feelings with the mask of ennui that Society deemed necessary.
His first chore, though, was to see that Jacelyn got to London. He had the letter to her Aunt Amabel, along with Lord Trevaine’s hints toward obtaining her compliance. Trevaine had told Leigh that his letter appealed to Lady Parkhurst’s strong familial instincts as well as her mercenary ones, the latter fed by the extremely generous sum put aside for incidental expenses beyond Jacelyn’s clothes, servants, horses, and come-out ball. That and the fact of Claibourne and his great-aunt undertaking the day-to-day responsibilities for a debutante ought to convince his flighty, lazy, but generally agreeable sister, confided Trevaine. As for Lord Parkhurst, his seat in the House, his dinner, and a good game of whist were the only things he considered worthwhile, and he disliked having any of them disturbed. Therefore, cautioned Jacelyn’s own loving father, revealing whence she’d derived some of her circuitous logic, Claibourne was to play the trump card as a last resort only. Unwritten in the letter, but to be implied by the earl in person, was the precarious nature of both Trevaine’s health and the proposed betrothal. If the engagement and Trevaine’s heart both failed, the Parkhursts would have the sole responsibility for their impetuous, unconventional, problematic niece. Yes, the threat ought to clinch the invitation.
*
Lady Parkhurst’s letter arrived at Treverly three days later, along with Leigh’s note that he was now en route to Littleton at Stockton-on-Tees in Durham, to convey Lady Parkhurst’s invitation to his own great-aunt. Lord Claibourne saw no difficulties there. He was finally offering Tante Simone a sojourn in London near many of her friends, along with the chance of a great-grandbaby to spoil. She had been after him to wed for years now, and a wife whose dowry would help restore the Abbey could only thrill her. Leigh could see no reason to mention any irregularities about the betrothal—or the bride!
*
Miss Trevaine, meanwhile, was finally acting in anything but an unusual manner for a seventeen-year-old girl. She was thinking about her future, clothes, and men.
It took all of one day for Jacelyn to discover the changes Claibourne had made in her life, outwardly, at any rate. At church that Sunday, she was no longer Miss Jacey to the villagers she’d known all her years, nor that wild Trevaine girl to the matrons who had barely given her a nod previously. Now her old friends bowed and tugged their forelocks, and even the gentrywomen graciously bent their heads in her direction, smiling. Of course now she was a few steps down the aisle and two short words away from being a countess, no matter how she’d done it. She, Jacelyn Trevaine, a countess! Even Priscilla Ponsonby and her mother would have to curtsey to her. That was a heady notion for a young girl, so she practiced her best grande dame looks, sitting in the Treverly pew between her father and Mrs. Phipps. She even tried raising one eyebrow as she’d seen his lordship do, to such majestic effect, until Mrs. Phipps pinched her arm.
Looking around, she caught Samantha’s wink, across the aisle in Squire’s pew. Her air dreams came back to earth with a painful thump. For there, next to Arthur in his high collar and nipped-in waist, sat Priscilla, in high-waisted primrose muslin, with matching ribbons holding silk roses to her bonnet. Her friend Miss Chadwick wore a sky-blue jaconet gown with an ermine tippet, and a white satin bonnet with blue ruching and a large blue bow tied off to one side of her heart-shaped face. Even Squire’s daughters, dressed alike in pale pink pinafores, were better attired than the countess-to-be.
Jacelyn wore the shapeless navy kerseymere with the white fichu she’d worn to church every Sunday.
That was what Mrs. Phipps thought suitable, and since Mrs. Phipps made most of Jacelyn’s clothes, cleaned them, pressed them, and laid them out
His first chore, though, was to see that Jacelyn got to London. He had the letter to her Aunt Amabel, along with Lord Trevaine’s hints toward obtaining her compliance. Trevaine had told Leigh that his letter appealed to Lady Parkhurst’s strong familial instincts as well as her mercenary ones, the latter fed by the extremely generous sum put aside for incidental expenses beyond Jacelyn’s clothes, servants, horses, and come-out ball. That and the fact of Claibourne and his great-aunt undertaking the day-to-day responsibilities for a debutante ought to convince his flighty, lazy, but generally agreeable sister, confided Trevaine. As for Lord Parkhurst, his seat in the House, his dinner, and a good game of whist were the only things he considered worthwhile, and he disliked having any of them disturbed. Therefore, cautioned Jacelyn’s own loving father, revealing whence she’d derived some of her circuitous logic, Claibourne was to play the trump card as a last resort only. Unwritten in the letter, but to be implied by the earl in person, was the precarious nature of both Trevaine’s health and the proposed betrothal. If the engagement and Trevaine’s heart both failed, the Parkhursts would have the sole responsibility for their impetuous, unconventional, problematic niece. Yes, the threat ought to clinch the invitation.
*
Lady Parkhurst’s letter arrived at Treverly three days later, along with Leigh’s note that he was now en route to Littleton at Stockton-on-Tees in Durham, to convey Lady Parkhurst’s invitation to his own great-aunt. Lord Claibourne saw no difficulties there. He was finally offering Tante Simone a sojourn in London near many of her friends, along with the chance of a great-grandbaby to spoil. She had been after him to wed for years now, and a wife whose dowry would help restore the Abbey could only thrill her. Leigh could see no reason to mention any irregularities about the betrothal—or the bride!
*
Miss Trevaine, meanwhile, was finally acting in anything but an unusual manner for a seventeen-year-old girl. She was thinking about her future, clothes, and men.
It took all of one day for Jacelyn to discover the changes Claibourne had made in her life, outwardly, at any rate. At church that Sunday, she was no longer Miss Jacey to the villagers she’d known all her years, nor that wild Trevaine girl to the matrons who had barely given her a nod previously. Now her old friends bowed and tugged their forelocks, and even the gentrywomen graciously bent their heads in her direction, smiling. Of course now she was a few steps down the aisle and two short words away from being a countess, no matter how she’d done it. She, Jacelyn Trevaine, a countess! Even Priscilla Ponsonby and her mother would have to curtsey to her. That was a heady notion for a young girl, so she practiced her best grande dame looks, sitting in the Treverly pew between her father and Mrs. Phipps. She even tried raising one eyebrow as she’d seen his lordship do, to such majestic effect, until Mrs. Phipps pinched her arm.
Looking around, she caught Samantha’s wink, across the aisle in Squire’s pew. Her air dreams came back to earth with a painful thump. For there, next to Arthur in his high collar and nipped-in waist, sat Priscilla, in high-waisted primrose muslin, with matching ribbons holding silk roses to her bonnet. Her friend Miss Chadwick wore a sky-blue jaconet gown with an ermine tippet, and a white satin bonnet with blue ruching and a large blue bow tied off to one side of her heart-shaped face. Even Squire’s daughters, dressed alike in pale pink pinafores, were better attired than the countess-to-be.
Jacelyn wore the shapeless navy kerseymere with the white fichu she’d worn to church every Sunday.
That was what Mrs. Phipps thought suitable, and since Mrs. Phipps made most of Jacelyn’s clothes, cleaned them, pressed them, and laid them out
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