Chapter 1
Ten years later
Marianne gazed out at the kaleidoscope of dancers twirling around the ballroom from her vantage point against the wall. Her eyes instinctively searched for Beatrice and she thought she saw a flash of her friend’s golden hair in the far corner.
She would be dancing with her fiancé, no doubt, both of them enjoying this lavish ball being held in honor of their engagement. A hint of bitterness and more than a little sadness bubbled up and Marianne pushed it away. She willed herself to be happy for her friend, and nothing else.
Beatrice deserves this.
Marianne truly believed that. Her friend was kind and charming and fiercely devoted, and she deserved any and all happiness.
It was just difficult to stand on the fringes and watch as Beatrice achieved the goal that Marianne’s parents had set for her—a brilliant match with a member of the nobility—and make it look almost easy.
Meanwhile, Marianne struggled to get men of the ton to notice her at all, let alone think of proposing.
Without really thinking, she reached to tug at the top of her gloves, making sure they were up as high as they could go. They were thankfully long enough to nearly meet her sleeves, making her less self-conscious about the freckles scattered along her arms.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about the low cut of her neckline, or the freckles and other spots it revealed.
Marianne’s mother had spent a long time debating with the dressmaker about balancing modesty with the fashions of the year, and the result was something that had not pleased Mrs. Kettering or the dressmaker—or Marianne herself, for that matter.
She glanced down at the gown, green gauze with embroidered gold flowers over a cream satin slip.
It was pretty enough, and certainly in keeping with the recent style.
The shipping business continued to thrive and her mother spared no expense to make sure their wardrobes kept up with the ever-shifting trends of the ton.
And she knew that the colors were best suited for her hair, that the green would not clash too badly with the red, and the gold accents would help pick up the warmer undertones, making it seem almost brunette in the candlelit ballroom.
Marianne had even gotten a few demure compliments on the gown from other women, as people had circulated the room making conversation.
And yet, the gown disappointed her. It was stylish and well-made, and nothing else. It lacked the spark that drew your eye to a truly magnificent gown, the sense that the person who made it had a vision they were longing to bring to life. It told no story, and inspired no awe.
It merely did its requested job, to make her as acceptable to look at as possible.
Her mind wandered to the sketch she had done a few nights ago, a fantasy gown she’d drawn for her own amusement. If she’d had no spots to hide, no red hair to appease, if she’d been lovely and fair like Beatrice, this would have been the gown she’d requested from the dressmaker.
Structurally it did not stray too far from the dress she wore now—gauze over satin, an empire waist with a low neckline. But the details she’d added turned it into an entirely different gown. The slip would be periwinkle, nearly purple, giving the dress a richness that cream and white slips lacked.
The skirt would be a bit longer and fuller, just to the point of impracticality, qualities that would have made it swirl satisfyingly when she danced.
And the overlay would be shades of blue, with long draping sleeves caught at the elbows but falling freely over the shoulders, so that when she lifted her arms to dance, it would mimic the shimmering wings of a butterfly.
Marianne lost herself in the dream of that dress for a moment, smiling happily. Then she looked around the room, taking in all the ladies in their gowns. Were they all content with dressing this way, merely keeping to the trends and showing off their best features or downplaying their flaws?
Or were there any others like her, who might long for something more daring and interesting? If she showed her designs to someone, would they be able to share her vision? Or would they simply laugh at her?
Marianne knew it was likely the latter. The reason things came into fashion, after all, was because everyone tended to follow the same direction. But she could not help but wonder if there might be one or two others who also hid their desire for something different.
“Marianne!”
The sound of Beatrice’s voice calling her pulled Marianne from her thoughts.
Her friend was moving across the ballroom toward where Marianne and her mother were standing, practically skipping, with a bright smile on her face.
She was dressed in an elegant pink gown, the color pretty but paling in comparison to the lovely blush on her cheeks.
Despite her bitterness at their disparate circumstances, Marianne felt her heart warm at the sight of her friend’s obvious happiness. She was beaming with joy, and Marianne knew it was not simply because she had made such a good match.
Her parents may be thrilled that their daughter’s marriage meant their family would properly join the gentry, but Marianne had seen the way Beatrice’s fiancé Arthur looked at her. He was besotted with her, and Beatrice with him.
Maybe I should show Beatrice my dress designs.
It wasn’t the first time Marianne had considered it. She had never been able to get up the courage to do so, though. She knew her friend would be kind, but Marianne was still afraid of her reaction.
Her dress designs felt almost like an extension of herself, as if she was able to sketch her hopes and dreams into the lines and colors of the patterns. When she made her designs, she allowed herself to wish for things she knew she would never have.
Beatrice would be kind, yes, but she may not understand.
Marianne couldn’t bear the thought of sharing something so precious and vulnerable, only to have her friend say something like “These are pretty” or “What a fun hobby for you!” Mundane praise that would reveal just exactly how little Beatrice truly understood her.
She had never shown any sketches to her brother for much the same reason. He had always supported her, but would he see how much of herself she had put into the designs? Or would he dismiss them as merely nice sketches?
No, best to keep them to myself.
Marianne pushed all those thoughts aside as Beatrice finally reached her, having been waylaid by more than one person offering their congratulations. She smiled at her friend.
“You look divinely happy.”
Beatrice returned her smile.
