Colors of a Lady (2 page)

“Perhaps you should advise her to curtail
her flirtations as a way to settle upon one man and giver her
sister a chance.”

“Oh dear, there is never any harm in too
much flirtation. Caroline will make the match within a month. She
will be a duchess!”

“Kellaway's son, you say?” inquired her
husband, hazel eyes darting to the dark-haired man. Their families
had neighbouring estates some hours away from London. Lord Sheridan
had always been good friends with Kellaway. The two families spent
Christmas and Twelfth Night together every single year. When the
Duchess died ten years ago, the celebrations moved to the Earl's
abode. Marriage between the two families, without a doubt, would
not put a damper on their tradition. There was little worse than
introducing a daughter-in-law who seemed intent on changing the
ways of a family.

“Why, of course! Who else? Shall she have a
summer wedding?”

“It may be too soon for such plans for him
to marry Caroline. He is dancing the waltz with Emma.”

With a gasp, Lady Sheridan twisted back to
the dancers and lost her footing. She stumbled, sending the young
debutantes all a twitter. Lord Sheridan hid his own amusement and
waited for his wife to compose herself.

“That girl takes after you far too much.
Such an upstart!” declared Lady Sheridan. “Is she trying to
embarrass her sister by making a better match? The younger daughter
should never marry above her sister.”

He rolled his eyes and patted his wife on
her shoulder. “My dear, your elder is unmarried so you married
above her.”

She sputtered and waved him away with her
fan. “That is not at all the same, dear husband. Eleanor, as you
well know, joined a convent in France. She is married to Jesus
Christ, so, she technically married above me,” she explained,
casting a meaningful glance to the sky. Lord Sheridan chuckled.

“You have me outwitted, my dear.”

Emma felt the last dredge of hope slipping
from her fingers. Firstly, her sister's gown was more elaborate,
adding to her fair beauty making Emma feel like an ugly child.
Secondly, Emma found that the pink of the ton tended to flock
around an entirely different set of girls than those that she
called friends. Not to say they were ill-favoured, but frankly it
seemed to be the case. Thirdly and most importantly, she had no
care for balls. It was not the dancing, but the dreaded crowds.

Yet, she did adore her dress though she now
despaired over it being too juvenile. It was sewn from the finest
Indian silk in a soft pale green. It complimented her dreaded olive
complexion, which her mother always fretted over. The neck was low
enough to be fashionable, but modest enough for Emma to feel
comfortable. Her slippers were the same pale green silk with
matching ribbons that laced up her calves. The gown had cap
sleeves, trimmed with a small band of embroidered white roses. Her
brown tresses had been set into an elegant Grecian design with long
curls hanging from the back to tickle her neck. She wore only a
pair of pearl drop earrings and a matching necklace.

When Emma descended the stairs tonight, she
felt the familiar dread settle on her shoulder. She often felt out
of sorts within the confines of the ton and even in her own home.
She loved her family dearly, despite their faults. Mother and
Caroline did not the capacity to understand her frustrations.
Mother told her to try harder to fit in with the
ton
if she
felt so out of place. Caroline had the ability to squash any
confidence or elation she felt. Such as she did tonight when, in a
flurry of pink muslin skirts, she joined Emma in the main hall.

Glittering pink diamonds dotted her blonde
hair. The becoming curls surrounding her face had taken short of
four hours to construct. The rose pink muslin was woven with gold
thread that made it glint in the candlelight. Her over-skirt was
three inches off the ground, displaying an underskirt of precious
gold silk. Caroline had even cajoled her maid into applying rouge
and a lip stain, further accentuating her ivory cheeks and bright
blue eyes. Most considered cosmetics to be more suited to an
actress or prostitute and not the daughter of an Earl. But Caroline
wore it, chin uplifted, despite not needing the enhancements. She
enjoyed the reaction from men who could not help but fall at her
feet in supplication.

