George stared at his appearance in the mirror. “Evans,” he said to his valet while moving his face from side to side. “Something seems off, but I can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps a different waistcoat?” The one he was wearing was a deep burgundy brocade, which ladies had frequently mentioned brought out the highlights of his hair. Vain thought.
“The waistcoat is fine and is one of your favorites,” Evans replied while straightening George’s dressing room.
“Hmm,” George muttered. He squinted in the mirror. “Perhaps it’s the knot in my neckcloth, then.”
“The knot is fine; the waistcoat is fine.”
Blast the man. If Evans weren’t Evans, he would give him the sack for his impudence. He brushed a bit of lint from his shoulder and studied his appearance again. “Nonetheless, something feels wrong.”
Evans finally looked up from his puttering. “Perhaps it’s your smile, Your Grace.”
“I’m not smiling,” George said.
“Precisely,” Evans said.
George huffed out a breath as Evans's words struck home. “Once again, you have hit the nail on the proverbial head. I am loath to attend Lady Bledsoe’s ball this evening. Were she not my mother’s particular friend—having told me so on more occasions than I care to count—I would remain at home and do something more pleasant. Certainly, anything would be more pleasant than dancing with the latest crop of young ladies making their come-outs. I have tried, Evans. Heaven knows I’ve tried. But how on earth is one to have a conversation with a young lady when she is gaping at one in awe—or wishes to speak only of fashion or who said what to whom.” It was bad enough that no matter what event George attended, or had ever attended, for that matter, the room went silent when he arrived, the crowds seemed to part like the Red Sea, and he could very nearly hear the meddling mamas’ conspiratorial words being whispered behind their fans.
“I take it there isn’t a particular young lady who has caught your fancy this Season,” Evans said, putting George’s comb and brush in the vanity and shutting the drawer. “Once again.”
“No. I even made an appearance at Almack’s, if you can imagine.” George waited for Evans’s reaction. The man knew George’s feelings about Almack’s.
Evans said nothing.
“Blast it all, Evans, I discovered this week that my heir’s a criminal, transported to Australia. I cannot bear the idea of leaving the dukedom in such a person’s hands. And so, I have been diligently looking for a wife as a result.”
“Have you, Your Grace?”
Insolence. Nothing but insolence from Evans. “I could only bear Almack’s for an hour, I’ll admit. Almost an hour.” George shrugged. “I ventured to dance with a young lady or two—”
“Well done of you, Your Grace—”
“I haven’t asked for a second dance from any of them. At Almack’s or elsewhere.” He was certain all it would take was a second dance or a gentlemanly kiss on a gloved hand for all and sundry to begin announcing his imminent betrothal to whomever the theoretical young lady happened to be.
“The Season is still in its early days, and I hear that dignitaries from all over the Continent will be arriving in Town at any moment. Perhaps your lady wife will be among them.”
“I highly doubt it, if history bears itself out. Pray, then, Evans, for my increasing and continued good health.” He turned away from the mirror. “I am off to Lady Bledsoe’s ball. No doubt you shall see me sooner rather than later this evening.”
“Try to have a good time, Your Grace,” Evans said.
George only grunted in reply.
Bentley had already arrived with the carriage when George exited the house and stood by the carriage door, waiting to assist him inside.
“Thank you, Bentley,” George said, allowing the assistance, even though he didn’t need it. Bentley was another servant who’d been around since George’s father’s day.
George gave him direction, and they were off.
Lady Bledsoe’s infernal ball awaited.
***
“I expected you to be tired, my dear, and I told Lady Bledsoe that very thing,” Lady Walmsley told Susan as they awaited the return of James, who’d gone to the lodgings he’d previously arranged for during his stay in Town.
“I am a little tired but not so much that you should be concerned,” Susan said, tugging on her evening glove to straighten the seam a bit.
“I do hate to let Lady Bledsoe down—she’s such a dear friend,” Lady Walmsley continued. “Even so, you are most accommodating, Miss Jennings. I told Lady Bledsoe firmly that I would bow to the wishes of my guests. Guest, as it turns out.”
Susan said nothing, feeling the weight of Lady Walmsley’s expectations heavy on her shoulders. Attending a ball on her very first night in Town wasn’t precisely what she had anticipated—or hoped for.
“Your gown is . . . how shall I say? . . . demure—although quite pretty,” Lady Walmsley observed with a kind smile.
If Susan was reading between the lines correctly, Lady Walmsley’s words meant she was bound to compliment Susan no matter what Susan was wearing. Susan’s gown—the only remaining ball gown she owned after so many years in the country—was well out of fashion. “I think we can be more honest together than that, Lady Walmsley, if we are going to keep each other company for the next several weeks. I suggest a better word to describe my gown might be plain or, better yet, antique.”
Lady Walmsley chuckled, and her eyes twinkled as she patted Susan on the arm. “I do believe we are going to get along famously, Miss Jennings. And tomorrow I am taking you to the best modiste in London.”
“I don’t expect you to do that,” Susan said. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“You didn’t imply anything, my dear. I brought up the subject myself. Such fun it will be to watch you be pampered—nothing brightens the spirits more than seeing a lovely young lady fitted out as she ought to be while in Town for the Season.” She clapped her gloved hands together in seeming delight.
What was Susan to do now? “You are too kind,” she said noncommittally. She decided to leave the question of her status as a “young” lady alone at present.
“Nonsense!” Lady Walmsley exclaimed. “You have such exquisite features; they deserve to be shown in their best light, and I am going to take great pleasure in seeing you blossom like the rose you are.” She glanced out the window when they heard a carriage approach. “Ah, here is your handsome brother now. How wonderful that he is able to escort us for the next few days! I daresay we can fend for ourselves, but how nice to have a dashing gentleman at our beck and call until then.”