“Of course I am!” she replied, voice bubbly and light. “Tonight I get a party all for me, and all my favorite people are here! But come,” and she hooked her arm through Marianne’s, “I want to introduce you to someone.”
Marianne winced inwardly, but kept her smile in place. Beatrice was always introducing her to someone, seemingly unaware that the rest of the world did not match her own affection for such a pale, spotted, redheaded creature.
She glanced to her mother, hoping perhaps she might object, but she just beamed at Beatrice and nodded to Marianne, indicating she approved. She was likely hoping it was a potential suitor.
“Have you thought about what type of gown you shall wear for your wedding?” Marianne asked as they wove around the groups of people chatting at the edge of the ballroom. Beatrice giggled.
“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask me! I am sure it was the first question that came into your mind after I told you about the engagement.”
Marianne grinned, pleased to be associated with beautiful gowns in Beatrice’s mind, even if she hadn’t told her friend about her secret designs.
“Well, I wanted to give you a moment to enjoy being engaged before you were whisked into the madness of planning for a wedding,” she teased.
“And goodness me, if it isn’t the maddest thing I’ve ever done! Yesterday my mother began obsessing over the china to be used at the wedding breakfast, and she showed me two plates that I swear were exactly the same.
I could hardly tell her that, though, and so I had to just guess at which one I was meant to like best …
But let me stop talking about myself for two seconds!
Because here is the man I wanted you to meet.
Baron Percival Harrow, permit me to introduce Miss Marianne Kettering, the young lady I was just telling you about. ”
Marianne realized her friend’s intentions with a sinking stomach. Beatrice was not overbearing like her parents, but she did share their opinion that Marianne’s best path forward was marriage to a lord of some sort.
“The baron has land that lies right next to Lord Belmont’s,” Beatrice was saying, referring to Arthur by his proper title. “And he’s asked to have the honor of your next dance.”
Marianne glanced between Beatrice and Lord Harrow, feeling as though she could see the wheels turning in each of their minds.
Beatrice was picturing a future where she and Marianne lived in neighboring baronies, both of them happily raising families and alternating visiting one another for tea every afternoon. Marianne liked to think such a future was possible, but even picturing it felt hollow to her.
Meanwhile, Lord Harrow was looking Marianne up and down, not even bothering to be subtle about it.
He had blond hair and a pleasant enough face, though he looked to be a good deal older than her.
But what really struck her were his eyes, and their cold assessment of her as they traveled up and down her body.
His gaze lingered around her face and neck, though never looking her in the eyes. She knew he was staring at her freckles, likely regretting that he had let Beatrice talk him into dancing with her. He stared for so long she started to wonder if he was counting them.
She shivered and wished she had some wrap to cover herself up. She wanted to make an excuse and hurry away, but Beatrice was looking at her with eager expectation, clueless to Marianne’s internal torment. She hated to disappoint her friend, especially when the party tonight was in her honor.
She looked back to Lord Harrow and gave a shallow curtsey.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
He finally met her eyes, and forced his thin lips into a cursory smile.
“Yes, thank you for the introduction, Miss Langley,” he said. The musicians began to play again and he held out his hand to her, polite but cool. Marianne swallowed and took it, letting him lead her onto the dance floor.
Mercifully, he was a decent dancer. Marianne’s parents had paid handsomely to be sure she was taught to dance well, but it was a relief not to have to compensate for a partner’s lack of skill.
Her parents had also made her take lessons in singing, harp and piano, as well as French, German, and Italian—fitting her with all the trappings of a lady, in hopes she would ensnare a lord.
“Who is your father, Miss Kettering?” Lord Harrow asked suddenly, breaking the awkward silence between them.
“Mr. Jonathan Kettering, my lord.”
“And his … line of work?” Marianne thought she detected a slight sneer in the word work, but decided to ignore it.
“He is a shipping merchant, my lord.”
“Profitable business, I suppose?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The room felt stuffy and Marianne suddenly wished to stop dancing and seek the cooler air near the windows.
“Many merchants have done quite well for themselves these days. The shipping markets are fickle, though. My own family’s wealth is in land, of course—much more stable. We have properties all over the country and in the colonies, too.”
Marianne blushed in a way that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. She heard what the man was really saying—My family has plenty of money, and no need of yours. Please take your title-hunting elsewhere.
“That sounds like an impressive amount of holdings, my lord,” she murmured, and willed the musicians to finish the song quickly.
You need not worry, my lord. I have no interest in your title if your company is the price I must pay.
Still, she felt her cheeks flush a little.
How is it still humiliating to be rejected by a man I do not even want?
Mercifully, the music was reaching its conclusion, and the dancers began to slow. Often couples would stay on the floor for another dance, but Marianne hoped Lord Harrow would not expect that. As she curtsied to him, she quickly thought of how she might dissuade him from it.
Before either of them could act, however, a man’s voice floated over her shoulder.
“I have come to claim the next dance. By your leave?” Something familiar about the voice raised the hairs on Marianne’s neck. Lord Harrow nodded so quickly she couldn’t help but feel the sting of rejection, even as relief also washed over her.
She turned to face her new partner but the hem of her dress got caught under her shoe. She wobbled and a strong hand caught her elbow to steady her.
“Easy there, Hen,” the voice murmured in her ear. “Wouldn’t do to fall on your face in the middle of the dance floor.”
Recognition flashed through Marianne and she pushed the hand away, looking up to glare at its owner—Frederick Halcombe, the very last man she wanted to see.