Emma bit back a grimace. She reminded
herself why she did this: to find a husband. Any husband. She was
close to accepting the first man that offered for her. Knowing her
luck, however, it would be Percy Worthing. No one wanted to marry a
man named Percy, especially this one. He embodied all that the name
Percy implied. All she hoped was that her marriage would come soon,
so she could lead her own household until her dying day. If not
then at least until her son married an ungrateful woman who would
push his dear mum out to the dower house.

The sadness overwhelmed Emma once more when
she spotted her sister with the pink of the pinks, Lord Thomas
George Blake, Marquis of Hartwell and the Duke of Kellaway's heir
apparent. He was five years Emma's senior placing him at four and
twenty.

Lord Hartwell had the sort of charm and
elegance to which all others aspired. Not only was he tall, she
mused, but he also had the broad shoulders, slim waist and muscular
legs that set off the day's fashion to its best. Girls swooned at
his charcoal eyes that peeked from beneath the forest of his black
curls. She had often dreamed of those eyes in her youth. The way
his dimples appeared with the slightest twitch of his mouth had
caused a great increase the sale of smelling salts.

Yet, she stressed mentally, it was laughable
to even think that Lord Hartwell took a romantic interest in her.
He had made that clear with the manner in which he fawned over
Caroline. All men stuck with the sort of women that were their
type, the sort they always courted and would someday marry. They
rarely strayed from said formula. It was even rarer that Emma Wren
was ever a first choice for the bucks of the ton. That was not to
say she was lacking in beauty of grace. She found herself lacking
in that elusive quality which set hearts aflame.

Oh, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that
he would make a fine husband. But Emma had to admit having such a
man could drive a woman crazy with jealousy. There was no doubt
that for all his promises of true love, he would be taking
mistresses like the other members of the ton. Discretion was key.
Appearances must be kept. With a face like Lord Hartwell's, he had
his pick of women.

Emma turned her attention back to her
friends. Lettice rolled her eyes at some hoydenish scheme that
Helena was likely hatching.

“Frankly, Helena, I think that is a terrible
idea. What is the point of forcing your cousin, Reginald, to dance
with Emma? If he had any inclination to do so, he would ask.
Besides, he is an awful dancer and Emma deserves better than
that.”

“But Lettice!” exclaimed Helena, her red
curls shaking with excitement. “Emma will get no attention at all.
Caroline is stealing it all.”

“I would advise her waiting, if she wasn’t
so dark, more men might be interested in her. It is not fully
Caroline’s fault.” Lettice replied. Her pink lips quirked into a
small smile and she added, “Besides, to make a real love match, the
woman should wait for the man to approach. She should not parade
herself about for that to happen. He will notice her because his
soul yearns for hers.” Her impassioned speech fell on the deaf ears
of her friends. The arrival of a man into their intimate circle
silenced them.

Lord Hartwell, his cravat composed into a
pristine Maharatta style, bowed to Emma and her friends. His
trademark grin, one belonging more to a boy than a man, greeted
them.

“Good evening, Lady Emma, Miss Mallory, Miss
Devine.” The trio curtsied as one, earning a broader grin from
him.

“Good evening, Lord Hartwell,” said Helena.
She shot Lettice a resplendent grin and winked. The blonde rolled
her eyes at her friend's gauche behaviour, but there was the hint
of a swoon beneath her cool gaze.

“Good evening, Lord Hartwell,” she delivered
coolly.

“Lord Hartwell,” said Emma at last, chewing
on her lip in a fit of nervousness. She knew him well. Many years
had passed since they had last spoken. Oh, thank you, follies of
youth, she mused. Once upon a time, they were the closest of
friends. Those days were long past, as much in ruin as Pompeii. Her
nervousness at his appearance was well expected. Her palms began to
sweat, likely to ruin her new gloves.

“I,” he began, “would like to know if you
had the next dance available, Lady Emma.” His kind tone washed over
Emma, sending her into shivers.

She blinked rapidly, her mind processing the
simple statement. Or was it a question? It had to be a mixture of
both though the intent was clear. Her lips upturned into a slight
smile.

“Why, I do believe I can manage that,” she
decided at long last. Lettice stared at her with raised eyebrows as
Helena prodded her forward.

