say and act upon.
Even her hesitation worked to her advantage, as the Countess of Fairmont, sitting beside her, offered Lady Devonlea what she fully believed to be the correct answer. “Mrs. Sanderson’s mother and I never actually had the pleasure of meeting, for I left the palace the year before she arrived.”
Though in her middle years, Laurel’s social patroness was nonetheless a stunning woman, with glossy dark hair only slightly threaded with silver. Faint lines fanned from the countess’s slanting gray eyes as she covered Laurel’s hand with her own and gave a squeeze. “Apparently your mother was a great favorite of the household. I do wish I had known her.”
As the coach turned the corner onto Bennett Street, the vehicle fell in behind a host of costly carriages rumbling along the cobbled street. Laurel peeked out at the elegantly attired guests making their way toward the Palladian facade of the Assembly Rooms and listened to their animated banter.
Her fingers clenched and unclenched around her reticule as she anticipated the next several hours. She had little inkling of what to expect, for she had never before attended a ball, much less in borrowed clothes and under an assumed name—Mrs. Edgar Sanderson, lately from the village of . . . oh yes, of Fernhurst, in the county of Hampshire.
Recruiting her sisters’ help, she had practiced dance steps all the previous week. Should she happen to step on a gentleman’s foot, he would, with any luck, attribute her lack of skill to her having spent the past two years in seclusion, mourning the death of her “husband.”
The carriage pulled into an empty space at the curbside. When the footman opened the door, Lady Fairmont slid over to allow the tall, red- haired fellow to hand her down. Lady Devonlea went next, and Laurel followed suit, resisting her natural inclination to step down on her own initiative. Ladies, after all, never descended from carriages unassisted.
The doors to the building’s columned portico opened onto a bombardment of colors and textures, faces and voices. Soaring ceilings, carved pillars, and a dizzying array of candelabra made Laurel giddy with nervous excitement.
Breathe. Relax. Believe in the role you are playing.
“Ah, Lady Fairmont. Lady Devonlea. How splendid of you both to grace our assembly tonight.”
An elderly gentleman with graying muttonchops and a shaggy mustache bowed smartly over the ladies’ hands. With a tap of his heels he straightened. Through silver-rimmed spectacles, his gaze lit on Laurel. “I see you have brought a charming new friend.”
Lady Fairmont drew Laurel closer. “Mrs. Sanderson, I should like you to meet Major Calvin Melrose, a dear old friend of my husband’s and master of ceremonies here at the Upper Rooms. Major, Mrs. Edgar Sanderson.”
“Enchanted, madam, enchanted.” His practiced eye appraised her tawny silks, pausing only briefly on the jet brooch pinned to her bodice to signify a lingering sentiment of mourning. Apparently satisfied, he raised her hand and kissed it. “Now let us see, to whom shall I introduce you first? You do mean to dance tonight, Mrs. Sanderson, do you not?”
“She most certainly does,” Lady Devonlea supplied before Laurel had the chance to answer. “Mrs. Sanderson is most accomplished in the art of dancing.”
Laurel swung a startled look in the woman’s direction, then sent another through the expansive archway into the ballroom where countless couples moved in flawless rhythm.
“That might have been a bit of an exaggeration,” Laurel whispered to the viscountess as Major Melrose escorted them into the brilliantly lit ballroom.
“You shall thank me later,” the viscountess whispered back. “To have indicated otherwise would have consigned you to a host of ungainly partners.”
Laurel sighed. If she hadn’t already learned her lesson about the foolishness of making wishes, she would certainly have wished this night long
Even her hesitation worked to her advantage, as the Countess of Fairmont, sitting beside her, offered Lady Devonlea what she fully believed to be the correct answer. “Mrs. Sanderson’s mother and I never actually had the pleasure of meeting, for I left the palace the year before she arrived.”
Though in her middle years, Laurel’s social patroness was nonetheless a stunning woman, with glossy dark hair only slightly threaded with silver. Faint lines fanned from the countess’s slanting gray eyes as she covered Laurel’s hand with her own and gave a squeeze. “Apparently your mother was a great favorite of the household. I do wish I had known her.”
As the coach turned the corner onto Bennett Street, the vehicle fell in behind a host of costly carriages rumbling along the cobbled street. Laurel peeked out at the elegantly attired guests making their way toward the Palladian facade of the Assembly Rooms and listened to their animated banter.
Her fingers clenched and unclenched around her reticule as she anticipated the next several hours. She had little inkling of what to expect, for she had never before attended a ball, much less in borrowed clothes and under an assumed name—Mrs. Edgar Sanderson, lately from the village of . . . oh yes, of Fernhurst, in the county of Hampshire.
Recruiting her sisters’ help, she had practiced dance steps all the previous week. Should she happen to step on a gentleman’s foot, he would, with any luck, attribute her lack of skill to her having spent the past two years in seclusion, mourning the death of her “husband.”
The carriage pulled into an empty space at the curbside. When the footman opened the door, Lady Fairmont slid over to allow the tall, red- haired fellow to hand her down. Lady Devonlea went next, and Laurel followed suit, resisting her natural inclination to step down on her own initiative. Ladies, after all, never descended from carriages unassisted.
The doors to the building’s columned portico opened onto a bombardment of colors and textures, faces and voices. Soaring ceilings, carved pillars, and a dizzying array of candelabra made Laurel giddy with nervous excitement.
Breathe. Relax. Believe in the role you are playing.
“Ah, Lady Fairmont. Lady Devonlea. How splendid of you both to grace our assembly tonight.”
An elderly gentleman with graying muttonchops and a shaggy mustache bowed smartly over the ladies’ hands. With a tap of his heels he straightened. Through silver-rimmed spectacles, his gaze lit on Laurel. “I see you have brought a charming new friend.”
Lady Fairmont drew Laurel closer. “Mrs. Sanderson, I should like you to meet Major Calvin Melrose, a dear old friend of my husband’s and master of ceremonies here at the Upper Rooms. Major, Mrs. Edgar Sanderson.”
“Enchanted, madam, enchanted.” His practiced eye appraised her tawny silks, pausing only briefly on the jet brooch pinned to her bodice to signify a lingering sentiment of mourning. Apparently satisfied, he raised her hand and kissed it. “Now let us see, to whom shall I introduce you first? You do mean to dance tonight, Mrs. Sanderson, do you not?”
“She most certainly does,” Lady Devonlea supplied before Laurel had the chance to answer. “Mrs. Sanderson is most accomplished in the art of dancing.”
Laurel swung a startled look in the woman’s direction, then sent another through the expansive archway into the ballroom where countless couples moved in flawless rhythm.
“That might have been a bit of an exaggeration,” Laurel whispered to the viscountess as Major Melrose escorted them into the brilliantly lit ballroom.
“You shall thank me later,” the viscountess whispered back. “To have indicated otherwise would have consigned you to a host of ungainly partners.”
Laurel sighed. If she hadn’t already learned her lesson about the foolishness of making wishes, she would certainly have wished this night long
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