White Regency 03 - White Knight (12 page)

Knighton House, London

Grace studied her reflection with care in
the tall pier glass near her dressing table. The gown was fine and her hair was
perfectly coiffed, pulled up high off her face in a crown of golden curls. Not
a single flounce showed out of place. Everything appeared to be perfect, but
the image that met her critical eye only brought her to frowning.

She turned a bit to view her left side.
The frown grew to a scowl. To the right side and the scowl hardened into a
furrow at her brow. It would be a blessed miracle if she made it through this
night.

She was to attend a ball at the home of a
very important society figure, someone whom she had never heard of before but
who, it seemed, everyone else in creation had. She would attend with Christian,
their first appearance together as the Marquess and Marchioness Knighton.
Everyone would be watching, of course, looking their fill at the unknown lady
who had married the man everyone else had wanted to marry. They were expecting
a goddess and no less, a mortal endowed with immortal beauty. They would be
looking for a woman of taste and elegance, refinement and—
grace
—something
she was sorely lacking.

Funny how life had a way of mocking you,
she thought, bestowing upon you a particular appellation and then taking away
any possibility of ever living up to it. Far worse was knowing that her lack of
social polish was a flaw her husband had evidently noticed. Grace had
overheard as much the
very morning after their arrival in London, when Christian had been talking to
Eleanor in his study, charging his sister with the task of transforming, as
he’d put it, “their country mouse into a proper marchioness.”

Mouse,
Grace
had thought, her heart sinking to the very depths of her soul.
What a
disappointment I must be to him.
Later, as she’d sat staring out from her
bedchamber window seat, her arms hugging her knees to her chin as tears trailed
down her cheeks, she came to realize that hidden within her misery at
Christian’s words lay a challenge. She would prove Christian wrong and become
the marchioness he had expected to wed.

Perhaps even a marchioness he could love.

She’d been given a fortnight, time for the
tumult that had erupted following the announcement of their marriage in the
newspapers to settle. Once news of their secret ceremony became known, the
knocker had begun sounding daily, hourly even. It was just as Eleanor had
said—everyone, it seemed, suddenly wanted to make her acquaintance. People she
had never before met sought her out. Invitations and calling cards arrived in
bundles, but Grace put off accepting them. After all, the transformation from
country mouse—ahem,
miss
—to marchioness required careful preparation.

First, she would need suitable clothing,
an entire wardrobe of it. Morning gowns, day gowns, dinner and ball gowns,
carriage dresses, garden dresses, walking and riding dresses. There were gowns
fashioned just for the theatre, others for the opera; some for evening, others
for full evening. The differences between them all still somehow escaped her,
but Grace knew she must never,
ever
wear one at any time other than its
intended one. Along with each ensemble came the necessary trappings—parasols,
wraps, gloves, hats, shoes, and stockings for each. It amazed her that the
acquisition of a mere husband could triple the size of a woman’s baggage.

With the exception of the final fittings,
Grace had yet to wear any of her newly acquired wardrobe. No occasion had yet
come about that would require anything more than her own comfortable—if
somewhat countrified—gowns, made of lackluster colors that helped to
keep her inconspicuous.
No one would dare think that the Marchioness Knighton would go about in
homespun. Bonneted and blandly dressed, she could still manage the occasional
sojourn to Hookham’s without drawing unwanted notice. But Grace knew she
wouldn’t be able to hide herself away forever. The time would eventually come
when she would have to emerge from her refuge of anonymity, face the curious
eyes of society, and present herself as Marchioness Knighton.

Not just
any
gathering would do,
she’d been told. It must be neither too grand nor too modest, neither
distinctly Whig nor Tory. The choice of it would need to be made carefully.
After much consideration, the news, when it had come, had not given her even
the slightest measure of excitement. Instead it had filled her with an
immediate and utter sense of dread.

Christian had informed her of the event in
a manner that was fast becoming custom. He’d passed the word through his valet,
Peter, who’d delivered it to Liza, the young maid whom Grace had befriended on
her wedding night at Westover Hall. Not long after their return to London,
Grace had been advised that her lack of a personal servant would be
unacceptable in her new role. It made no matter that she hadn’t found the
necessity for one through the first three-and-twenty years of her life. A
marchioness—and more importantly, a future duchess— required a maid.

When told she would need to begin making
inquiries after one, Grace’s efforts had extended only so far as to send off a
letter to Liza offering her the position. The lively maid had turned up at the
doorstep of Knighton House within days, bags in hand. Since then, Liza had
become Grace’s helpmate, confidante, and collaborator in everything she did.
She rode with Grace in the carriage and walked beside her along the Serpentine
in Hyde Park early in the mornings when no one else was yet about. Liza
suggested styles in which Grace could best wear her hair and colors for gowns
that would complement her complexion. But more than just a ladies’ maid, Liza
had become Grace’s friend, something which, other than Nonny, Grace had never
truly had before.

True to her brother’s request, Eleanor had
come to
Grace’s
rescue in all matters of society. It was she who had hired the dancing master
to spend hours teaching Grace the proper execution of a quadrille. It was she
who had educated Grace on the various personalities of the
ton,
riffling
through every invitation and calling card to designate the ones Grace should or
should not accept. And it was she who had persuaded the most sought-after
modiste in London, Madame Delphine, to come to Knighton House for a round of
consultations and fittings and last-minute alterations, though it was the
busiest time of the season. Grace would never have been able to bring it off
without Eleanor’s support. Just the arrangements for the gown Grace would wear
on this first occasion had taken nearly a week. They had spent days mulling
over stacks of fashion publications and engravings. After considering dozens of
fabric swatches and numerous bits of trimmings, the gown that had been created
was the most elegant one Grace had ever seen.

