Chapter One #2
Thank God for Lydia. Her dear cousin had known instantly that something was wrong and often managed to subvert the attention.
But it only worked for a short time. Soon enough, word of Eleanor’s abject social inadequacies spread throughout the haute ton and she became a pariah and secret laughingstock.
No one wished to approach her. If anyone was unintentionally caught in conversation with her, they made swift excuses to depart.
And then the nicknames started. And the write-ups in the gossip pages as everyone speculated how a lady from such a fine background could be so wretchedly disappointing.
It was declared rather caustically that even though she was the fairest debutante of the season by far, her exceptional beauty was not enough to save her.
Eleanor’s parents had tried to minimize the concern, saying the gossip pages were not a proper source of information. Even her annoyingly perfect brother had waved aside the obvious disaster of her come-out, suggesting she just needed time to acclimate to the unspoken rules of London society.
She’d tried. She’d worked with tutors to try to find some method of claiming ease in casual encounters.
She’d practiced the art of small talk until the words she spoke began to sound foreign.
Nothing had helped. She’d always ended up feeling far too aware of herself and others.
Too discomfited by the slightest moments of unease, the stuttering pauses, the brief and awkward eye contact.
The sense of being on display in some performance for which she’d forgotten all her lines.
To avoid stuttering painfully, she often said nothing at all or kept her responses to a couple clipped words, which only solidified her reputation for being frigid and devoid of personality.
Once she knew that was how people saw her, she couldn’t seem to find a way to present any evidence to the contrary.
It never got better. She’d just learned throughout the season how to avoid the circumstances that would trigger her worst responses and struggled through the rest.
And now she was going to have to do it all over again.
And for what? So, she could fulfill her role as the daughter of an illustrious family line and snatch a wealthy, influential husband? Blech! The whole thing was so despicable.
Yet, her lot in life had been set the day she’d been born.
Dread sat like an anvil in her stomach. And though Lydia had asked her how she was doing a few times in the weeks leading up to the start of the Season and Bridget often tried to distract her with humorous stories and her own excitement, she could see her cousins were concerned for her.
So, she did the only thing she could do—she put on a serene expression and forced her fears and dreaded discomfort down to the deepest parts of herself. She might abhor the social whirl, but she wasn’t going to ruin it for her cousins.
Well, for Bridget, anyway. Lydia disliked high society for her own reasons.
“How’s that, my lady?” Her maid, Gretchen, stepped back, indicating she’d finished Eleanor’s coiffure.
After turning her head one way then the other, Eleanor nodded.
“Lovely. Thank you.” Not that she knew much about hairstyles.
She’d never really understood what was fashionable and what wasn’t and simply accepted the guidance from others on such matters.
Rising to her feet, she allowed Gretchen to help her into her gown of pale pink shot through with silver thread.
Then she turned to her cousin. “Your turn, Lydia.”
Having waited until the very last moment to finish her toilet, Lydia finally set her book aside and rose from the chaise with a weighted sigh.
Shedding her robe, she stepped into a gown the pale-blue color that was a perfect complement to her gray-blue eyes.
Eleanor knew Lydia had begged her mother for a few gowns in darker shades, but the marchioness staunchly refused to consider such a thing.
Debutantes wore pastels or white. Nothing else.
Bridget, in a gown of pure white with a sunny yellow sash and tiny yellow flowers embroidered at the hem, had been fully ready for quite some time, but she leaned forward to check her gleaming dark, auburn hair in the vanity mirror at least three more times before they left the dressing room and made their way downstairs.
Ralston was already waiting in the entry hall. His expression the picture of brotherly impatience.
Before her first season, Eleanor had believed her mother would be her chaperone and guide.
She’d discovered the night of her debut ball that her brother had been given the task.
Her mother was a quiet, retiring woman who’d never really enjoyed society, preferring to keep to the country whenever possible.
If Eleanor must endure the trials of London high society, the least she could’ve hoped for was an amusing escort.
But such was not to be found in her older brother.
She’d tried teasing him out of his stoic reserve once, but he’d curtly reminded her it was his duty to ensure she was a success, and he couldn’t do that if he was goofing off.
There was nothing Ralston took more seriously than his familial duty.
It seemed the social season brought out the worst in him. Just as it did her.
As the carriage rolled up beyond the open front doors, Ralston nodded his head. “You all look lovely. Shall we?”
Lydia sighed. Bridget practically squealed. And Eleanor simply resigned herself to enduring the first painful evening in what was likely to be another horrid social season.