Chapter 1 - Dahlia
CHAPTER ONE- DAHLIA
Lady Barnes’s morning room was drenched in pale shades of pink.
The scent of rosewater perfume and a strong Earl Grey tea lingered in the room.
Though there were still nearly six weeks before the official start of the London Season, Dahlia sat perched upon a pastel silk brocade settee in a grouping that contained some of the most fashionable ladies in all of London society.
It was, in fact, fashion and not friendship that saw Dahlia included in the group.
Although she might have been excluded as this was to be her fourth Season, her sisters had married exceedingly well.
Against all the odds of their birth, theirs had become one of the most well-connected families in all of England.
Besides, Dahlia’s presence added to the general loveliness of the aesthetic.
Today, Dahlia's dress was a beautiful lavender silk-satin.
The crystal chandelier above sent shimmers of light across the glowing fabric.
The lace trim was braided through with a darker purple ribbon.
Grey pearls dangled at her earlobes, and her lace gloves had a matching purple bow.
With a glance, one could quickly ascertain that the entire ensemble had been ordered as a set.
In fact, every outfit Dahlia ever wore was planned meticulously from head to toe before she donned it.
She would no sooner buy a gown without a matching underskirt, bonnet, and pelisse than she would step out her door wearing only her nightgown.
Miss Nora Bates’s eyes twinkled with unspoken gossip. "You’ll never guess what my brother Henry said at the breakfast table this morning. He was at the Black Raven last night, and he saw the Marquess of Beaufort being led to a private room."
This was news. Dahlia's ears perked up. One of the things that made this group even close to bearable at the moment was that one of their primary members had absconded to the countryside for the shocking reason of chasing down her former betrothed.
Though Miss Daisy Knope was not currently in attendance, her presence lingered at the corners of the room like so much foul-smelling smoke.
“If he's back in the city, it's only a matter of time before Daisy returns as well.”
Dahlia privately agreed. Daisy had told everyone she was going to the seaside for her health.
At first it had appeared as if she were trying to gain distance from the scandal of her cancelled engagement.
Though publicly it had been her choice, Dahlia had it on excellent authority that it was the gentleman who had called it off.
Rumors of that nature had been swirling ever since.
It didn't help matters when reports arrived that claimed Daisy had absconded not to the seaside as previously claimed, but to the countryside where the marquess had a country home. She was staying with some distant relatives there, hoping to happen upon him in the village.
Dahlia winced internally. It was a sad day indeed when a young lady chased a gentleman who didn't want her.
"Well, of course she's returning to London soon," Nora sniffed. "The Season is about to start."
Dahlia had to smile at that. For all of Nora's faults, she apparently was a loyal friend where Daisy was concerned. If only Nora had bestowed her loyalty upon someone more deserving.
Dahlia mentally shaded in a bit of lace at the cuffs of Miss Samantha Dixon’s gown, thinking that it should be fine Point d'Alencon lace with a delicate eyelash fringe. And it must be off-white, as Samantha had cream skin and blonde hair—a pure white would be too stark against her features.
When she blinked herself free of her momentary reverie, she found the conversation had moved on without her.
"It's true," Miss Carmine Fletcher was saying. She nodded, sending her blonde ringlets bouncing. "I saw them myself, the four eldest, back in the city."
“Good heavens. The four eldest? How many of them are there?” Lady Barnes said, eyes wide with the delight of a scandal.
“Eight of them. Plus the two boys.”
This last was said with great relish, as if there were something inherently shocking about a prodigious family.
Nora leaned forward. "I hear all the sisters are to be presented at once."
“Certainly not," Miss Arlina Watson said. "It would be like a baker trying to sell yesterday's buns for half price."
“Only the four eldest are to be presented. The youngest remain in France.”
“Didn’t the eldest of them already have a Season?”
“Indeed.” Carmine’s large green eyes were rounded. “Nearly four years ago. She’s never shown herself in a ballroom since.”
“I suppose her first Season didn’t take. That happens sometimes.” Lady Barnes shrugged, resting her gold-rimmed teacup so gently upon her saucer that it didn’t make a clink. “I hardly think that the addition of three of her sisters will help her endeavors, however.”
