Chapter 7
“According as circumstances are favorable, one should modify one’s plans.”
I fiddled with the diamond on my wrist as the carriage bumped ever closer to the Lowthers’ annual spring soirée. This year’s theme was, predictably, flowers. Every gentleman would don a bloom in his lapel, and every lady would wear a dress inspired by a different flower.
I had chosen the camellia, of course. The modiste had done masterful work with very little time.
The gown was made from pale pink silk, with an overlay of sheer organza that shimmered like morning dew.
The skirt cascaded off my waist in round, overlapping layers like petals.
A garland of camellia flowers was embroidered along the alluring neckline.
Altogether, it was exactly what the flower symbolized: perfection.
Despite the confidence the dress gave me, I found myself fidgeting with nerves.
Things with Mr. Hawke were uncertain, to say the least. I didn’t know where I stood with him after his purchase of my painting.
Was he sincere or mocking? Had my temper undermined my plans to capture his interest?
It was like every inch forward with him brought me ten steps back.
On the other hand, matters with Mr. Marceaux and Lord Cranford were progressing smoothly.
I had tea with the baron three days ago and endured a lengthy discussion on ladybirds, which I found more tolerable than other insects.
Mr. Marceaux had called on me yesterday with a box of macarons.
I loathed the gluey French confections, but his conversation had been most charming.
Tonight, my goal was simple: dance with all three of my candidates and, hopefully, spark some jealousy. However, simple did not necessarily mean easy. The last time Mr. Hawke asked me to dance, he had quickly withdrawn his offer. I couldn’t let that happen again.
I sighed and looked at Mrs. Sweete, who sat across from me in the carriage. “Perhaps I should have dressed as a lily.”
My chaperone looked up from her needlework. She wore a soft purple dress inspired by wisteria, which symbolized steadfastness and loyalty. Quite apt, I thought.
“Why a lily?” she asked.
“It symbolizes sweetness, and men often pursue sweet women.”
Mrs. Sweete pursed her lips. “A bluebell would have suited.”
“But those symbolize humility. I have no need for humility at a time like this.”
“Hmm.”
I snorted. “What color rose do you think Sybella will wear this year?”
“I imagine she’d settle for nothing less than red.”
I nodded. “The color of blood.”
“And passion.”
“And war.”
We smiled at each other as the carriage rocked to a stop in front of the Lowthers’ residence. However, when the door opened, it was not the coachman who stood before us, but Edmond Hawke.
He glanced behind him, his posture stiff. “Hello, Miss Weston.”
All I could do was stare. I knew rationally that I should ask why Mr. Hawke had assumed the role of coachman, but I found myself oddly unable to form a single word.
I was too distracted by the way he looked.
He wore all white, from his jacket to his shoes.
Even the buttons on his shirt were a smooth ivory.
The white contrasted against his skin, which was bronzed from the sun—an unusual attribute for a gentleman, but not an unattractive one.
The only color he wore was the green leaves of the white jasmine flower on his lapel. The green perfectly matched his eyes.
Mrs. Sweete nudged my foot with her own.
“Mr. Hawke,” I said with a cough, “has the coachman perished?”
He glanced behind him again. Was he afraid of being seen with me?
“Forgive the intrusion, Miss Weston,” he whispered, “but may I please come in?”
I looked at my chaperone, who seemed just as confused as I was, but she nodded. It was all well and proper as long as Mrs. Sweete was present, even if it was unusual.
An invigorating thought bubbled within me. Perhaps he wished to seek me out to ask for one—no, two—dances with me before any other man could have a chance.
I suppressed a grin and motioned Mr. Hawke inside. He closed the door behind him and sat across from me, next to Mrs. Sweete. She picked up her needlework and got to work, pretending that she wasn’t listening to every word.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” I asked.
Mr. Hawke laced his hands in his lap, his eyes briefly trailing down my dress before darting back up to my eyes. I could have sworn his lips tightened.
His voice was strained as he said, “That’s a nice dress, Miss Weston.”
A nice dress. It was an understatement, but at least it was a compliment, which was more than I was able to obtain from him last time we met.
“Mr. Hawke, why have you come to my carriage?”
He rubbed the palms of his hands on his breeches. “I—it’s just that—your dress, it looks a bit… familiar.”
I stilled. “Familiar?”
“I believe… I have seen that dress before.”
