A small animal moved through the brush somewhere in the distance, setting the leaves rustling. Lord Brightstone shifted his weight from one foot to another. “My mother has been displeased with my lack of courtship. I thought perhaps you might offer some suggestions.”
If Hannah’s cheeks were warm before, they were on fire now.
Heavens, but she was a dolt. A daydreaming ninny who ought to know her place in this cruel society by now. “I’m hardly one to give advice in the ways of courtship as I’ve never had a suitor myself.” Saying it aloud made the admission even more pathetic.
He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “My mother thinks highly of your fashion sense.”
“Does she?” This conversation did not lack surprises. Hannah had always assumed Lady Brightstone detested her.
“She also thinks little of my own.” His glanced down to examine his tea-colored shirt and brown waistcoat and jacket. “I am in sore need of aid.” He regarded her once more, his blue eyes meeting hers beneath his overlong blond waves. “I thought perhaps you might be willing to take pity on an unfashionable wretch like me.” He winced. “Without turning me into a foppish dandy, please.”
Hannah had to chuckle at that. Even if she wanted to, Lord Brightstone could never become a dandy. His personality was too somber for something so bold.
“And you seem very kind.” He shrugged shyly.
Kind. She almost groaned. Kindness was seemingly her one good trait as it was an attribute that she’d heard mentioned previously in regard to her person.
Other women were beautiful or talented or delicate. She was kind.
And had a good fashion sense, according to the sharp eye—and judgement—of Lady Brightstone. How could Hannah say no?
She nodded. “Of course, I can help you.”
The earl released a breath of relief. “I appreciate your aid more than I can say.” He held his hands out to the side, putting himself at the mercy of her assessment. “What can I do to improve?”
Hannah preferred not to look at others critically. Not when she herself had been the subject of scrutiny for so many years. Instead, she took his words to heart to inspect what might be improved upon rather than simply stating what was wrong.
“Your hair will need a trim,” she mused. Though it was regretful when his wavy locks seemed as if they would feel silky soft, and the cut seemed to fit the shape of his face. But fashion didn’t care for shapes, only conformity.
Lord Brightstone chuckled. “My valet will be delighted as he’s been after me about trimming my hair for at least a fortnight now.”
“Your cravat can be tighter, and your shirt points higher,” she suggested.
“Ah, yes.” His fingertips brushed the loose bundle of silk messily pinned at his throat. “I take ownership of this faux pas as I have a penchant for loosening the thing. It always leaves me feeling as though I’m being strangled.”
“Perhaps the Mail Coach might be best?” The knot was as simple as a cravat could be without any jutting fabric propelling along the sides of the neck.
“I shall inform my valet at once,” Lord Brightstone vowed.
“Though you possibly will want all of your garments to be more closely fitting.” She skimmed his brown jacket with her gaze and walked around him in contemplation, noting the elbows were worn nearly through. “And breeches haven’t been in fashion for day wear for some time.” She indicated his pants. “Unless they’re buckskin, which you would do well to procure at least one pair. Pair it with a dark wool coat, I think.”
She tilted her head, imagining him dressed in the outfit and beginning to enjoy herself. “Oh, yes, very much so. Navy.”
It was almost like dressing up dolls when she was a girl, but instead of a toy, her subject was a handsome grown man who would be made all the more dashing from her instruction.
“You need more tightly fit trousers and pantaloons,” she said excitedly.
“Pantaloons?” Lord Brightstone wrinkled his nose. “Even the name sounds absurd.”
“Yes, pantaloons. And have several jackets made in the new military fashion with blue wool or silk or velvet and gold buttons throughout. It will become you very nicely.”
“Is that all?” he asked dryly.
“And a topper.”
He arched a brow. Or at least she thought he did beneath his thick hair. “A topper?”
“Yes, fine silk top hats. They’re grand with evening attire and with greatcoats that are also all the rage.” She spoke with finality. “You definitely need a topper. And perhaps a cane.”
“I can walk unaided on my own, thank you.”
“Not for assistance in walking, but for show,” she explained. “Or perhaps a pocket watch and fob?”
“A pocket watch would suit me. And I shall purchase a topper.” He bowed to her. “Thank you for your time and for sharing your expertise.”
“Of course.” Hannah smiled at him, genuinely glad to have provided him counsel.
“I bid you a good day and wish you safe travels to London for the upcoming season.” With that, he took his leave.
Hannah remained where she stood a moment longer, watching as he departed, her ruined bonnet at her side and her broken dreams in pieces within her heart.
London.
She and her parents were to leave the following week for the beginning of yet another season, for another opportunity to be rejected. Another reminder of her ineptitude.
At least, if nothing else, she might have offered someone else a fighting chance, even as her own was already lost.
3
February 1816
London, England
* * *
London was bitterly cold and abysmally dreary. More so than usual. Hannah stood on the small stool in Madame Bannery’s while the modiste moved around her in halting pauses. The woman’s dark head was bent over the careful work, pins tucked neatly between her lips as she hemmed Hannah’s new ballgown.
Goosebumps prickled over her bare arms, but she didn’t voice her discomfort, not when Madame Bannery’s girl had already added a fresh log to the fire moments before.
“I expect this will be your season, Hannah.” Lady Westwich carefully inspected a length of yellow Spitalfields silk with a moss-green and royal-blue floral pattern across its edge. “I can feel it.”
Most likely, what Lady Westwich felt was the remnants of her toast points from that morning, which never failed to give her a touch of dyspepsia.
Hannah acted as though she had not heard her mother.
“Did you hear me, Hannah?” The baroness turned pointedly to her. “This is going to be your season.”
If Hannah could properly breathe in the pinned garment, she might have sighed. Fear of being stabbed by the pins holding the fabric in place, however, had her squelching the reaction.
“Yes, Mother.”
Lady Westwich did sigh. “Don’t patronize me with platitudes, daughter. I have it on good authority we are to be invited to the opening ball at Ranford Place.” Her mother beamed, clearly proud of herself. “Lord Ranford.” The man’s name was said slowly, as if Hannah was simpleminded, followed by a suggested raising of the baroness’s light brows.