“It is quite lucky for me that you have an
open spot,” he replied, grey eyes dancing in amusement. He knew
full well that she had yet to dance; however, he could not
understand why. He would not have come over if his dearest Caroline
had not implored him so, but he always enjoyed Emma's company. It
had been some time since they last met and she had grown more
beautiful since that day. She could hold no candle to Caroline, of
course, no earth-bound woman could. There was something in Emma's
sunny smile and easy graces that had always relaxed him.

Emma bestowed a grin upon him, her face
lighting up in humour. She placed her hand on his proffered arm as
he led her to the set of dancers. She felt inordinately lucky to
have her first dance with a future duke. This would cause other
potential suitors to take notice. She tilted her head back to look
at her partner, but his eyes focused elsewhere. Emma followed his
gaze to where Caroline stood, like an angel in an illumination. The
candles at her back created a golden halo around her fair head. As
they moved, Emma saw her sister nod her head in thanks to Lord
Hartwell. He returned her notice, a mesmerized twinkle in his eyes.
Emma forgot all her dance lessons and looked down to her feet. She
let out a sigh.

Her sister had asked this of him. He could
not resist a favour form his beloved Caroline. She decided to pawn
him off for a dance or two to bring the ton's acknowledgment to her
younger sister. Emma had no clue whether she should be incensed or
thankful. She chose embarrassed instead. The
ton
now knew
her, but as a pathetic sort who could not find dances partners of
her own.

As she danced with a man who was pining for
another woman, Emma knew her expectations were right to be low.
This way she was not disappointed. This way she would not retreat
to her room at 3 o'clock in the morning when all the guests left
and weep bitter tears over her sad lot. Her life was better than a
lot of Londoners, she knew it was wrong to compare. But she was a
flighty female taken to bemoan her existence. She wished for simple
changes: a concerned father, a proper mother, and an ugly sister.
Was it too much for one to ask?

Apparently it was. So Lady Emma Wren tucked
her worries away as moved through the dance. It would be the first
of many dances for her that night with the pink of the ton. When
she went to bed, she tried her hardest to remember their faces and
the snippets of polite conversation. But they were all, even Lord
Hartwell's, a great blur. Did that mean she had not met her Prince
Charming? That would have been Lettice's opinion at least. Even so,
as she drifted off to sleep, Emma found herself smiling back at the
image of the boyish grin of Lord Hartwell when he asked her to
dance.

The morning dawned with bleak skies,
threatening the city with some unseen snow. Or perhaps rain, the
chilly March weather might at last give way to spring. Judging from
the frost lingering on the windows, it would likely be snow. The
weather would not thwart Emma in her plans to visit Hatchard's this
afternoon. Since it was only seven o'clock, the fashionable of
London were still not awake from the previous night's exertions.
Emma had not slept a wink and was in desperate need for a walk to
clear her head and rejuvenate her spirit. Naturally, she desired
new books too.

Her maid, Mary, rose with the sun to help
her dress for the morning. Emma dreaded the process, especially the
stays that often dug into her belly. But, it was a necessary evil
of her position in life.

Mary was about five and twenty and had
attended Emma for most of her life. First as a playmate and then
responsible for insuring she was a respectable young woman in the
eyes of the
ton
. Her nimble fingers worked wonders on Emma's
unruly hair, taming it into elegant coiffures that showed off her
slim neck and rounded shoulders. Even with her skills, by the end
of the night or after a spirited dance, long coils escaped from her
pins with abandon.

“Will you be calling upon Miss Mallory and
Miss Devine today?” she inquired, running a brush through Emma's
thick hair. Emma felt her scalp prickle. The knots in her hair
revolted against detangling. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut.
.

“Yes, I believe so.”

The maid stared at her mistress in the
mirror, biting her bottom lip. She could sense Lady Emma's dour
mood. It must have been the ball. She had heard the other servants
whisper that the younger daughter of the house was a great success.
Then why was she behaving in such a dispirited manner?

“How was the ball?"

“I danced with many eligible young men.”

“Is that not the point?” she asked, brow
furrowed.