Chapter One
“The neckline still is not right.”
Emilia stifled a sigh as she watched her cousin twirl before the modiste’s mirror, scrutinizing every stitch of her ball gown. Louisa had a habit of being demanding, overly particular, and generally difficult, but refusing a dress after six rounds of alterations was excessive even by her standards.
“The neckline is perfectly fine, Louisa,” Emilia offered gently, though it was too late. Her cousin had already begun rattling off a fresh list of complaints to the saintly French woman kneeling at her hem.
“What is your vision for the gown, Lady Louisa?” Madame Sorel cut the younger woman off mid-critique, her voice obviously straining to hold on to its usual sugary sweetness.
“For it to make me the wife of a very wealthy, very handsome gentleman,” Louisa tilted her head to the side. “Or a mistress—whichever will leave me more comfortably kept.”
Emilia squeezed her eyes shut in horror, thankful that her aunt had decided not to accompany them today. Before she could muster a reprimand, her cousin squealed and jerked her leg away from Madame Sorel.
“Did you poke me with that needle?” Louisa shrieked.
Madame Sorel pressed a hand to her chest, her expression a picture of innocence. “I am so sorry, mademoiselle. A terrible accident. Please forgive me.”
Lousia merely rolled her eyes, and the modiste looked back at Emilia with a mischievous glimmer in her eye. Emilia bit back a smile. Though she would never wish her genuine injury, it was comforting to know that even saints had their limits when it came to her cousin.
“Lousia,” Emilia ventured carefully. She had spent years learning how to tiptoe around her moods, yet there were still moments when she proved to be entirely unpredictable, particularly when she did not get her way.
“You look beautiful.” Emilia met Louisa’s eyes in the mirror, softening her expression with a small smile. “The gown is perfect. I truly do not believe any further alterations are necessary.”
“What would you know?” Louisa snapped. “You have not attended a ball in nearly two years, and you drew very little attention when you did.”
Emilia took a steadying breath, and her gaze lifted to meet Madame Sorel’s in the mirror. Both women knew if they didn’t act swiftly, Louisa would demand that the dress be dismantled entirely—and they were running dangerously short on time.
Though the official start to the social season wasn’t until spring, members of the Ton had already begun returning to London and the first ball of the year was less than a fortnight away—as was Louisa’s entrance into society.
“Louisa,” Emilia tried a slightly firmer tone. “Madame Sorel has been working on this gown for months. The Beckley ball is in ten days. There is simply no time to remake something that is already perfect.” She held her breath, hoping that her cousin would see reason.
As difficult as she could be, Emilia tried to remind herself that Louisa’s unrealistic expectations and demands were not entirely her own fault.
Her mother had indulged her endlessly after her father’s death, and Emilia’s uncle had been quick to give in to every childish tantrum once he married the widowed Lady Ashley.
When Emilia was younger, she had often wondered why her uncle lavished his affection so freely upon Louisa while the niece he had raised since infancy seemed to merit notice only when he required something of her.
But with age came clarity, and what Emilia had long perceived as indulgent affection was, in truth, Lord Talbot’s way of keeping a firm hand on the purse strings of his wife’s sizable inheritance.
Louisa spun once more before the mirror.
The gown in question was undeniably beautiful.
The base of the dress was a dazzling sapphire blue silk with delicate ivory lace, and a neckline edged with two neat rows of pearls.
Emilia could only dream of wearing a dress so exquisite, but one look at her cousin’s reflection told her that Louisa was not going to be appeased.
If silk and taffeta could be set on fire by sheer willpower, the look in Louisa’s eyes would have been enough to reduce the entire gown to ash.
“I have a solution!” Madame Sorel gracefully rose from the floor and laid a gentle hand on Louisa’s shoulder, turning her away from the mirror. “I was commissioned to supply Lady Charlotte Eaton with gowns for this season.”
“Lady Charlotte?” Louisa’s eyes grew wide. “The Duke of Kenswick’s sister?”
Emilia tried not to laugh at the catlike grin that spread across Madame Sorel’s face as she nodded.
“She could not decide between two very similar designs for a ballgown. So I made the foundation of both dresses in the same fabric, so she could see them when she arrived in town. I was going to put the second gown on display, but I can add the lace overskirt from your dress to complete it.”
Emilia was quite certain Madame Sorel was an angel. Louisa’s mind was visibly spinning, her eyes gleaming with delight.
“I could own the same gown as Lady Charlotte?”
“It will not be exactly the same,” the Frenchwoman corrected.
“But I think it will resolve all of your concerns.” She offered an encouraging wink in Emilia’s direction before continuing.
“The design is more modern, but still elegant. The color is most unique—Lady Charlotte requested the fabric specifically.” The modiste stood a tad taller as she added, for good measure, “It is all the rage in France.”
That was all she needed to say.
After a few more hours of fitting and pinning the new dress, Emilia and Louisa stepped out onto the street with a promise to return in a few days to try on the completed gown.
“I cannot believe you wanted me to settle for that blue monstrosity,” Louisa said, shooting Emilia a glare.
“I am sorry,” Emilia offered. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for. How was she supposed to have known that Madame Sorel had a spare ballgown—nearly perfectly sized—tucked away in the back of her shop?
“I suppose it is not entirely your fault,” Louisa huffed. “I do not settle for anything because I know I can have exactly what I want.”
Emilia said nothing as her cousin strode ahead, chin lifted high, so certain that the world would bend in obedience to her every whim.
Louisa threw a smile back over her shoulder. “You are far too quick to accept whatever you are given, because nothing remarkable ever happens to you.”
Emilia shoved down the unwelcome ache that appeared in her chest. It was the truth—but no one seemed to understand that was exactly how she preferred it.
