond updo, and dark lashes all complement her very well, Gwen’s not sure at all that her curves and status will be enough to attract a suitor.
They certainly never have before.