Chapter One
Lady Sophia Simmons hopped away in time to avoid having her toe crushed by one of the overly amorous suitors surrounding her sister, Lady Mara. There were always gentlemen swirling around Mara.
Ugh.
Sophia, as a general rule, didn’t care much for the cloud of simpering dandies surrounding her sister, or their overblown infatuation.
She found their behavior intolerable. Pushing further into the wall, she pulled her skirts up, barely managing to escape one gentleman’s clumsy, overly large feet.
Mama would have a fit if she tore the hem of this lovely blue gown or created any sort of what she deemed “a fashion incident.”
Mara let out a soft peal of laughter and swatted one young man playfully on the shoulder with her fan.
Artfully done. Mara has been practicing.
Sophia plucked at her pale blue skirts. Tugged at the bodice, discreetly. Tried not to frown at her sister, who looked over one creamy shoulder with a smug smile. It would only encourage further poor behavior.
Mara was often declared one of the great beauties of London. The very flower of English womanhood. Some whispered how the other apple, namely Sophia, could have fallen so far from the Canterbell tree.
Constantly being considered…inferior had a way of prompting Sophia to behave in the exact opposite manner of her sister. Mara The Beautiful, who was permitted to be in her third Season because Lady Canterbell was holding out for a marquess or a duke.
I would be thrilled for you to attract any sort of attention, Sophia.
Unfortunately, Sophia did draw attention, though not the sort Mama approved of.
Another deep sigh came from her as she attempted to appear enthralled at the sight of the Perswick ballroom, watching half the men in London fawn around her sister.
Sophia longed for…oh, an apple. A tiny pebble.
Or one of those tiny cakes she’d seen at the refreshment table.
Anything at all to throw at Mara’s inflated head.
She’d once placed two beetles in her sister’s bonnet at a garden party because she’d been particularly insufferable that day.
Sophia had quite enjoyed the screeching while Mara danced about swatting at her head.
“Lord Wilde,” she heard Mara whisper, loudly, to the gentleman not two paces away. “I shall save my last dance for you, but first,” she shot Sophia a look of false sympathy. “Could you spin my sister about for the next set. She hasn’t danced at all this evening. Poor dear.”
I would give anything for some sort of flying insect to launch itself at Mara’s head.
Turning her eyes to the ceiling of the vast Perswick ballroom, Sophia begged for deliverance. Why not merely place a sign on her back announcing her inadequacy and lack of appeal to the entire crowd of London’s finest all gathered here tonight?
Wilde took her in with a weak smile and, as expected, murmured a polite excuse about returning later to dance with Lady Mara’s sister.
He wouldn’t. They never did. Not that Sophia minded, overmuch.
The sort of men Mara attracted were vastly uninteresting.
Conversations limited to the weather, horses and who they’d seen walking in the park.
Dreadfully dull. Overly polite. And Wilde had a loose thread on his coat, button dangling and about to fall off, something she would have ordinarily pointed out to him as a courtesy.
“I tried, Mama,” Mara said softly, sounding far too innocent.
“You did your best,” Mama replied.
Good grief.
It wasn’t as if Sophia was some sort of troll.
Or possessed a horrid skin condition like Miss Andrews.
She’d been told she was pretty. Slightly plump, but many gentlemen appreciated an overabundance of curves.
True, her hair didn’t shine like bits of spun gold, as Mara’s did.
Nor did she have her sister’s modest, demure manner and dulcet voice.
Dulcet? What did that even mean?
But Sophia was intelligent. Quick witted. Had interest in the world around her. Read a great deal whereas Mara cracking open a book was more accidental in nature.
Her sister was a bit of a pea-hen.
I should live in a constant state of disappointment were that my daughter. Poor Lady Canterbell. Perhaps if Sophia possessed an ounce of Mara’s charm.
Lady Perswick’s exact words, whispered behind the exquisitely painted fan she held to another finely dressed matron of the ton.
She didn’t even have the decency to wait for Sophia to be out of earshot before relaying her opinion.
Was it any wonder that all of Mama’s hopes and dreams were solely focused on Mara?
Her sister was held up as an example of everything Sophia should be and was not.
The more Mama insisted, the more her youngest daughter…resisted.
The battle lines had been clearly drawn with no winner in sight.
“Sophia.” Mama took her arm. “You aren’t even trying. Not one gentleman caller this entire Season. No dances at all. You must engage in conversation.”
“I’ve no idea what to say.”
Mama made a puffing sound. “Gentlemen adore speaking about themselves. Encourage them to do so. Then you can merely nod at the appropriate times.”