There was a reason she lingered near the wall at balls, always chose the lesser of two options when given a choice, and refused to ruffle feathers or oppose opinions.
Being invisible was far more favorable than being hurt and disappointed, and she was quite certain she could not survive any more pain.
∞∞∞
The Duke of Kenswick stared down the length of the drawing room like a man preparing to go into battle—because, at present, that was precisely how he felt.
She was going to be the death of him.
Lady Charlotte Eaton—sixteen years old, alarmingly pretty, and as wild as the colt she had once attempted to ride bareback when she was a child—stood in the center of the room in a gown that had him wondering why he had agreed to bring her to London.
“Do you like it?” she asked, twirling just enough to make the skirts flare in a whirl of pink silk. “Madame Sorel said it is ethereal.”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He closed it again with a sigh. He knew nothing about the latest fashion styles or trends, but surely the dress could not be finished? At the very least, not the top portion of it.
The neckline could not quite be classified as scandalous, but with the tops of her shoulders peaking out from the rose colored gown, it was certainly nothing he had ever imagined his youngest sister wearing.
He tried again to voice his concerns, but the sheer anticipation on Charlotte’s face made every carefully prepared word die in his throat. He closed his mouth again, silently.
Charlotte’s face fell. “You despise it.”
“I did not say that,” Nathaniel corrected.
“Your scowl did,” Charlotte retorted. “Quite loudly.”
Nathaniel bit back a smile. If he had mastered one thing over the years of raising Charlotte, it was knowing how to keep from encouraging her antics, no matter how amused he may be by her theatrics.
“I think it may be a little much for your first ball.”
“Nathaniel…” Charlotte sighed, throwing herself dramatically into the chair beside him. “I only get one chance to make a dazzling first impression.”
“Charlotte,” he cupped her chin gently, keeping his voice even. “You are being presented to the Ton, not crowned Queen. It is truly not as exciting as you believe it to be.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes before dropping her chin into her hand, offering him her perfectly perfected pout. “I merely want people to notice me.”
Nathaniel took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to rid himself of the headache that had appeared the moment she entered the room.
“You do not need an extravagant gown for people to notice you,” he mumbled under his breath. She heard him anyway, and her eyes flew to his, a smile lighting up her entire face.
“Do you truly mean that?”
Nathaniel nodded slowly, forcing himself to smile back. It was the truth; she would be the talk of the entire Ton this season—but it was potentially why that absolutely terrified him.
Everything about Charlotte was dazzling. Her pale blue eyes and raven-black hair were an exact mirror of Nathaniel’s own. But that is where the similarities between them ended.
Where Nathaniel was steady and unshakable, Charlotte was wild and untethered.
Her laugh was infectious, and her joy uncontainable.
She possessed a sense of humor that hovered dangerously close to improper for a young lady of her age and station.
She was, quite simply put, a storm in lace petticoats.
She was also convinced that her future held grand romance and sweeping declarations of love.
She read too many novels, spoke too freely, and had already developed an alarming habit of gazing dreamily at any man who dared smile at her—Rosemore Hall suffered an unfortunate shortage of footmen and stablehands as a result.
It wasn’t that she was entirely ill-intentioned.
Nathaniel had believed he was protecting her, keeping her hidden at his estate in the Peaks of Derbyshire and shielding her from the merciless scrutiny of society.
But now, as he took in the wild sparkle in her eyes, he feared he may have made a very grave mistake.
Society was dictated by an array of unseen and unspoken lines—lines that, if crossed, could shatter a reputation in a moment.
Charlotte galloped toward every boundary like it was an open invitation, and while Nathaniel could silence the House of Lords with a single glance, he had yet to figure out a way to keep hold of these particular reins.
“I have drawn up a list.”
Nathaniel was pulled from his thoughts as Charlotte placed a folded paper on the table between their chairs.
He glanced from the list to his sister, already regretting the question forming on his tongue.
“A list of what?”
“Potential suitors,” she replied, looking at him as though he had completely lost his senses—though, truthfully, most conversations with her made him feel as though he had.
“I have ranked them by rumored poetry skills, jawline structure, and likelihood of being tragic.”
He looked up from the list in his hand. “And what, precisely, does tragic mean?”
“You know…” she waved a dismissive hand. “Dark and brooding. Preferably with a mysterious past.”
Nathaniel let the information sink in before responding. “I have been told that I brood,” he said flatly. “Does that make me tragic?”
Charlotte leaned forward, patting his hand. “You are the most tragic man I know, dear brother.”
She plucked the list from his hand, examining it as though it were her greatest accomplishment.
“But sadly, you are not sociable or interesting enough to qualify for any of these other categories. If a young woman were to include you on their potential suitors list, they would have to rank you under unmarried, rich Duke. But if it makes you feel better, you would be at the top of the category.”
Nathaniel pressed his fingers against his temple as his headache came rushing back. “Remind me again why I agreed to bring you to London this season?”
“Because you love me,” Charlotte replied, leaning forward to brush a quick kiss in the air beside his cheek. “And because the sooner you marry me off, the sooner you are rid of me.”
Nathaniel felt something tug sharply in his chest at the thought. Charlotte was exhausting, but the idea of no longer hearing her stockinged feet racing through the halls or her laughter echoing through the gardens affected him far more than he cared to admit.
He knew one day she would marry, just like their sister Adeline had, and he would truly be alone.
“Besides,” Charlotte said, rising from her chair and heading toward the door with an unmistakable bounce in her step. “I only need a little scandal. Just enough to be interesting—nothing ruinous.”
“Charlotte,” Nathaniel called, earning a wicked smile as she turned back to him from the doorway. “What have we discussed regarding scandals?”
“That they are inevitable?”
“That they are avoidable,” he groaned. “If you behave.”
She glanced down at her list once more, her smile deepening. “Define behave, Your Grace.”