Amity smiled back sweetly.
“Oh, all right,” Charity groused, tossing her book on a chair upholstered in a bright marigold silk. “Let’s get on with it.”
With Charity properly corralled, the modiste and her assistants got to work. More measurements were taken, colors chosen, and new patterns discussed. Day dresses, walking dresses, morning gowns, ball gowns, wraps, hats, accessories, and accoutrements were all in order. While the work was going on around them, the married ladies discussed the latest
on dits
, of which there were relatively few, since the Season was just getting underway.
“Therese Thomasson-Sinclair is going to try, yet again, to find a husband this year.” Grace shook her head. “Twenty-five years old, and still she comes out every Season with impossibly high standards.”
“Why hasn’t she found anyone to meet them?” Charity fingered a sumptuous cobalt silk and sent a questioning look toward Faith, who nodded approval.
“She wants nothing less than a marquess,” replied Amanda, adding, “and she has precious little to offer in return.”
“Is she ugly?”
“Charity!” admonished Amity in a gentle voice.
Charity shrugged. “It’s a legitimate question. If nobody has wanted her in all these years, and she has no fortune to offer, it stands to reason that she must be ugly. Men still marry pretty girls who don’t have money.”
“She’s not ugly, though she’s definitely not the prettiest girl in any given Season,” said Amanda. “And it isn’t as though she hasn’t had offers. It’s just that her family has only moderate wealth, and her conversation isn’t at all engaging. Still, she sets her cap, every year, for only the Most Eligible.”
“Which means,” said Grace, her blue eyes dancing, “that she’ll be after Lachlan Kimball this year, if what Trevor told me this morning is true.”
All eyes instantly swiveled her way.
“Supposedly,” she continued, “the Marquess of Asheburton has come to London to find a wife, after which he intends to whisk her off to that castle of his in Scotland.”
Amity stared. “He doesn’t truly live in a castle, does he?”
“Nobody really knows. Only Sebastian has been there, and getting him to talk about anything is like pulling teeth.”
Charity wriggled impatiently while one of the poor seamstresses tried, in vain, to measure the length of her arm from elbow to wrist. “It’s probably some crumbling old medieval keep with dirty floors and ventilation problems. One is perpetually cold in the winters and hot in the summers.”
Amity laughed. “Be nice. The marquess is a good friend to this family.”
Faith looked bemused. “He
is
rather reclusive, though, which means visits to Town might be few and far between. Imagine going to live in that godforsaken place forever, completely out of touch with everything and everyone you have ever known.” She shuddered delicately. “How far do you think it is to Scotland?”
The women all looked at one another. “I don’t think it’s
that
far. People elope there,” said Amanda slowly.
“Yes, but that’s just to the border.” Grace frowned. “Does anyone even know where in Scotland Asheburton lives?”
The room fell silent. Finally, Charity spoke up. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone in this room is going to marry him, anyway.”
“I’ll be in Town once or twice a month during the Season. Other than that, you have the place to yourself.” Sebastian walked into the downstairs study. “Brandy?” he asked over his shoulder.
Lachlan nodded. “With any luck, I won’t be here the entire Season.”
Sebastian made a snorting sound that could, by a great stretch of the imagination, have been considered a laugh. “You’ll find yourself beset by matchmaking mamas the moment you step inside that ballroom.” He handed his cousin his drink, and they sat down.
“Well, as inconvenient as that sounds, at least it will allow me to come up with a list of prospects fairly quickly.”
The two men sat in silence a moment, and then Sebastian cleared his throat. “I’m afraid most of my staff is at Blackthorne. Feel free to hire whomever you need.”
“Thank you. Given the temporary nature of my stay in London, both Roth and Hunt have offered to send competent help from their own staffs.”
Sebastian raised a brow. “Is that so? Don’t be surprised to see a rather short footman in Huntwick livery show up.”
“Oh?”
“A favorite of Grace Caldwell’s. The man actually made it inside the doors at White’s under her orders. Have Roth tell you
that
story sometime.”
Lachlan smiled. “So the wives will plant spies?”
