Queen Bee(2)
Author: Amalie Howard

 

Lady Birdie was correct about the patronesses and their asinine rules. The doors were shut at eleven, and no one was let in after the doors had been closed. As if that weren’t rigid enough, there were also the comportment rules and the dress requirements. Even the most distinguished of dukes had been refused admission upon occasion when they’d arrived late or without the proper wear. I fought an eye roll. God forbid a gentleman wear trousers instead of breeches, or tie his cravat without the required number of starched points.

 

The tiniest of snickers emerged as I smoothed my palms down the front of my dress. I glowered with envy at Lady Birdie’s choice of clothing—a gorgeous sari made of loose but extravagantly threaded fuchsia silk that left me with longing. I would have loved to don that! Instead I was stuck in this frothy concoction of a gown fit for a doll, although I recognized that looking the part was as critical as playing it.

 

I was no longer Lady Ela Dalvi, but Miss Lyra Whitley, the enigmatic heiress about to own this season and deliver justice to her enemies.

 

“Are you nervous?” Lady Birdie asked when we were finally ensconced in the carriage and it lurched into motion.

 

I shook my head with forced optimism. “Not really. I am merely interested to see what all the fuss is about. Lady Felicity told me that her come-out was a bit uninspiring.”

 

“She would say that, though she was declared an Original—the season’s loveliest lady—before the end of the ball. It was such a pity she quit London thereafter and never returned.” She sniffled as if the recollection were painful. “Never mind that. It will be a wonderful evening, and you will have a smashing time. There will be tea and lemonade, bread and butter, and cake.”

 

I knew what to expect from tonight’s event, thanks to my mentor, Lady Felicity—or as she was known to me, Church. Stale cake, weak tea, and warm lemonade.

 

“I cannot wait.”

 

Lady Birdie peered at me, her eyes growing more resolute, as if she was determined that I succeed where her previous charge might have failed. “Remember your manners and conduct yourself like a lady. No outward displays of temper or enthusiasm.” I gave a dutiful nod. She didn’t have to worry—I had no intention of failing—but it didn’t hurt to have the reminders.

 

“Stand straight and tall,” she went on. “If a gentleman asks you to dance after an introduction is made, you may accept, but no more than two times and only if you have a particular interest in said gentleman. Above all, do not find yourself alone with any gentleman, or you will see your reputation shredded to tatters before you can say a single word.”

 

Good God, the irony was enough to make me huff a suffocated laugh.

 

I was well acquainted with the kiss of ruination. My reputation had already been exposed to the brutal touch of it and hadn’t survived. Ergo the name change and my current machinations. My younger self, the gullible, green Lady Ela wouldn’t have had a beggar’s hope of taking on the filthy rich and lofty ton.

 

Or Poppy Landers.

 

Hence my elaborate and entirely Machiavellian plot for revenge.

 

In which the first and most crucial step would be to infiltrate Poppy’s circle of friends. Once that was done, I intended to dismantle her inner court, become a diamond of the first water and charm away her suitors—one in particular—then sully her reputation as she’d sullied mine. The fifth and final step would be to have Poppy removed from the ton for good.

 

There was room for only one queen.

 

And that would be me.

 

“I understand, Lady Birdie,” I murmured. “I will not disappoint you.”

 

Too much was hinging on this—my past, my present, my future. The familiar bubble of resentment and bitterness formed inside me, and I shoved it down. I could not afford to be distracted by feelings. This come-out was my due.

 

When we arrived at the address on King Street and the liveried groom opened the carriage door, we descended the steps and entered the building. Introductions were made to Lady Sefton—a pale but pretty brunette—and Lady Jersey, with her impeccable coiffure, porcelain skin, and intense stare. Lady Birdie greeted the latter as Silence—a nickname, perhaps—and embraced her warmly before we found our way into the crowded hall.

 

I took a moment to discreetly gawk at the enormous ballroom, with its huge marble columns and gilded mirrors, already filled with people dressed to the nines. It was a feast for the senses. Elaborate gas lamps illuminated the sprawling space, and clusters of fresh flowers added lovely splashes of color. A small orchestra sat at one end on a balcony, and what looked to be a rousing quadrille was already in progress.

 

Heart humming with delight, I let my eyes sweep the crowd. It wasn’t long before they stopped and swiveled, and my lungs seized as though grasped by a giant fist. Goose pimples prickled every inch of my skin.

 

He was here.

 

Lord Keston Osborn, the Marquess of Ridley, was still the only boy who could make my heart feel like it was caught in a stampede. Though he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a gentleman now…nearly nineteen. Fit, dashing, and sickeningly handsome.

 

He’s part of the plan, he’s part of the plan, he’s part of the plan.

 

The chant was pointless—I could barely focus, much less look away.

 

A broad brow beneath beautifully chaotic dark brown curls led to a strong nose, bold cheekbones, and wide, quirked lips. Even from a distance, his rich brown skin gleamed with health, and that chiseled jaw could have cut glass. He was surrounded by a small group of other young men, but they paled in comparison, especially when those lips parted in a grin.

 

Sweet merciful heavens…

 

This—my unexpected and entirely too visceral reaction to him—was going to be a problem. I knew it as well as I knew my own heart. I’d foolishly been hoping that time had dimmed my memories of him, but three years had hardly reduced those gut-punching good looks or the effect of that smile. If anything, he was even more magnetic.

 

I should have hated him. But hate was a useless emotion…unless properly directed. Despite the muddle of yearning and nostalgia swirling in my belly, I had purpose, and I gave myself the stern reminder that he was merely one piece in this game. My principal foe—the queen—was somewhere else in this enormous ballroom.

 

“So what do you think of London, Miss Whitley?” Lady Jersey asked, peering at me down the length of her patrician nose.

 

Moistening my lips, I looked at her and smiled as though the floor hadn’t been pulled from under my feet. “I love it so far, my lady.”

 

“A far cry from Cumbria, isn’t it?”