Chapter 7
Seven
“In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.”
Aristotle
Gwen stared at her reflection in the glass, anxiously adjusting the folds of her gown while Buttercup whined and circled her slippers. The pup, newly scrubbed and brushed by a diligent groom in the mews, was scarcely recognizable from the bedraggled creature she had adopted.
Fortunately, Buttercup had revealed herself to be an amiable shadow, content to trail Gwen from room to room and gaze up at her with doleful brown eyes and a twitching snout, as if awaiting instructions only Gwen could give.
“What if they do not like me?” she asked in a whisper.
Octavia snorted, twisting a final curl into place atop Gwen’s head with efficient fingers. “What is there not to like? You’re a delight.”
Gwen’s mouth tugged sideways. “Not according to anyone I know.”
“Oh, posh. The girls from school were envious, and the boys … foolish to a man. Anyone with an ounce of sense finds you charming.”
“But Lady Astley looked ready to faint when we were found on the terrace.”
“Lady Astley is an embittered old bat,” Octavia said, releasing a breath through her nose.
A few wispy tendrils escaped from the nape of her neck, betraying her haste.
“She would have reacted the same if you had been caught reading sermons aloud. Her household staff tells stories that would curl your hair faster than any iron.”
Despite herself, Gwen smiled. But the tension returned almost at once. She resumed rhythmically clasping and releasing her hands, until—
“Stop that.” Octavia gave her knuckles a quick tap. “You will crease your gown before the dinner even begins.”
Startled, Gwen glanced down and saw the wrinkled patch she had created. With a wince, she tried to smooth the delicate silk, though her fingers trembled. The dinner had dominated her thoughts, looming like a performance for which she had not rehearsed nearly enough.
She was to meet his parents.
The butterflies in her stomach launched into a fresh frenzy, and she pressed a hand to her middle, feeling slightly unwell. What must they think of her? What had they heard about the evening on the terrace?
Aidan.
She mouthed his name silently, still unable to believe she was to marry so esteemed and handsome a gentleman.
Her gaze drifted to the nearby table, where Debrett’s Peerage lay open, spine cracked from repeated consultation. With familiar fingers, she turned to the entry for the Viscount of Moreland once more, though she could have recited the text from memory by now.
The Abbott family boasted a long and illustrious line of titled ancestors, while Gwen’s own lineage felt painfully unremarkable by comparison.
Her father was the third son of a minor baron, only set to inherit because his eldest brother had no heirs and the middle brother had passed away two decades earlier.
And her mama? A scholar’s daughter with no ties to society or even the gentry. Respectable, yes, but entirely unsuited to the ballrooms of Mayfair.
What must they think of Lord Aidan Abbott’s offer of marriage to insignificant Gwendolyn Smythe?
Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe.
The cruel schoolyard chant rose unbidden in her mind, and the bravado she had summoned at the modiste’s shop when facing down Milly dissolved in a flash.
Tentative onfidence was no match for the thought of meeting the Morelands—a distinguished and wealthy family with ancestral estates and discerning expectations.
What if they stared as Lady Astley had done? What if their astonishment turned to dismay?
What if they found her entirely unworthy?
What if they simply did not like her?
“Right, you are ready,” Octavia announced, stepping back with a satisfied nod.
Gwen glanced up to see her reflection in the long mirror, now crowned with a carefully arranged fall of red curls. The rest of her thick hair had been coaxed into an intricate chignon, worthy of any duchess’s daughter.
She tilted her head. Then tried the opposite side. Bit her lip and squinted.
For a brief, shimmering moment, she caught a resemblance to the figure Aidan had once compared her to. Venus, as painted by Botticelli.
But the likeness flickered and collapsed as swiftly as it had come, and the butterflies in her stomach staged a fresh revolt.
“The Morelands will be here soon.”
“They will hate me.”
Octavia pursed her lips, unimpressed. Without ceremony, she seized Gwen’s arm and hauled her upright. The maid barely reached Gwen’s chin, a fact that only sharpened her awareness of her own too-tall, too-angular frame.
With resolute determination, Octavia shepherded her out of the bedchamber, pausing only to close the door behind them and leave Buttercup safely inside. The soft sound of the dog’s whine echoed down the hall as they marched toward the stairs.
Halfway down, Octavia was forced to release her. There was no graceful way to descend in tandem given their height disparity.
