“You see?” Grace smirked in a too-superior way and waved a gloved hand at her. “Breathe, Charlotte. Exhale.”
“I’ll spill out of this contraption if I do that,” Charlotte muttered, very gradually releasing air and finding it not impossible to do so.
“You’re quite secure,” Grace assured her without concern. “We could hang you upside down, and the only scandal would be your drawers.”
Charlotte glared at her as Annette pulled her to the toilette and began to pull the papers from her curls. “If I were upside down, the skirts would cover my primary concern, so please do.”
Grace ignored her and only watched Annette gather Charlotte’s dark tresses into folds, pinning and twisting them in what had to be the most painful manner possible.
Why in the world had Charlotte agreed to this? She had plenty of fashionable gowns and had ever been one of the leaders in fashion in London Society, though she would never have claimed so aloud. She had certainly never been found wanting in any manner of attire, and yet something had possessed her to purchase several new gowns for her new matrimonial scheme.
The gown she wore now had seemed the simplest at first glance, being entirely white and the skirts holding a gently lined pattern along the length of her. Its only real embellishments were the pearls intermingled along her bodice and sleeves and the plaited satin bands at her hemline, though the stomacher and satin ribbon at her waist secured the object of her stays neatly. All told, it was not particularly dramatic unless one took in the expanse of skin upwards of the bodice, across her shoulders, and up into her hair.
But it felt dramatic.
“Should my hair not be pulled higher in the back?” Charlotte queried, catching a glimpse of herself in the looking glass.
“No, miss,” Annette replied without looking, continuing her work effortlessly. “You will see why shortly.”
Grace cleared her throat and adjusted her white kid gloves. “Patience, Charlotte, and stop ordering Annette about. She and I have worked tirelessly to perfect this look, and your opinion is not needed.”
“Not needed?” Charlotte adjusted her position in the chair, uncomfortable with being rendered voiceless. “Is it not my person we are dressing?”
“Exactly so,” Grace shot back. “We are dressing you. You are not.” Her brows quirked in a defiant show of victory that Charlotte instantly hated.
Well, she could not be expected to be entirely silent while she was turned into a doll of their creation. She was Charlotte Wright, after all.
She picked at her skirts limply. “White,” she muttered to nobody in particular. “I haven’t worn something so abjectly white since I was sixteen. Am I going as an angel in disguise? Where is my halo? Have I wings, as well?”
“You would need a disguise to be an angel in anyone’s eyes,” Grace responded simply, her eyes narrowing as she watched the transformation of Charlotte’s hair. “We’re only making sure we draw attention to you.”
“Because that has been such an issue before this.” Charlotte nodded sagely, receiving a hard tug on her hair for doing so. “A veritable wallflower am I. No one ever remembers my name.”
Grace’s eyes flicked down to hers. “Everyone sees you all the time. We must alter what seeing you means. It should bring you an interesting array of new suitors, which is what you would prefer, yes?”
Charlotte made a face, the reality of the situation staring her squarely in the face without mercy. She did need people to see her differently, needed worthy candidates for marriage to see her in earnest, and give them enough interests to pursue something more than idle flirtation in a ballroom. Her fortune was tempting enough, but any fortune hunter would be routed if the requisite affection were not in place.
Michael could help her with thinning the crowd. He knew practically everybody and somehow seemed to know their secrets, too. She hadn’t brought him around in recent days, spending much of her time plotting with the Spinsters, but if tonight went as well as she suspected, he would have a great deal to do indeed. He’d see the change in her this evening, and she could explain her plan a bit further than she first had.
Poor man might have thought she’d race off to Gretna Green with the first fellow of substance who could speak the word love and have the marriage done by Friday. He’d admire the plan she’d begun concocting; he was always praising her genius, though he usually called it madness for reasons she had yet to comprehend.
Would Michael be stunned by her appearance tonight? Would he be blinded by her luminescence, expecting his usual chum in her usual splendor? He’d have a witty remark on the subject, whatever his feelings.
New suitors. For some reason, her nerves escalated, bringing dampness to her gloveless palms and heat racing up her neck. She had grown so accustomed to her typical band of admirers and their ways that the idea of originality was unsettling.
She knew the names of several gentlemen that she could consider, but in order for any of this to work, those gentlemen had to show interest in her. At least three would be in attendance, her allies had gotten her that much information, but there was no certainty in their interest, let alone affection.
There was a great deal of work to be done on her side, and she had not exerted effort in a social setting for her own benefit in years.
Perhaps never.
What arrogance surrounded her! What airs and haughtiness, a sickening superiority that would likely have rendered her unappealing to any man worth pursuing. Edith was right; Charlotte had never tried to find the love she’d always claimed she was after. She’d simply expected the thing to fall into her lap like so many of the buffoons that had paid homage to her.
Worthless years, the lot
