Twelve

The ball that was to introduce Cora and her family to Society was held at the home of the Earl and Countess of Leigh in Belgravia. The London Season had officially begun, so a stream of carriages lined Upper Belgrave Street, their occupants waiting to get an exclusive peek at the new Countess of Devonworth. Cora had told herself that this wouldn’t be any worse than the wedding breakfast, and she had thought it wouldn’t be right up until they arrived.

“Are you all right?” Devonworth asked from his place across the carriage.

“I’m fine.” She didn’t know what had given her away. Perhaps it was how she clutched her skirts as if they were a lifeline. She released them and gently smoothed out the delicate silk.

Her family had returned from Paris the day before when her mother had surprised her with an original Worth gown. None of them could afford it, of course, so she had been suspicious of its origin.

“I can’t wear this,” she had said.

“You certainly can, my love.” Fanny had pulled it out of the box she had placed reverently on Cora’s bed and held it up to her. “Look at it! It’s perfect for you.”

And it really was. Lavender was her favorite color. It was why she had chosen that as her pen name. The gown was made of the richest lavender silk she had ever seen. Gold thread, the only embellishment, had been delicately woven through the fine material. Worth gowns were known for their extravagant ornamentation—jewels, crystal beads, and a rich blend of textiles—which made this one unique and all the more beautiful for its simplicity. The skirt was tie-back, which meant it wouldn’t need a bustle and would conform to her slight curves. She had loved it on sight, and that love had only grown deeper when Fanny held it up to her and forced her to a mirror.

Her mother smiled in triumph. “See? It’s perfect with your coloring. I knew it would be the moment I saw it on that model in the shop. Cora, you wouldn’t believe that shop. They bring you champagne and trot out all these girls in these gorgeous creations . . .”

Fanny’s voice faded into the background as Cora studied the gown in the mirror. She’d never owned anything so magnificent. “It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,” she whispered in awe at her reflection. The shade brought out the red tones in her hair, which she usually hated, but this made the color seem beautiful. Desirable, even.

“Oh, good.” Fanny clapped her hands. “I’m glad you think so.”

“How did you get it so fast?” Cora couldn’t stop stroking it, imagining how it would look on her, falling just off the shoulders to a cinched torso to a sleek waterfall of fabric that would end in a slight train where the gold thread gathered together like a sunburst.

“You won’t believe it. I gave them your proportions, and they almost exactly matched the model. They had to take up the tiniest bit at the hem, but other than that it was perfect. With a few adjustments by Monroe, it will be all ready for you to wear tomorrow night.”

“I couldn’t possibly.” But oh, how she wanted to. The very thought of refusing it made her chest ache. She turned away from the mirror to avoid the visual temptation of seeing it against her. “We can’t afford this.”

“You can afford things now, darling. You’re a countess, remember?” Fanny patted her cheek and then set about returning the tissue paper to the box. “How is that going, by the way? Did you enjoy your first days as a married woman?”

“Don’t change the subject, Mama. It was fine. But we need to talk about this gown. Do you want me to pay you back for it? I can, of course, but I’m not sure this is the best use of our funds.” Cora was always conscious of having to save money for when she and Devonworth ended their marriage.

“No, I didn’t mean that. You don’t need to pay anyone back. It’s a gift.”

Something about the way she had said that raised suspicion. While her mother was a good actress, she was a terrible liar. Her voice took on a certain high tone with her lies.

“Who bought it?”

“Does it matter?” Fanny asked, moving the box from the bed.

“Yes. Who?”

Fanny sighed. “Mr. Hathaway, if you must know.” Cora started to argue, instinctively pushing the gown away from her, but her mother hurried on. “Don’t fuss, Cora. He owes this to you. He’s also a guest at the ball. I simply reminded him how gauche it would be if his goddaughter”—this was the term they had taken to using to describe their relationship—“appeared at the ball in anything less than a Worth. People would talk. It doesn’t matter anyway because Jenny and Eliza both accepted theirs, and how would that look if you show up not wearing one?”

House of Worth gowns were the most sought-after in American Society. Owning one, or several, was the epitome of having made it to the top. The newly wealthy were always looking for ways to show their money, and this extravagance was considered well worth the price. The quality and style of the house was so remarkable that even the women in Knickerbocker families had begun to covet them. Cora didn’t know if the gowns had made their way through London Society, but she had heard the Crenshaw sisters mention the house. She assumed they wore them.

The extravagance had been out of her reach for so long that she had never considered she might one day possess one. Accepting anything from Mr. Hathaway was like making a deal with the devil, as far as she was concerned, which she’d already done once. She wanted to wash her hands of him, but he wouldn’t be out of their lives until Eliza and Jenny were married, unless they chose to forgo their inheritances. If keeping him placated also gave her what she wanted, then so much the better. She had kept the gown.

“I needn’t tell you that you look lovely, so don’t concern yourself with that,” Devonworth said as the carriage rolled to a stop again in the traffic. Several footmen were charged with unloading the guests, so they were moving at a fairly good pace.