Gwen glanced behind her. Just a few steps back. She could run. Duck into the music room. Lock the door and claim a sudden megrim.
Surely, they would understand?
But then she imagined their first impression. That she had fled the dinner like a frightened debutante in a sentimental tale. No, far better to face them with at least a shred of dignity.
Even if every instinct urged retreat.
They reached the ground floor and turned toward the small drawing room. Gwen entered and halted in the center, absorbing the quiet elegance. The silk wallpaper, the restrained scent of lavender from the hearth rug, the ticking of the clock in the corner.
“Shall I bring you some tea while you wait?” Octavia asked.
“That will not be necessary. Papa will join me shortly.” Gwen began to pace, agitated energy leaking through every step.
“You’ll wear a hole in the rug,” Octavia observed dryly, her eyes drifting to Gwen’s feet—those too-large, undeniably unfashionable feet that never allowed her to glide, only stride.
Gwen stopped pacing, teeth sinking into her lower lip. “They must hate me already! Their celebrated heir … forced to wed a spotted ginger! Just imagine what their grandchildren will look like!”
Octavia drew herself up to her full, if modest, height, placing both hands on her hips with the authority of a general inspecting troops. Her tone rang with indignation.
“Gwendolyn Smythe, you are a treasure. The Morelands are fortunate indeed to welcome you into their ranks.”
Gwen’s mouth fell open in horror, because standing just beyond her father in the doorway, perfectly framed by the arch, was an elegant woman whose presence silenced the room.
She had the same chocolate-brown eyes as Aidan, and the sheen of her silk gown, woven in subtle, harmonious hues, spoke of refinement and assured taste. Though her appearance was youthful, a delicate scattering of silver near her temples betrayed her identity.
Behind her stood a tall gentleman whose square jaw and salt-and-pepper hair bore an unmistakable resemblance to Lord Aidan Abbott. His lips twitched, betraying the effort it took not to laugh.
Octavia, catching a glimpse of the doorway’s reflection in the glass, spun about and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes locked with Lady Moreland’s. Too late.
She dipped into a deep curtsy, but faltered, clearly mortified. “Milady!”
“And who might you be?” Lady Moreland asked with a calm coolness that demanded precision.
“Mrs. Hanning, milady. I am lady’s maid to Miss Smythe.” Octavia’s voice trembled despite her effort to sound composed.
Lady Moreland raised a brow, arch and elegant. She advanced a few steps and surveyed the flustered woman. “Indeed. Is it customary in your service to address your mistress by her Christian name?”
A small strangled sound escaped Octavia, drawing Gwen from her frozen state.
“Mrs. Hanning served my mother when I was a child,” Gwen said quickly, forcing her voice steady. “We are … rather close.”
Even as she spoke, she realized the room had filled. Her father stood beside Lord Moreland and Aidan, all three men witnesses to the brief interrogation. Octavia, glancing back at Gwen with a look of despair, seemed unable to summon another word.
To Gwen’s alarm, Lady Moreland now turned her discerning gaze upon her. Gwen fought the urge to shrink beneath it, willing herself to maintain composure. But her stomach was in knots, and the longing to disappear remained acute.
“Miss Gwendolyn Smythe, I presume?”
Gwen inclined her head in silent confirmation, her throat tight.
To her astonishment, Lady Moreland swept forward and took her gently by the arms in an embrace.
“Your lady’s maid is not wrong, Gwendolyn,” she said warmly. “We are most fortunate to welcome a young woman of such grace and accomplishment into our family.”
She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Gwen’s cheek.
Gwen’s eyes widened. She flicked a glance toward Aidan—Lord Abbott—seeking explanation. He merely smiled and offered a faint shrug, as though his mother’s unpredictability was nothing new.
“We shall welcome your babes as if they are our own,” Lady Moreland declared.
Gwen blinked, uncertain she had heard correctly. “Babes?”
“Our grandchildren, of course,” the viscountess said with the ease of a woman who made plans with serene efficiency. “Have you considered names yet? I would be pleased to suggest a number of estimable options from the Abbott line … very distinguished forebears.”
Her mouth parted in amazement. Surely, this could not be real. Gwen half expected to wake with a start and find it was still the evening before the dinner, her dreams having conjured this strange introduction.
This was not how one met the parents of one’s betrothed. Was it?