Dahlia was as curious as the rest of the ton where the Preston ladies had been the past few years.
The facts were plain: four years ago, Miss Claire Preston had been presented—the same year Dahlia had, actually.
Claire had enjoyed a single Season, where she was relatively well received.
Rumor had it that Claire had even been on the cusp of a good match and then, suddenly…
"Poof!" Nora said, her feathers waggling atop her head as if they were as agog as their owner. "They were gone. Just like that."
Dahlia privately thought that feathers shouldn't be worn in one’s hair before dinner time. Feathers might be added to a sharp hat during the daytime, but feathers directly in the hair felt coarse and too attention-seeking.
Dahlia had heard the conjectures whispered in the wallpapered drawing rooms the same everyone else had.
The rumors of the Preston Misses were intriguing, although she didn't believe some of the more outlandish theories—for example, that the two eldest had been wed and widowed already, and that's how the family's fortunes had been restored.
As if on cue, Carmine said, "I heard they travelled to America, where they each snagged a shipping magnate."
"Tradesmen?" Lady Barnes wrinkled her nose. "How vulgar."
Dahlia's cultured eyebrow tremored with her effort to keep it in place.
She'd never understood the nobility's distaste for trade.
It was an honest living, but the ton believed there was a firm delineation between the nobles and tradespeople.
It was as if they'd drawn a line—that line being which side of the shop counter one stood on.
Idiotic at best, Dahlia thought. If vulgarity was determined by the amount of time one spent in a shop, these women would be thought coarse beyond repair.
There were so many rules and conventions in noble society that Dahlia didn't quite understand or ascribe to.
While some of her set turned their noses up at American ingenuity, Dahlia was impressed instead.
It intrigued her that some people were resourceful and intelligent enough to raise their own standing without any title at all.
Though she could understand why this was intimidating to the ton—who had done nothing at all to earn their titles except for being born—Dahlia didn’t share in their very nearly allergic reaction to anything related to that kind of self-engineered prosperity.
"I hear that's why they have so many unique gowns." Arlina’s eyes flicked around the room as if testing support for her words. At the encouragement of titillated silence, she continued, "That's why they now wear silk none of us have access to—they're from the Americas."
At this statement, Dahlia found it challenging to control her eyebrows, indeed.
Everyone who'd done any sort of study on the subject knew that silk originated in China, and was now widely cultivated there and in India, not America.
Mainly because silkworms ate mulberry leaves, which were difficult to grow without a particular climate.
But Dahlia also knew it was jealousy that often fueled this sort of rumor. The Misses Preston had been well out of sight and out of competition these past few years. Now they were back—four of them, all at once—and all dressed as if they'd sprung forth from a French fashion plate.
The ladies in Lady Barnes’s sitting room were nervous, and understandably so.
Competition had been tight even before the four Preston Misses were set to come charging onto the marriage mart.
Eligible dukes were very low on the ground, now that the Duke of Devonshire and the Duke of Canterbury had been snatched from these ladies' grasping talons.
"I heard it was something far more nefarious than that," Nora said, her voice canted low to add suspense. She didn't even bother waiting for approval before plunging into the squalid waters of rumor. "I heard they didn't marry at all, that they took positions, and regained their fortunes that way."
"Positions?" Lady Abigail Graham frowned. "What do you mean? Like governesses and maids and whatnot?”
“Don't be silly. Lily Preston wore a silk taffeta day dress trimmed with Brussels lace yesterday. I saw the gown myself; there's no possibility a lady's maid or an elderly’s companion could afford it."
"Of course not," Nora snapped. "But I heard that once they were in those positions, they set about blackmailing the families."
There were pinched expressions and delicately wrinkled noses all around. Nora’s theory was as wobbly as a poorly set custard—it hadn't impressed the group.
"What’s blackmail?" Samantha asked.
"Imagine not knowing what blackmail is." Nora tittered.
No one bothered to answer Samantha’s question; Dahlia suspected no one wanted to attempt a definition and get it wrong.
"The Preston sisters are all quite lovely," Dahlia said, trying to stem the bleeding.