Sebastian finished his drink and stood. “You can be certain of it. Now, shall we go see what my valet left in my wardrobe? We can’t have you looking for a wife without making sure you are properly turned out.”
Seven
Stop
fidgeting, Charity.” Cleo Egerton glowered from across the coach.
“I can’t help it. Something’s poking me.” She tried reaching around to the middle of her back with no success and wriggled some more.
The twins were clad in gowns borrowed from Grace for the occasion, as they hadn’t anticipated going out until the Season officially began, which wasn’t for another week. When the men returned from their afternoon of cards, however, the wives learned Huntwick had invited the Marquess of Asheburton to meet them at the Corwins’ ball, and that he had specifically mentioned Amity and Charity would be there. At this point, the sitting room had erupted into a flurry of frenzied activity. The men quickly and wisely retreated to Gareth’s study.
Grace dispatched a footman to the Caldwell town house to have her maid send a selection of gowns, as Faith was far too tall to lend any of her own. While they waited, hair, jewelry, and other accessories were fussed over. When the gowns arrived, Grace spread them across the bed in which Faith was now comfortably ensconced, leaning on a collection of freshly fluffed pillows. After some deliberation, two gowns were chosen and the rest sent back.
Amity had handled it all with her usual quiet good humor. Charity, however, was cross.
“I don’t even
like
the Marquess of Asheburton. He’s
unpleasant,” she muttered as the carriage rumbled along. Her twin hid a smile and managed, just barely, to keep from pointing out that Charity was being rather unpleasant herself. “And this dress is too frilly.”
“Nonsense,” soothed Amity. “There’s only one bow on the whole dress, tied in the back, and you won’t feel it anymore when we get out of the coach. Just sit forward a bit until we get there.”
Aunt Cleo, who had picked them up in her carriage since Grace still had to go home and get dressed, shook her head. “I hope you’re not going to be this much trouble all Season.”
Charity bit her lip, instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, Aunt Cleo. I don’t mean to be trouble.”
Her expression was so contrite that her relative couldn’t remain put out. “I know you don’t, child,” she said, then reached over to pat Charity’s knee. “Just try not to say everything that pops into your head before you think it through.”
Charity nodded and looked out the window, wondering again why she had wanted so badly to have a London Season. The stories Grace and Faith told had seemed so glittery and fun. She’d had no idea there were so many rules and standards, or that everything one did was so closely watched and, worse, commented upon.
Amity slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave a squeeze. “It’ll be fine,” she whispered. “We’ll simply stick together.”
The smile Charity gave in response was grateful, if a trifle wobbly.
Before the twins knew it, the carriage slowed and then came to a stop. The doors opened and a footman appeared to help them down. They joined Grace and Trevor, who
had also just arrived, on the walk outside a large town house teeming with activity.
Charity tilted her head back and stared in wonder at the building’s sparkling facade. Her eyes filled with awe and she instantly forgot her trepidation from moments before. “It’s so magical,” she murmured.
And it was. Couples floated like bright tropical birds by the bank of windows at street level. Others strolled in groups, ladies laughing gaily behind ornate fans. The men were just as colorfully garbed, in satin breeches, embroidered waistcoats, and intricately tied cravats, some starched to such stiff points Charity feared they might nick the undersides of their chins.
“Come on, Charity!”
The group had started up the wide marble steps to the entrance. Reluctantly, Charity tore her fascinated gaze from the view and hurried after them.
An hour later, her most recent dance partner returned her to her family, breathless and flushed with laughter. A group of young men was gathered around Grace and Aunt Cleo, waiting for an introduction to one of the twins and the chance to add his name to their dance cards. In mock desperation she held up a hand.
“No, please,” she protested with a smile. “I need a few moments to rest.”
Amity, no less besieged, linked an arm through her sister’s. “Perhaps a short stroll on the terrace is in order.” When instant offers of accompaniment were offered, Amity laughed. “
Alone
,” she clarified.
Charity tossed an apologetic glance in the general direction of the assembly but allowed her sister to pull her toward the row of double French doors through which could
wander guests who desired a breath of fresh air. She and her sister strolled to a quiet spot and stopped.
Charity fanned herself vigorously. “My goodness! I hadn’t expected such a crush of people!” But her eyes glowed with happiness.