She wouldn’t mind hearing it, but she wouldn’t stoop to fishing for compliments. He had met her at the bottom of the stairs at home, and she would have sworn his eyes devoured her on her way down. He’d raised his hand to take hers, and she thought he meant to tell her how beautiful he found her, but they had been swarmed by her sisters. His hand had fallen to his side, and whatever he’d been about to say was forgotten as he ushered them all out to their carriages. Fanny and her sisters followed behind them. Harry was with them since he would escort her mother into the ball.

“Actually, you never said if you like my gown.” Maybe she wasn’t above a little fishing.

“It’s beautiful, as are you.” He was back to his stoic self, the words almost perfunctory, so she couldn’t tell if he really meant that. It was too bad their moment on the stairs had been interrupted.

“Thank you. I needn’t tell you that you look handsome tonight.” She smiled as she tossed his words back at him. It was true as always. His evening black set off his tan complexion and gold hair. It also somehow drew the eye to the smooth angles of his face and jaw.

His eye twinkled at her jest. “I hope you aren’t worried about meeting everyone tonight. You look lovely, so that is half the battle.”

“What’s the other half?” That was the part that most concerned her.

“Appearing mild and biddable.” The corner of his mouth quirked with a bitter sort of humor. “I won’t fault you for it if you choose not to do that.”

She bristled. “Mild and biddable?”

“As I’m certain you’re aware, Society requires their young women to be pretty and obliging. They reward those who fall in line.”

She watched him closely. “But you don’t agree with them. What makes you different than others in Society?”

He shrugged. “I prefer to concern myself with different things. Things that make the world better.”

Her heartbeat accelerated. “Then you believe women should enjoy . . .” She swallowed, hardly afraid to let herself believe that he might think women should be equal to men. From what she knew of him, he did seem to believe in fairness and equality, but plenty of learned men would say they believed the same then lacked the will to hold firm to those convictions.

“I believe that women have earned their say. After all, men walk the earth because women exist.”

She wanted to question him more, but the carriage had rolled forward, and when it came to a stop, a footman opened the door for them. Devonworth stepped out and then helped her down. She was aware of her sisters and mother walking behind them, but her nerves were back.

He leaned over, and his warm breath at her temple caused a tremor to run through her. “All you have to do is murmur greetings at every introduction. No one expects more than that. We’ll dance twice, no more. We’ll leave in two hours. It will be done before you know it.”

The evening was basically the same as the one at the house party, except this time the stakes were different for them both. She was his bride now and would need to find at least a basic acceptance among his peers. The prime minister himself would be attending, which meant she needed to put on a good face for her husband’s career as well. Her mouth was too dry to swallow, so she fixed her face in a benign smile and hoped she could get through it all without embarrassing him.

There was a small line when they reached the ballroom, but they were announced in short order, followed by Fanny, Jenny, and Eliza. She had been told that there would only be a few hundred guests in attendance, and it looked like most of them were already here. Some of them clearly took note of their arrival, but several of the groups continued on in their conversation, which she appreciated. Leigh and Violet greeted them, and then they were approached by Mr. Thorne and Camille. The familiar faces set her at ease until they moved on and she recognized the high forehead and stern features of Benjamin Disraeli.

“My lord, this is Miss Dove—erm . . . my wife.”

The only sign of his embarrassment was the clench of his jaw and the way his eyes widened slightly when he realized his mistake. Perhaps it was her nerves, but Cora giggled. The prime minister smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes, but he was clearly amused. “No need for such formality with your own wife, Devonworth,” the man quipped.

“Good evening, your lordship.” Confused if she was supposed to curtsy or not—he had only recently been made a peer but he was a prime minister—Cora compromised and gave him an abbreviated one, which he seemed to accept. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

After a quick introduction to her family, he moved on and the moment was over.

“That was adorable.” She smiled up at her husband. Whatever attack of nerves she’d been under had passed with his error.

He grinned down at her briefly before schooling his features into his usual impassive facade. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean, Leo.” She teased him with the reminder of their conversation on the day of their wedding. She hadn’t actually found the nerve to call him Leo again.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re referencing.” His lips quirked, but other than that, he managed to contain himself.

“Are you telling me you don’t recall introducing me as Miss Dove?”

He scoffed. “That would have been horrifying . . . intolerable, even . . . if it had happened.” He took in the crowd as if looking for someone.

“Is that how things are? We simply pretend unpleasantness doesn’t happen?”

“It’s worked for generations. Why change things now?”

She laughed aloud at that, and he flashed her a bright smile. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and she felt as if they were alone in the room together. It was them against everyone else. He squeezed her hand and pulled her forward to meet another lord. Soon, one gentleman blended into the next and she had trouble keeping track of who she had met. At some point, her mother and sisters broke off and she was left alone on her husband’s arm to face the well-wishers, and she found she didn’t hate it. He was funny when he wanted to be, and charming. He was a solid presence at her side as he showed her around.

Once when there was a short break between introductions, she said, “I feel better about calling you Leonidas.”