“That’s impossible. I designed this dress myself. The modiste delivered it only two days ago. I can assure you, Mr. Hawke, you have never seen this dress before.”
He looked up at the carriage ceiling as if requesting divine help. “Would it be possible for you to go home and change?”
This time, even Mrs. Sweete froze, her needle halfway pinned in the linen. In truth, I wished she would remove the needle and stick it in the gentleman beside her.
I leveled a stare at Mr. Hawke, who looked like a school boy about to be struck—and rightfully so. “Mr. Hawke, do you purposefully seek to antagonize me?”
“I assure you, Miss Weston, I’m not trying to insult you. I’m trying to help you.”
“Help me? It sounds more like you’re criticizing me. Again.”
“Confound it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure how to put this, but there is a woman inside who—”
I held up my hand, a hot anger burning my cheeks. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from comparing me to other women, Mr. Hawke. Now, please get out of my carriage.”
“Miss Weston, you must reconsider—”
“Believe me, Mr. Hawke, I’m reconsidering a great deal, especially my opinion of you.”
I opened my own door and stepped out of the carriage, not bothering to look back. The coachman rushed over, but I waved him off with a glare. “Next time, do not leave your post, Stevens. Not even if the king himself orders you to.”
The coachman winced, then helped Mrs. Sweete down. I dragged her inside, leaving Mr. Hawke to toil in my carriage.
I stormed into the foyer, which overlooked the ballroom.
The Lowthers’ estate had been transformed into a garden of delights.
Overflowing floral arrangements adorned every corner, and fragrant blooms cascaded from the chandeliers.
Even the curtains had been meticulously sewn with flowers, like a vertical garden bed.
Ladies wore gowns of every color—Mrs. Culpepper as a bright-red poppy, Gabby Withers as a pink honeysuckle, and Mrs. Young as a blue hydrangea.
Their skirts floated across the dance floor like petals on a delicate spring breeze.
It would have been much more enjoyable if my blood wasn’t still boiling beneath my skin.
“I need a minute alone in the powder room,” I huffed.
Mrs. Sweete nodded with concern. “I will scout ahead to see if the other candidates have arrived yet.”
I squeezed her hand in thanks before darting down the hallway, nearly tripping over a spare curtain sewn with flowers that was draped over a lounge. I slipped inside the powder room, pressing my back against the door as soon as it closed. My breath sped up, matching the frantic beating of my heart.
What madness was this? Never in my life had I stooped to pursue a man so rude, so quick to ridicule me at every turn.
I’d let Mr. Hawke’s handsome looks and sharp wit dull my senses.
Why waste my time with such an insufferable creature?
Lord Cranford was too honorable to ever insult me, and Mr. Marceaux was lavish with his compliments.
Why, then, did I crave Mr. Hawke’s approval?
Perhaps Mrs. Sweete was right, and my sense of pride was distracting me from the true task at hand. And yet—
And yet I refused to give up. War was fraught with many battles, and not every one of them was won. Giving up this soon in the game would only prove I lacked skill and grit. If I abandoned the pursuit now, it would prove I was weak. Flawed. Unworthy.
I would not hand Mr. Hawke that victory.
I wiped my cheek, surprised to find it wet, and immediately went to the mirror to correct the error. I dabbed the tears with a handkerchief, then looked at my reflection squarely in the eye.
“You are a diamond,” I assured myself. “And diamonds are the hardest stone. This will not break you.”
Feeling clearer than ever, I turned to rejoin Mrs. Sweete in the ballroom, but she had already flung open the door. Her jaw was set, and her brow furrowed.
“There’s a problem,” she said.
I ushered her inside. “What’s wrong?”
“Sybella.” Her tone was more curt than I’d ever heard it before. “She’s wearing your dress.”
“But I’m wearing my dress.”
“I don’t know how, but she must have gotten hold of your design. It’s the exact same camellia dress, down to the embroidery.”
The blood drained from my face as a barrage of questions bombarded me. How on earth had Sybella stolen my design? Who had made the dress for her? Why had she done this at all?
But that was all beside the point. The pressing matter was that Sybella had arrived first, and if I stepped foot in that ballroom, it’d look like I was the one copying her—not the other way around.
But I couldn’t leave the ball either. I’d been fortunate not to run into anyone on my way in, but there was no guarantee that would be the case if I fled.
I had walked straight into Sybella’s ambush.