Chapter Three
“Do not fidget so, Cordelia,” Margaret murmured sharply as the Barlow family’s modest carriage jolted to a halt before Lady Ditton’s townhouse, ablaze with light and alive with the sound of carriages drawing up in endless procession.
“I am not fidgeting,” Cordelia returned under her breath, though her hands betrayed her, smoothing again and again over the folds of her ivory silk gown as if the fabric required her endless attention.
From outside came the shouted directions of footmen and the impatient stamping of horses. Her uncle Geoffrey descended first, his boots striking the pavement with practiced dignity. He turned to offer his arm to his wife, who swept down with all the gravity of a queen entering her court.
“Now, girls,” Margaret commanded, extending a hand first for Priscilla, then for Cordelia.
Cordelia’s fingers trembled as she accepted her support and stepped down to the gasp of the night air. A small knot of gentlemen, pausing in their approach, allowed their gazes to linger rather too long upon her figure.
“Hold your head higher,” Margaret whispered sharply.
Cordelia obeyed, though her skin crawled beneath the scrutiny. Always their eyes, always the same look; valued only for beauty, while my mind must remain invisible.
She schooled her features into the vacant sweetness so often demanded. Wide doe eyes, fluttering eyelashes—a picture of artless femininity. Each Season, the performance grew heavier, as though she shed some piece of her soul with every painted smile.
Inside, Lady Ditton’s receiving line awaited.
“Ah, Lady Margaret,” Lady Ditton intoned, her eagle eyes raking over each family member in turn. “Lord Barlow. Miss Priscilla.” Her attention settled at last upon Cordelia. “I hope this Season will bring better fortune than the last two for you, my dear.”
Cordelia dipped into her curtsy, and for one heart-stopping instant, her balance wobbled. She recovered swiftly, but heat rose in her cheeks.
“Indeed, Lady Ditton,” Margaret replied with brittle cheer. “We are most hopeful.”
Two failed Seasons mark me as damaged goods, despite the beauty they prize so highly.
The ballroom beyond blazed with a thousand candles. The whirl of gowns and the hum of conversation created an atmosphere both dazzling and suffocating.
No sooner had they entered than Geoffrey found himself accosted by gentlemen requesting introductions. Each suitor was presented to Cordelia with the same rehearsed civility.
“You honour me with your beauty, Miss Cordelia,” one murmured as they turned about the floor.
“It is a warm evening, do you not agree?” said another, his eyes never once lifting to meet hers.
Cordelia smiled, nodded, listened to the shallow small talk, and repeated the hollow script expected of young ladies of the ton.
Compliments upon her appearance, comments upon the weather, all carefully avoiding anything that might demand the employment of thought.
With every exchange, she felt herself vanishing piece by piece.
Priscilla, however, fared differently. Cordelia caught sight of her conversing with the tall and genial figure of James Henderson. He was not speaking to her about her gown or her complexion but about the most recent publications in literature.
“And what think you of Godwin’s arguments?” Cordelia overheard him ask.
Priscilla’s cheeks glowed with animation. “I find them compelling, though perhaps a little...idealistic?”
James laughed softly. “Precisely my own objection.”
Cordelia’s chest tightened. He treats her words as worthy. He listens. He values her thoughts. She could only hope that Lady Margaret hadn’t overheard Priscilla’s conversation, for it wouldn’t do at all for her to be caught using her brain in front of a gentleman after her recent lecture.
A ripple passed through the assembly. Voices faltered. Heads turned in unison toward the entrance.
Cordelia followed their gaze and held her breath.
Sebastian Trollope, Duke of Thorenwood, entered with his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, Eleanor Trollope at his side.
The crowd parted unconsciously, as though compelled by some force greater than courtesy, leaving a clear path that emphasized his isolation. The candlelight fell across his scarred profile; terrible damage, yes, yet borne with such dignity that it commanded respect rather than pity.
Intelligence. Strength. Why does everyone shrink away from such a hero?
James, with unfailing loyalty, strode at once to the duke’s side, offering a protective buffer against the judgmental stares.
At the refreshment table, Thomas leaned with his customary elegance, his devastating handsomeness drawing admirers as surely as moths are drawn to flames.
Cordelia, watching keenly, noted the way his eyes followed Sebastian across the room.
Something calculating lurked in his expression—an unspoken recognition, as though his cousin’s re-emergence might disturb certain expectations.
“Miss Ailsworth.”
Cordelia turned to find Thomas himself bowing low before her, his smile dazzling.
“Will you grant me the next dance?”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied automatically, and allowed herself to be led to the floor.
His hand at her waist pressed a shade too firmly, his hold upon her fingers too possessive. As they moved in time to the music, she felt less like a partner and more like a prize on display.
“You grow more beautiful with each passing Season,” Thomas murmured, his eyes glittering.
“You are kind, my lord,” she said, keeping her tone even.
When the dance ended, his hand lingered upon hers, not paying attention to propriety.
“I hope to see much of you this Season,” he said, his tone one of inevitability rather than request.
Cordelia inclined her head, but her stomach tightened as he led her back to Margaret’s side. His departure was marked by a host of admiring glances from other ladies, none of whom seemed to recognize the calculating gleam beneath his smile.
The room pressed in upon Cordelia; the heat, the hum, the endless tide of hollow words. Another partner claimed her, this one intent on discoursing upon the dangers of female education.
“A woman who thinks too much,” he intoned with solemnity, “imperils the very foundation of domestic tranquility. I believe a wife should be treasured for her beauty and lack of opinion.”
Cordelia’s gloved hands clenched into fists. If only you knew how often my mind rebels against such drivel.
Margaret, deep in conversation with Mrs. Fortescue, was blissfully unaware of Cordelia’s struggle.
Now. Now was the moment.
“I beg your pardon,” Cordelia murmured to her partner. “I require a little air.”
Before he could protest, she slipped through the French doors and into the garden.