‘Your own are every bit as alluring,’ she had returned.
Dorothea had laughed, turning her attention to yet another of Cecily’s gowns. ‘But it’s Cecily who needs the husband, not I.’
The comment had stunned her to silence. Then, in one revealing instant, she had seen Dorothea through Dorothea’s eyes. Despite her common sense and self-confidence, having lived in relative seclusion until now, her granddaughter had little idea how she appeared to others in the fashionable world. To men. Particularly to men like Hazelmere. It was hardly innocence, rather a lack of awareness. After all, she had never been exposed to such gentlemen before. Intrigued, she had folded her hands in her lap and calmly stated, ‘My dear, if you have visions of becoming an ape-leader, I fear you’ll be disappointed.’
The green eyes had lifted to hers in genuine surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean, ma’am? I know I’m too old for the marriage mart and I hardly have the requisite looks for an acknowledged beauty. But I don’t repine, I assure you.’
She had snorted her disbelief. ‘You’re two and twenty, girl-hardly at your last prayers! And if you think to be left on the shelf, well! All I can say is, you’ve another think coming.’
But her stubborn granddaughter had only smiled.
Now, as she saw the small but growing knot of young men around her elder granddaughter, a grin of unholy amusement lit her faded blue eyes. How long would it take for Dorothea to wake up and realise that she was likely to be pursued, if anything, with even more dedication than the vivacious Cecily?
The next morning brought the first of the invitations to the larger gatherings. Initially these arrived in a trickle, but by the end of the week, as Lady Merion’s granddaughters became more widely known, the gilt-edged cards left at Merion House assumed the proportions of a flood. As Dorothea and Cecily were only too glad to share the limelight with their less well-endowed sisters, even the most jealous mother saw little reason to exclude them from her guest lists. Moreover, if the Darent sisters were to attend some rival party then half the eligible males would likely be there too.
Lady Merion insisted that they attend as many of the smaller parties held in these first weeks as possible. She was too experienced to discount the considerable advantage social confidence could give. So Dorothea and Cecily obediently promenaded every afternoon and were to be found at a soiree or party or musical evening every night, polishing their social skills and attracting no little interest. Within a short time, both had collected a circle of ardent admirers. While this was no more than her ladyship had expected, the band around Dorothea gave her endless amusement. In general not much older than Dorothea herself, these lovesick swains were continually vying one with the other for their goddess’s attention, striking Byronesque poses at every turn. It was really too funny for words. Still, thought the very experienced Lady Merion, it was serving its turn. Dorothea was being bored witless, all her social ingenuity being required to keep her temper with her artless lovers. A very good thing indeed if her wilful granddaughter could be brought to an appreciative, not to say receptive, frame of mind before being exposed to the infinitely more subtle persuasions of Hazelmere and his set. Luckily these highly eligible but far more dangerous gentlemen were rarely if ever sighted at the preliminary gatherings.
Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was the most constant of Dorothea’s cavaliers, rapidly attaining the position of cisisbeo-in-chief to the dark-haired beauty. His initial approach to Lady Merion’s granddaughters had been prompted by a chance meeting with Hazelmere. His magnificent cousin had suggested that Ferdie might assist in the squashing of any rumours concerning himself and the lovely Dorothea. It was the sort of thing Ferdie, an adept at social intrigue, enjoyed. And, as the favour was asked by Hazelmere, Ferdie would have thrown himself into the breach had Dorothea been the most unprepossessing antidote. Finding Miss Darent to be far more attractive than Hazelmere had indicated, Ferdie took to his task with alacrity. The result was that within a week a friendship had been established, close to sibling in quality but without the attendant strains, much to the surprise of both participants.
It was at a musical evening at Lady Bressington’s that Mr Edward Buchanan made his appearance. A solid country gentleman of thirty-odd years, he was mildly fair and slightly rotund, his pink face graced by soulful brown eyes at odds with the rest of his robust figure. For reasons Dorothea failed to divine, he made straight for her side, ousting a darkly handsome Romeo by the simple expedient of suggesting that Miss Darent had had enough mindless maunderings for one night.
