L
orelei had no idea there was so much involved in preparing for one’s coming out.
“Stand up straight, Lorelei.” Her great aunt, Dowager Duchess of Lewkes, did not speak in regular modulated tones. She snipped, she snapped, she barked. She was like no lady Lorelei had ever known. She’d even caught her smoking once! Her late maternal grandmother’s sister was a force of nature. A harridan, to be sure.
Lorelei corrected her posture because to disobey Aunt Isobel would entail hours of unending lecture. It was just easier to do her bidding.
“You cannot find a husband with a crooked spine.” Despite her aunt’s gruffness, Lorelei adored her.
“Crooked spine, Aunt?” She lifted her arms, letting the modiste drop a gown of the palest pink silk over her head. It caught at the locket around her neck. A locket she hadn’t removed since her mother had given it to her not long before her parents’ untimely death. “Wait!” She freed the delicate fabric and the dress fell into place.
Madam Bovine set one of her underlings to pinning the adjustments in place.
After Lorelei’s parents’ deadly carriage accident last year, she had done her best to keep Spixworth Hall worthy of Brandon and his current title of Viscount Harlowe. He had been away at school at the time. Lorelei quickly realized the estate was broke. There was no keeping Brandon from the truth, so she’d brought him home and proceeded to school him herself.
The letter from the Duchess of Lewkes had arrived in a most timely manner—just as she and Brandon came out of mourning—informing Lorelei she was to have her Season. The note from the dowager was gruff and, once she and Brandon had reached London and Lorelei realized all that went into having a successful come out, she had nothing but gratitude when it came to Aunt Isobel.
But Aunt Isobel hated Spixworth Hall and refused to put money in the property for Brandon’s entailment. In point of fact, Lorelei would go so far as to say Aunt Isobel hated men in general. A thought that went through Lorelei’s head on a regular basis. At the age of ten and nine, Lorelei wasn’t so sure she was ready to marry.
“What the devil are you quivering about, gel?” Aunt Isobel had no use for indirect language. “Madam Bovine, are you not finished yet? We have many other stops to make.”
“Of course, your grace.”
Lorelei hid a grin as Madam Bovine went on to add the sheerest East Indian muslin over the pink silk and went about adjusting the overdress. It would be worse for the madam if the gown was not perfect, and she apparently realized this. This dress was designed to set the precedent for the rest of Lorelei’s first season.
Mesmerized by the hundreds of candles lighting the ballroom. Lorelei had never seen such splendor. Mama had talked of such enchantment but, after her death, Lorelei had believed her hopes of attending balls and routs were dashed forever.
She and Aunt Isobel were immediately approached by their hostess, Lady Martindale.
“Oh, you are lovely, my dear,” Lady Martindale said. She had a kind, genteel face, dark hair piled high on her head, and sharp wide green eyes. Lorelei was almost certain she detected diamonds sparkling throughout her hair. She took Lorelei’s hands and ran a critical eye over her. “You’ll do very nicely.”
Her words raked over Lorelei’s skin, and she lifted her chin. “Thank you, Lady Martindale.” She leaned in and whispered fiercely to her aunt. “Am I a cow at market?” For which she was rewarded with a quick thwap of Aunt Isobel’s fan across her gloved knuckles.
Lady Martindale took Lorelei’s arm. “Come along, dear. I wish to introduce you.”
Lady Faulk.
Lady Peachornsby.
Lady Ingleby.
Lady Dankworth.
The names went on until Lorelei’s head ached. Her posture was perfect, by the heavens, her smile slight and anchored in place. How could it be otherwise when the life was squeezed out of her by the torturous device of a well-tightened corset?
The lights in the ballroom took on an odd flickering as she tried to draw in a breath. So many candles, so much heat, so… little… air…