“I have no recollection of that, Miss Dove.” He winked down at her, and her belly swirled pleasantly.

They weren’t able to talk again until he led her out for their first dance, Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz No. 1. It was a favorite of the music hall Fanny liked to frequent back home, though Cora had never heard it with a proper full orchestra.

Her nerves returned the moment they were in position and couples began twirling around them. She knew the steps and had danced with him before, but the stakes seemed higher now. Literally everyone who would make up her life in the coming years in any meaningful way was here, and she knew they would be watching.

“Take a breath, Cora.” He kept his eyes on hers and his expression pleasantly neutral. His voice was pitched low enough to be heard over the music but so that it didn’t carry far.

She hadn’t realized she had stopped breathing until he said that and she drew in air. Her lungs expanded and the tension in her shoulders eased a little. He guided them around the dance floor, and she settled into his smooth rhythm.

“Are they watching?”

“Who?”

She didn’t want to look away and lose her count, which would knock her out of rhythm. “Everyone.”

He chuckled softly. “No one is watching.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. The ones who aren’t dancing are drinking or gambling in that salon downstairs.”

She faintly recalled sounds of revelry coming from a room on the main floor as they had made their way upstairs. She smiled back at him. “Do you mean the men aren’t watching?”

His brow creased momentarily. “I meant everyone. Why do you ask?”

It was only at that moment that she understood he really didn’t know. “I suppose you don’t realize, but many women watch you.”

He laughed, but it was more of a scoff. “They’ve long since given that up. Their mamas take them aside at the beginning of every Season and tell them who they are allowed to covet. I have never made that list due to my unfortunate circumstances.”

There was a bitter tone in his voice that she hadn’t noticed before. How difficult was it to be a penniless lord? He’d had power and influence but none of the money that usually went along with those things. “I suppose that could be true, but that doesn’t mean they don’t watch you and mourn what they can’t have. Surely, a few of their mamas would accept you for themselves.”

He chuckled at that.

“You must realize how handsome you are.” If she said it casually, acknowledged it, then this fascination she had with his appearance would go away, or so she hoped.

He gave a brief shake of his head and led her into a series of turns. When they came back together, he said, “I don’t put much stock into superficial things, Miss Dove. Ledgers, clean water, a functional roof . . . those are things that concern me.”

He seemed completely indifferent to his appeal to women, but he obviously concerned himself with sexual matters. The fact that he kept a mistress and Cora had all but caught him in the act had been needling her ever since that night. She didn’t quite know why. He was entitled to his pursuits of pleasure, since that wasn’t to be a part of their relationship. Yet, she had wondered all night if the woman was in this very room. Perhaps she was the wife of one of his colleagues, or a widow. She couldn’t very well say any of this to him. Instead, she said, “What about love? That isn’t superficial.”

“Love.” His tone was disinterested. “A fleeting and silly emotion.”

They turned again, and she took a moment to collect herself amid her unexpected dismay. What did it matter that he was a cynic? She’d had that very thought more than once. Romantic love was a fleeting emotion. It didn’t last. She did not fancy herself in love with him, yet somehow she found herself disappointed. “Fleeting?” she asked when they came together again.

“Yes, I’d put it along the lines of infatuation and sensual obsession. Impermanent and self-indulgent.”

“What of familial love?”

“What of it? Those young women don’t watch me because of familial love, now, do they, Miss Dove?” His eyes narrowed the slightest bit at her as if they were sharing some private joke. Despite how inappropriate it was, she found herself enjoying their exchange.

“No, I should say not, Devonworth.” Only it wasn’t the young women that concerned her. She could not imagine a man as principled as Devonworth would make a mistress of one of them. His mistress would be a woman older than a debutante. Perhaps someone who was watching him at this very moment. She started to look, but he spoke again.

“Before I forget . . . About my speech. I saw your notations.”

She froze, but his hand at her back kept her moving along. Was he angry? He didn’t sound angry, but then it was difficult to tell with him. She’d never seen him in a rage. He was probably the type to internally combust with only an expression of vague disappointment on his face.

“And?” she finally managed to say.

“And you made several excellent points.”

“Oh?” That was unexpected.

“I’d like to talk to you about them later.”

She nodded, but the music was already starting to fade. She managed to school her shock into a neutral expression and gave a brief curtsy to his bow. Harry appeared from nowhere and claimed her hand.

“Will you dance with me, sister?” He looked slightly less rumpled than normal with his hair sleekly arranged and his tie straightened.

“Of course, Harry.”

Devonworth bid them goodbye and turned to stalk through the crowd. Whether he realized it or not, numerous sets of feminine eyes followed him as he walked. Most were probably hoping for a dance, but he left the floor. She knew that she probably wouldn’t see him again for some time, as most of her dances had been politely claimed as he had introduced her around. They were scheduled for a quadrille later, not long before they were to leave.

The music started again, and she settled into her dance with Harry. Although she found herself preoccupied with the idea of sharing her ideas with Devonworth.