Made from the palest sea-green silk
damask, the gown fell in an elegant line to a hem that was corded underneath in
order to make it swing gracefully—quite like a bell—when she moved. The skirts
were decorated in a woven floral pattern with varying shades of blue and golden
threads, and soft petal-shaped sleeves came off a cross-over bodice that was
stitched with gold edging. It was indeed exquisite, certainly not the ensemble
for a country mouse. Its deeply cut bodice however, was causing Grace’s present
dismay.

Grace had never before exposed this much
of her bosom, not even when clad only in her underthings, and she felt as if
she were walking about with half a gown to cover her. When she had voiced these
misgivings during the round of fittings, all three of them—Eleanor, Madame
Delphine, and Liza—had assured her that this was
the
fashion and that
every lady at the ball would be envious of how well she wore it. Grace couldn’t
bring herself to imagine it so—in fact, she was certain that if she didn’t
tumble out of the thing, she’d surely catch a cold in her chest from it.

But perhaps, she’d thought hopefully, she
just might manage to catch her husband’s eye with it, too.

Though Eleanor hadn’t spoken those words
precisely, Grace knew they’d been in her thoughts at the fitting that morning.
She had proclaimed how her brother wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes from her.
She wasn’t the first in the household to have noticed the disregard Christian
showed his new wife. In fact, it was something that everyone in the household
had taken notice of.

A good many times over the past two weeks
Grace had overheard the servants whispering to one another, remarking on how
soon after their marriage the lord and lady had taken to separate beds, and
that the door adjoining their bedchambers had yet to be found unlocked in the
morning. Since the first night at Westover Hall, Christian hadn’t come to her
bed. At first, she thought perhaps he was waiting to find out whether she was
with child, and that perhaps it only required one such interlude to conceive.
But with so many taking notice of his inattention, Grace could only conclude
that there was something wrong between them. The only problem she faced now was
how to fix matters, especially when Christian was so rarely at home. He left in
the mornings and returned sometimes late at night. When Lady Frances had
broached the subject of his absence to her son, Christian had merely replied
that he had business to attend to. Hoping to combat her loneliness, Grace had
thrown herself into preparations for her society introduction, wanting
everything to be just right.
Tonight,
she thought, staring at her
reflection.
Tonight I will show him that I can be the wife he had expected.

Liza came into the bedchamber then,
humming a cheerful tune. “Well, I think I managed to get the last of the
creases out of this shawl. Took quite a bit of steaming and pressing.” She
held it up for Grace to see.” ‘Tis a pretty thing, to be sure.”

Indeed, it was. Pale cream
Kashmir-designed silk, tasseled and embroidered with small trailing floral
cones along each border, it had been Nonny’s when she’d been a young lady, a
gift to her from Grace’s grandfather on their marriage. Grace had always
admired the shawl and it had been among the many things Nonny had bequeathed to
her. Since it had always held such loving
memories, Grace had a secret wish that it might bring
her good fortune for the evening.

Grace took the length of fabric up,
holding it out a moment to look at it before she wrapped the width of it snugly
over her bodice. She closed her eyes and for a moment or two it felt almost as
if her grandmother were softly hugging her, for the shawl still carried Nonny’s
unique lilac scent.

Grace turned with a smile toward Liza to
display the shawl. “How’s this?”

But Liza was frowning, shaking her head in
disapproval.

“My lady, I’d not be doing my
position as your maid any justice if I were to let you leave this house looking
like that.”

Grace looked at herself again in the
glass. “I know. That was my thought exactly. The modiste must have
measured the bodice of this gown too small. I don’t wish to fault her—anyone
can make a mistake—so that is why I will be sure to wear the shawl over
it.”

“My lady—no. If you do that, every
lady at the ball tonight will laugh at you.” Liza pulled the shawl away,
setting Grace’s arms each at an angle. “There is an artistry to the
wearing of a shawl just as there is to wielding a fan. You should simply drape
the shawl about your back, like this…” She set the soft fabric over each
elbow and then arranged it so that it was wrapped just below the tiny capped sleeves
of the gown. The position of Grace’s figure thus, with her back slightly
arched, only made her bosom that much more conspicuous.

The maid stepped back to survey the
result. She straightened a flounce and then took up the heated tongs from the
fire to reset a loose curl from Grace’s coiffure. She stepped back to study her
figure again. “There, that’s perfect. No, wait—” Liza reached
forward, grabbed the high waistline of Grace’s gown and gave it a quick tug—
downward.
Flesh Grace had never thought to expose to daylight let alone to a crowded
ballroom— swelled above the dangerously low edge of the fabric. Liza stood back
with a grin. “There. Now that
is
perfect.”

“But, Liza, I am falling out of this
gown!”

Liza grinned. “That, my lady, can
only be a good thing. Now, let us put on your mantelet before you go down to
meet Lord Knighton. Promise me you won’t give him a peek until after you’ve
arrived at the ball.”

Grace stared at her, doubtful.

“Trust me in this, my lady. I would
never tell you to do anything that I wasn’t truly certain of.”

“All right, but we must hurry. Lord
Knighton wanted us to leave at eight o’clock and it is already nearly ten
minutes past. I fear he may grow annoyed if I delay much longer.”

“Oh, but you are early, my lady.
There is no reason to hurry. A lady always makes a gentleman wait for her.
Makes ‘em appreciate more the trouble you go through to look as pretty as you
do. Gentlemen know that, otherwise they think you didn’t make the effort to
look your finest for them. Ma always said when a gentleman says eight o’clock,
he really means half-past.”

Grace looked at the maid, feeling not for
the first time wholly untutored in the ways of women and men. “Liza, how
does your mother know so much about these things?”