Rosalie called promptly at Dudley House the morning after Angeline’s arrival there.
“Goodness, you have grown tall” was her first observation.
“Yes,” Angeline agreed meekly, waiting for a listing of all her other shortcomings.
But Rosalie only nodded briskly.
“Your modiste is going to thoroughly enjoy dressing you,” she said. “I suppose you have nothing, Angeline? You have spent all your life in the country, have you not? Your mother never brought you to town. Having nothing is fine. It is better than having stacks of garments of inferior workmanship and unfashionable design. Tresham has given us carte blanche on the amount we may spend on you, which is no less than I would expect of him.”
“I wish to choose my own designs and fabrics,” Angeline said.
“But of course,” Rosalie agreed.
“I like bright colors,” Angeline warned her.
“I can see that.” Rosalie looked at her sunshine yellow dress with the blue and green stripes about the hem. There was perhaps a suggestion of pain in her expression. “The design and even the color of your court gown will of course be dictated largely by what the queen demands of young ladies being presented to her. It will be archaic and very uncomfortable, but we will have little say in the matter. It would not do to offend Her Majesty. Your ball gowns—all of them—will have to be white, I am afraid. It is de rigueur for unmarried young ladies.”
“White?” Angeline cried in dismay. White was her least favorite color—or lack of color—especially when it was upon her person.
Rosalie held up one hand.
“All your other dresses and accessories may be as brightly colored as you wish,” she said. “You may dress in all the colors of the rainbow at once if you choose. I may advise against it, and I shall certainly express my opinion, but if you are a true Dudley, as I daresay you are, then you will pay no heed anyway.”
“I always listen to advice,” Angeline said, brightening. She was going to like her cousin, she believed. She had not set eyes upon her since she attended Rosalie’s wedding at the age of eight or thereabouts.
“This is going to be a great delight to me, Angeline,” Rosalie said. “I was ecstatic when I gave birth to Vincent. I was pleased when I had Emmett—it is always a relief to have a spare as well as an heir, and I knew Palmer had hoped for a second boy. I was somewhat disappointed when I had Colin and really rather depressed when I had Geoffrey. They are all perfect loves, of course, my boys, but I would have so liked to have a girl. But now I am to bring you out. I was really very gratified when Tresham asked me if I would.”
“I hope,” Angeline said, “I will not be a disappointment to you, Cousin Rosalie.”
“You will not,” her cousin said decisively. “And I am so glad you are not a small, soft, lisping, blond, blue-eyed creature like your m—”
She was assailed by a sudden fit of coughing.
Like your mother? Was that what she had been about to say? Surely not. Mama had not lisped. And she had been beauty itself. Perfection itself. Everything that Angeline was not, in fact.
“Oh, dear,” Rosalie said, patting her chest to stop the coughing. “It is time we had some rain. The air is dry. What was I saying? Ah, yes, that we will go out shopping tomorrow bright and early. And the day after. And the day after that. We are going to have a wonderful time, Angeline.”
And surprisingly they did. Angeline had never been shopping. She soon discovered that it was the most blissful activity in the world. At least, it was for the time being until there were even more exciting things to occupy her time.
The day for her presentation to the queen was set. And her come-out ball was to be the same evening at Dudley House. Tresham had made all the arrangements, and Ferdinand—who had been waiting at the house the day she arrived and had swept her off her feet and swung her about in two complete circles on the pavement outside the front door while she shrieked her protest and delight—had promised to see to it that she did not lack for partners all evening.
“Not that you will even without my vigilance, Angie,” he had said. “In fact, I daresay prospective partners will be queued up beyond the ballroom doors and all the way down the stairs and out the door. Tresh will have to extend the duration of the ball for three whole days to accommodate them all and you will have blisters on all ten toes and on both heels and be unable to dance again all Season. Tell me about your journey. Tedious, was it?”
The days rushed by, and Angeline acquired so many new clothes and shoes and slippers and fans and reticules and a hundred and one other items that she wondered where Betty found room to put them all.
And finally, almost before Angeline was ready for it, the great day dawned. The day of The Curtsy—she thought of it in capital letters—and the come-out ball. Ferdinand might yet prove right, or wrong, about the number of prospective partners she would have, but she was to have at least one. The widowed Countess of Heyward had spoken to Rosalie, and Rosalie had spoken to Tresham, and the Earl of Heyward, the countess’s brother-in-law, had spoken to Tresham, and it was all settled—the earl was to lead Angeline into the first set.
The very first set of her very first ton ball.
She hoped the earl was tall, dark, and handsome, or at least some acceptable mixture of the three. Tresham, annoying man, had only said when she asked that Heyward was a dry old stick, but Rosalie had said nonsense, the earl was a young man, though she did not believe she had ever actually seen him. Which meant, of course, that he might still be a dry stick, whatever that was.
Anyway, it was just a dance, albeit the most important, most anticipated one of her life.
She was up ridiculously early in the morning. At just after seven o’clock she was at the open window of her bedchamber, barefoot and still in her nightgown, her forearms resting along the sill, her bosom propped on her forearms, her back arched inward. She gazed out upon gray early morning drizzle, but rather than allow the inclement weather to dampen her spirits, she sighed with contentment.
Today—within the next few hours—her real life would begin.
She was to be presented to the queen. There was a little flutter of excitement, perhaps even of nervousness, deep in her stomach at the prospect. And then she would be free. Free to enjoy all the myriad activities of the Season while searching for the man of her dreams.
Angeline sighed again, more wistfully this time.
She had already found him once, of course. Except that she had not set eyes upon him since that day at the Rose and Crown Inn and would probably never do so again. It would be very romantic to pine for him for the rest of her life but not at all practical. She would grow old and be a spinster and an unpaid nanny to all the children Tresham would produce once he had finished sowing his wild oats and taken a wife. And eventually she would shrivel up like a dried prune and be nothing but a burden to all her nephews and nieces and great-nephews and great-nieces and on down the generations while she relived the ever-dimming memory of the one meeting she had had with the love of her life when she was nineteen.
It all sounded ridiculously pathetic. And ridiculously … well, ridiculous.
She was going to put him right out of her mind from this moment on. There, it was already done. Tonight she would meet other gentlemen—hordes of them, if Ferdinand was to be believed. Tonight she would begin to fall in love again.
But her thoughts were distracted at that moment by the sounds of a small commotion in Grosvenor Square below her window. She leaned forward on her forearms and peered downward.