Miss Darent was slightly stunned. The Romeo, shattered, took himself off, muttering dark and dire threats against unspecified unromantic elders. Mr Buchanan took his place.
‘My dear Miss Darent. I hope you’ll excuse my approaching you like this. I realise we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Edward Buchanan. My father was a friend of Sir Hugo Clere and I looked in on him on my way to town. He mentioned your name and asked me to convey his regards.’
Dorothea sat silent through this speech, delivered in a ponderous baritone. The excuse was hardly substantial; Sir Hugo was a distant neighbour and she could readily imagine the purely formal greetings he would have sent. However, Miss Julia Bressington, a vivacious brunette and one of Cecily’s closest confidantes, was about to start singing, accompanied by Cecily herself on the pianoforte, so it was not the time to make even the mildest scene. She inclined her head and pointedly gave her attention to the players.
Mr Buchanan had the sense to remain silent during the performance, but immediately the applause died he monopolised the conversation, determinedly chatting to Dorothea on pastoral issues. This left the majority of her court, most of whom had no knowledge of crops or livestock, stranded. Dorothea herself was utterly bemused by his unstinting eloquence on the subject. But as soon as the last of her admirers had drifted away, defeated by his dogged discourse, he stopped. ‘Ah-ha! Thought that would do it!’ Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, he explained, ‘I wanted to get rid of them. I knew they wouldn’t understand anything of moment. Sir Hugo gave me the fullest description of you, my dear Miss Darent, but he came far from doing justice to your beauty. You clearly outshine all these other young misses, although I must say I find the favoured style of dress for young ladies these days a little too, shall we say, revealing for one of my years to countenance.’ His eyes had dropped to the swell of her breasts exposed above the scooped neckline of her stylishly simple silk gown. ‘I dare say you feel that in the circumstances, placed as you are with your grandmother, who, I understand, is a highly fashionable lady, you too must play the part. Still, we can overlook such matters, I’m sure. You would feel far different in country circles, where I’m sure you are much more at home.’
Dorothea was rendered speechless by this monologue, which had contrived to progress from over-full compliment to insult in the space of two minutes. Aghast, unable to get a word in edgeways, she was forced to listen to Mr Buchanan’s opinions of fashionable practices, which culminated in a description of his widowed mother’s belief that, in her exposing her only son to the wicked wiles of London society, he would return to her, corrupted in body and mind. Mr Buchanan assured Miss Darent with jocular familiarity that such an outcome was highly unlikely. Dorothea, incensed and close to losing her temper, bit back an acid rejoinder that if London society could teach Mr Buchanan his manners it would have achieved a laudable goal. Instead she said in frigid tones, ‘Mr Buchanan, I must thank you for your conversation. If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with some friends.’ Which, she reflected, was as close to a verbal cut as made no difference. But even as she rose, and with a cool nod moved to Lady Merion’s side, she saw that, far from his taking the hint, the dismissal had not pricked his ego in the least.
By the night of the first of Almack’s subscription balls Lady Merion knew she had a major success on her hands. They were fully booked for at least a sennight and the invitations were still rolling in.
She had started preparations for the girls’ coming-out ball, for which the ballroom at Merion House would be opened for the first time in years. Squads of cleaning women had already been in, and redecoration would soon begin. The invitations, gold-embossed, had arrived that afternoon, and tomorrow they could start sending them out. She had fixed the date for four weeks hence, at the beginning of April, just before the peak of the Season. By then all her acquaintances would have returned to Town and she could be assured of a full house.
As she watched her granddaughters descend the stairs dressed for their first ball, both apparently unconscious of the positively stunning picture they made, she admonished herself as an old fool. Of course, her ball would be the biggest crush of the Season, but its success would owe far more to these two lovely young things than to anything she herself could do.
Dorothea, a vision in pale sea-green silk, lightly touched with silver filigree work, moved to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Grandmama, you look wonderful!’
Hermione unconsciously smoothed her purple satin. ‘Well, my dears, you are both an enormous credit to me. I’m sure you’ll create a considerable stir tonight!’
Cecily, shimmering in pale blue spangled gauze over a shift of cornflower-blue satin, impulsively hugged her.
