Chapter 5 Entering Society
If anyone ever tells you Regency fashion is romantic, they are either lying or they have never been forcibly laced into a pair of stays while a cheerful teenager chirps, “Hold still, it will only pinch for a moment!”
It pinches for an era.
“Breathe,” Molly says, hauling the laces with the calm efficiency of someone who has cinched a hundred women into respectability and watched precisely none of them expire.
I attempt a breath. The stays file an immediate complaint.
“That is not breathing,” Beatrice observes from the bed, delighted. “That is sulking.”
“This is me surviving,” I hiss.
Molly ties off the laces and steps back. “There. Upright.”
“Marvellous,” I say. “I feel like a decorative pillar.”
Mrs. Finch appears at the door as if summoned by the sound of my dignity cracking. She does not knock. Knocking is for households without scandal.
“Good,” she says. “Now listen carefully.”
That tone is never followed by anything pleasant.
She holds up an ivory card. “Tonight you are Miss Emma Hartford.”
“Hartford,” I repeat.
“It is close enough that you might answer to it,” Beatrice says, eyes bright with wicked glee.
“I answer to Emma,” I say.
“You will answer to Miss Hartford,” Mrs. Finch corrects, as if she is adjusting a seam. “Lady Hartford’s maid was the one to raise alarm when you were found. It creates a plausible connection. It prevents questions.”
“Questions like…” I begin.
“Men,” Beatrice supplies lightly.
My stomach tightens around Kitty’s warning—men who do not ask.
“Fine,” I say too quickly. “Miss Emma Hartford. American.”
“From Boston,” Mrs. Finch adds.
“Of course,” I mutter. “From Boston.”
Beatrice loops an arm through mine. “And you are my cousin.”
“In desperation,” I say.
“In spirit,” she agrees, unbothered. “Now. Smile as though you belong. Speak as though you have never seen a watch-house in your life. And for the love of God, do not mention spoons.”
“Excellent,” I say. “No spoons. No men. No breathing.”
Molly and Beatrice descend on me with pins and brushes and a determination usually reserved for battlefield surgeons.
My hair becomes an engineered structure of curls and twists; my scalp throbs in protest. A pale green gown is fastened over my chemise, the fabric whispering every time I move, as if it is gossiping about me.
Gloves are forced onto my hands. A dab of rosewater is pressed at my throat.
“There,” Mrs. Finch says. “You will not offend.”
“I make no promises,” I say.
Her gaze makes the promise for me.
Beatrice demonstrates a curtsy—graceful, effortless, infuriating.
I try to mimic it and nearly topple.
“Again,” Beatrice orders.
By the third attempt my thighs are trembling and my dignity has fled the premises. She looks satisfied, which is frankly alarming.
“And now,” she announces, clapping like a conductor, “dancing.”
“I can walk,” I point out. “That seems sufficient.”
“It is not,” she says, and drags me into the drawing room.
There is no music, thank God, but Beatrice hums anyway—something bright and merciless. I count under my breath, trying to convince my feet that one-two-three is not a personal attack.
The door opens.
James stands on the threshold in evening black, immaculate cravat, the entire weight of “duke” tailored into his shoulders. For a heartbeat he simply looks at me.
His gaze catches on my dress, my pinned hair, the gloves—on the version of me that almost fits this century.
Almost.
“Miss Hartford,” he says, and the borrowed name sounds wrong and right at once.
I manage a curtsy without falling. “Your Grace.”
Beatrice sweeps toward him. “She cannot dance.”
James’s brows lift. “Then she should not attend.”
My stomach drops. Of course that would be sensible.
Beatrice plants her hands on her hips. “Do not be cruel. She will dance.”
“With whom?” he asks, polite and deadly.
“With you.”
I choke. “Absolutely not.”
Mrs. Finch materializes behind us like a judgment. “Lady Beatrice’s point is valid. If Miss Hartford is to appear in public, she must not disgrace the house.”
“Thank you,” I say. “So I shall simply remain—”
“No,” Beatrice and Mrs. Finch say in unison.
James exhales, a controlled surrender to fate. Then he offers me his hand. Gloved. Proper.
“Take it,” he says quietly. “You will follow.”
“Story of my life,” I mutter, but I put my hand in his anyway.
His grip is careful—firm without claiming. He positions my other hand on his arm at a distance that is correct and maddening.
“One,” he says, low. “Two. Three.”
We move. I stumble once; he steadies me without making it obvious. The warmth of his hand is a small, dangerous thing through kid leather.
“You learn quickly,” he murmurs.
“I am motivated by terror,” I whisper back.
A brief sound escapes him—almost a laugh, real enough to make my chest tighten against the stays.
We manage a passable set before Mrs. Finch declares, “Enough,” as if she is ending a medical experiment.
The carriage is called. Cloaks are settled. Beatrice squeezes my arm.