Amity nodded in agreement. “Grace says it is far worse than during her debut, when nobody really knew our family. I suppose the possibility of a connection to a marquess and an earl makes us all the more desirable.”
Charity frowned. “How does one know, then, if the interest is genuine? In us rather than our connections.”
“I guess one doesn’t straightaway.” Amity’s voice was soft. “I’d imagine it becomes evident over time, however.” She stared out into the garden with a dreamy smile, her eyes reflecting the dancing light from torches placed at intervals along the walkway.
Charity gave her sister a long, slow look. “Good lord, Amity. You’re going to go all sheep-eyed over the first man who figures out to act like a stray dog. That’s all he needs to do to worm his way into your heart, isn’t it?”
“Most certainly not,” protested Amity, but she laughed, knowing the accusation wasn’t entirely unfounded. She had filled their household with rescued pets from the time she could walk far enough to find them. All any animal, including those of the human variety, had to do was look at her with wide, soulful eyes, and she was instantly lost.
Charity opened her mouth to continue, but she was stopped as someone opened a door nearby and the muffled sounds of the ball grew louder. She turned to see who had come out on the terrace, a bright smile of greeting on her face.
The smile slowly faded. Walking toward them, his steps slow, measured, and deliberate, was the Marquess
of Asheburton. He was dressed all in black, unlike most of the other male guests, who preferred styles more flamboyant and colorful. Where the other men mostly wore breeches, Lachlan Kimball chose unfashionable trousers. His coat was of a dark superfine instead of a more garish embroidered satin, and his cravat was tied in a loose, simple style at his throat.
It was a style of which Charity found she reluctantly approved, until she realized he’d stopped before them and that she was staring. Embarrassed, she scowled. “What are
you
doing here?” she asked.
Amity poked her in the side in silent admonishment for her rudeness.
“Well,” Charity said crossly to her twin. “Trevor said he hates London, he hates balls, and I’m pretty sure, given the way he acted at Faith’s wedding,”—she swung her gaze back to Lachlan—“that he hates me.”
Lachlan bowed slightly from the waist, but his eyes never left Charity’s and he did not deny her accusation. “How fortuitous, Miss Ackerly. You’ve spared me the awkwardness of trying to identify one twin from the other.”
Despite there being no specific insult in his wording, the obvious indication that he felt he could tell them apart based purely on demeanor was not lost on Charity. She colored and drew herself up as tall as she was able, her eyes spitting blue fire. “I think I’ll go back into the ball, Amity. It has become
quite
crowded out here.” She brushed past Lachlan without addressing him and disappeared inside.
Lachlan gave Amity a rueful look. “Your sister and I seem to have difficulty communicating,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.
Amity’s eyes, unlike her sister’s, were alive with fun. “Oh, I think you both did fairly well. You managed to say
precisely what you think of one another in very few words.” She grinned.
Lachlan let that go. He smiled at her instead. “How are you enjoying the Season, Miss Ackerly?”
She smiled back. “It’s the first ball for me and Charity, and it’s been very nice. A bit more active than I expected.”
“Quite a change from Pelthamshire, yes?”
She nodded. “As it is for you from Scotland, my lord.”
His eyes, which had been a flinty gray seconds before, softened to a liquid silver, his love evident for his homeland. Amity caught her breath and then felt her heart warm as he spoke, his voice low, vibrant, and resonant. “Yes, very different,” he agreed.
Silence fell. After a few moments Lachlan cleared his throat. “Would you care to dance with me, Miss Ackerly?”
“Why, I think that would be lovely,” she replied, and placed her gloved hand on his proffered arm.
He escorted her inside and returned her to her family for a proper, public introduction. To his relief, Charity was nowhere to be found. Lachlan grasped Trevor’s hand and gave it a hearty shake, and then he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Hunt. I encountered Miss Ackerly on the terrace, and hoped to gain permission to dance with her.”
Trevor grinned broadly. “Barring any disagreement from the ladies, I think that’s a capital idea.” He stepped to the side and swept a hand toward Aunt Cleo. “I believe you’ve met Lady Cleo Egerton?”