“Terribly dull.” Sophia lifted her chin. “Should I not share my thoughts? My opinions?”
“I would prefer you do not.” Mama fanned herself. “Gentlemen find your forthright manner far too honest.”
“Honestly is a desirable trait.”
“Not when you are pointing out that an excess of pomade is perfuming the air. Or a straining waistcoat could benefit from being let out and suggesting a tailor.”
“I’m only trying to help. The pomade was overpowering.
” Sophia only sought to help Lord Richardson.
Several young ladies had whispered complaints that while they liked the viscount, the scent of him was rather off-putting.
And in the case of Mr. Soames, well, how could he not notice that the straining of his waistcoat would cause a button or two to pop off?
“Look at Mara.” Mama tilted her head. “See how she pretends great interest in whatever is being said? Blushes in a most ladylike manner? Refrains from unwanted candor?”
“Mara is entirely full of herself.” She waved a hand at her sister, who smiled, head thrown back, as a handsome man spun her about. “It is embarrassing for her to beg dances for me as if I’m some sort of diseased rat who cannot possibly—”
“That is quite enough,” Mama gave a dramatic gasp. “Where do you get such notions? A diseased rat? Who says such things? You’ve become a bluestocking, surrounding yourself with mounds of books. As if finding you a husband will not be difficult enough.”
“I quite agree. Imagine, if I were as dumb as Mara—”
Mama’s fingers bit into her arm. “Silence. I do not know why I was burdened with such an argumentative, unbiddable child. Combative, your father calls you. If I were to tell you the sky was blue, you would say the opposite, merely to spite me.” Her lips drew tight as she plucked at the sapphire bracelet on Sophia’s wrist. “Did I give you permission to borrow this?”
“I thought you had.”
A complete lie. Sophia had snatched the sapphire bracelet from Mama’s jewelry box after seeing how well it went with her gown.
“The clasp is loose. Don’t you dare be careless. I adore this bracelet.” Another puffing noise came from Mama. “I’ve advised your father that we should marry you off to Mr. Hemming and be done with it.”
Sophia’s mouth popped open in horror. “You would not.”
As a threat, Mr. Hemming was a good one. He was a distant cousin of some sort and Papa’s designated heir. Also, he was quite terrible.
Mama’s features were triumphant. “Do not challenge me further. Make some effort. Else you find yourself wed to Mr. Hemming.”
“Mr. Hemming is the unfortunate recipient of a great many warts, Mama. I liken him to a toad.” He also possessed bulging eyes which failed to improve his appearance. Not to mention that he had no personality to speak of.
“An unkind observation. Mr. Hemming is a fine man who any young lady would be pleased to have as a husband.” She raised a brow. “Now, appear welcoming. Attempt to smile. Resolve to make polite conversation.”
Sophia complied, stretching her lips. “I smile. Often. And I do engage others in polite conversation.”
Mama looked down her nose. “There is a reason Lady Stafford’s daughter no longer calls or asks you to walk in the park. Do not for a moment pretend you do not know what I speak of.”
Lady Stafford’s daughter, Hortensia, was an utter nitwit. Devoid of even a semblance of intelligence. She made Mara seem like an academic. Sophia could tolerate many things, but she drew the line at absolute stupidity.
“She didn’t know who William Lamb is,” Sophia stated, aghast. “William. Lamb. Viscount Melbourne. The Prime Minister.”
“Your father’s position in Her Majesty’s government puts you closer to such matters. Most young ladies do not care overmuch for politics. Or William Lamb.”
“I doubt Hortensia has ever picked up a book,” Sophia puffed, warming to the topic. “Doesn’t read at all. How on earth am I to be friends with such a girl?” She threw up her hands. “England is an island, Mama. And Hortensia did not know.”
“Yet she has dozens of suitors.” Mama’s brow raised once more. “Dozens.”
Sophia turned away, watching the colorful swirl of dancers before her, hating this conversation. If she could be a modest, demure, oblivious to the world around her, bit of fluff, she would be. Life would be far easier.
“I believe I’ll go find a glass of lemonade,” she finally said.
Probably more likely to be champagne. That would suit her. Sophia liked the bubbles.
“Don’t go far.” Mama, annoyed, had already turned to watch Mara, features glowing with approval at her eldest daughter.
“If you see your father, ask him to attend me. And don’t get into trouble, Sophia.
I beg you,” she cautioned over her shoulder.
“Try not to…become overly amused as you did with Lord Albert.”