“Remember,” she whispers. “Smile. Agree. Curtsy. Breathe.”
“I will do two out of four,” I whisper back.
Outside, London is cold and damp and alive—coal smoke and horse sweat and wet stone. Lantern light pools in the ruts of the street. Our wheels rattle toward Mayfair, toward Lady Pemberton’s townhouse blazing like a beacon.
Inside, the heat hits first. Candle heat. Body heat. Perfume layered over sweat with the desperation of war. Music pours from the ballroom—strings and pianoforte, bright and relentless.
And then we are announced.
“The Duke of Ashbourne and Lady Beatrice Ashbourne.”
A beat.
“Miss Emma Hartford.”
My borrowed name rings out, and a hundred conversations adjust themselves to include me.
Heads turn. Eyes catalogue. Smiles appear like masks.
James’s hand settles lightly at my back, guiding without touching too much. Protective, strategic—both.
We step into a room that shimmers with wax and crystal. Chandeliers drip light. Silk swishes. Diamonds throw sparks. Men in dark coats watch with the calm appraisal of people who have never once worried about being safe.
The air tastes of beeswax and sugar and the unmistakable musk of three hundred bodies unacquainted with deodorant.
So much for romance.
Lady Pemberton approaches like she has scented novelty.
She is beautiful in a polished way, gown pale gold, hair arranged in a tower that dares gravity to argue. Her eyes land on me and do not blink.
“Your Grace,” she purrs, curtsying to James. “Lady Beatrice. And this must be your American relation.”
“Miss Emma Hartford,” Beatrice supplies brightly.
I curtsy. My knees do not betray me. Small victories.
“Miss Hartford,” Lady Pemberton says, tasting the name. “How delightful. We are all desperate to meet you.”
Desperate is one word for it.
“You are very kind,” I say, because Mrs. Finch is somewhere in my skull with a ruler.
Lady Pemberton laughs, pleased. “And how do you find London?”
I think of straw and bars and a man asking whether a vagrant is dead.
“Very lively,” I manage.
“Indeed.” She beams. “You must tell us everything about America. We are starving for it.”
Starving. Yes. Also a theme.
A servant appears with a tray as if conjured. I take a glass of lemonade and cling to it like it is an anchor.
I let myself look across the room.
And I see her.
Lady Victoria stands near the center of the ballroom like it was built to frame her. Soft icy-blue gown. Perfect hair. Perfect smile.
Perfect ownership, aimed at James.
Her gaze shifts to me.
The temperature in the room drops by five degrees.
Beatrice leans close. “That,” she whispers, delighted in the way only eighteen-year-old girls can be delighted by doom, “is Lady Victoria.”
Of course she is.
Lady Victoria glides toward us with a smile that could cut silk.
“Your Grace,” she says, curtsying to James with effortless grace.
“Lady Victoria,” James replies. Controlled. Correct.
Her eyes move to me. “And this is the American cousin I have been hearing about.”
I curtsy. “Lady Victoria.”
“How…unexpected,” she murmurs, as if she has discovered a stain on a sleeve. “One does admire your courage, Miss Hartford. Society can be…difficult for those unaccustomed to it.”
The insult is small and delicate and absolutely meant.
James’s jaw tightens. Beatrice’s fingers dig into my arm.
I smile anyway. “I find it educational.”
For a fraction of a second, Lady Victoria looks annoyed that I have supplied a complete thought.
“How charming,” she says, and places her hand lightly on James’s sleeve—public affection designed to be a leash. “Enjoy your evening.”
Then she is gone, leaving the air behind her too clean, like she has aired the room.
I exhale slowly.
“She is dreadful,” Beatrice whispers, thrilled.
“She is efficient,” I whisper back. That feels worse.
A man appears at my side as if he has been waiting for a pause.
He bows with the ease of someone who has never had to wonder where he belongs. Dark hair, smiling eyes, an expression that suggests he is perpetually one second away from scandal.
“Miss Hartford,” he says.
I curtsy, because my legs apparently have a new religion. “My lord.”
“Lord Weston.” His smile widens. “At your service. Is it true Boston is full of scholars and revolutionaries?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” I say, and the words escape before I can sand them down into something safe.
His laugh is warm and approving. “Excellent. I do so enjoy truth delivered with humor.”
James cuts me a warning, assessing look.
Weston turns to him with perfect manners. “Your Grace. Lady Beatrice.”
“Weston,” James says, and the single word manages to be a greeting and a caution.
Weston’s eyes glitter. Then he looks back to me. “Would you honor me with a dance, Miss Hartford?”
My heart drops into my stays.
Beatrice’s nails press at my elbow. Smile. Agree. Curtsy.
“Yes,” I say, because apparently I am determined to commit social suicide at speed.
Weston offers his arm and leads me to the floor as if this is the most natural thing in the world.