Dawn In My Heart. Ruth Axtell Morren
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under her breath as she resumed her pacing. She shook her head at the sprigged muslin her maid held out to her.
“He’s positively gothic. He reminds me of some creepy villain with those black eyes and hair and those gaunt cheeks. When he looks at me, I feel as if he sees right past me.”
“It’s a pity Lord Skylar doesn’t have his brother’s looks,” her mother conceded, “but he’s just got over a terrible fever. Who knows what malady a person can pick up in the Indies? But after he’s been in London a few weeks, he’ll put on some weight and be in the pink of health, just in time for the wedding, you’ll see.”
“I doubt his manners will improve on further acquaintance.” Gillian stopped long enough to remove her dressing gown and allow the maid to help her into the jaconet morning dress in pale green with the rows of pink ribbons along the hem.
“Oh, come, he was perfectly amiable to me.”
“He might have behaved so with you, but with me, he was most provoking.”
“Then you must exert yourself to be extra charming,” her mother replied.
“It will take every ounce of my resolve, which I confess isn’t any too strong at this moment,” she added, tapping her foot impatiently as the maid laced up her gown.
“The fact remains, it’s time you were wed. Don’t forget you’ll soon be twenty-one and that bloom will fade.”
She glared at her mother. Had she and Lord Skylar been consulting together? Gillian went to her dressing table and studied herself in the glass as her maid brushed out her hair. She’d always been considered pretty. More than pretty. Maybe it was her nose, not aquiline but a trifle pert, or her eyes, not a deep emerald green, but that washed-out shade she wished in vain leaned a trifle more toward blue.
She’d always thought her coloring good. Now she wondered if her cheeks weren’t too red.
As her maid arranged her hair into ringlets around her forehead and temples, Gillian looked at her in the glass. “Maybe we should try it away from the face today,” she suggested, pulling the side curls back.
“Lord Skylar’s is the kind of offer we’ve been holding out for,” her mother reminded her from the chaise.
“You’ve been holding out for,” Gillian corrected.
“Many a young girl has fared much worse in a choice of husband. You should be thanking your lucky stars old Lord Caulfield saw fit to approach us with this offer. As I said, you need to be married before you’re any older. It’s time you began setting up your own household.”
Her mother came to stand beside the maid.
“What do you think?” Gillian asked her mother.
The Duchess of Burnham smoothed back an escaping curl before nodding her approval. “It is simple, as is befitting a young lady.”
As the maid stepped away, Gillian’s mother placed a hand on her shoulder, her tone gentling. “You’ll soon see the advantages of being a matron over a debutante. You’ll have a freedom to come and go that you haven’t heretofore known.” She smiled. “If someday you meet a gentleman more to your taste, with your sensibilities…” She shrugged. “With a little discretion, you can enjoy the kind of romantic love you foolishly dream of now.”
Gillian’s further protests were stilled by her mother’s words. She shivered. Why did it seem her life was ending before it had scarcely begun? Would she never have that fulfillment she read about in romantic novels—that she’d scarcely tasted before it had been snatched from her? Would the only avenue that remained to her be to hope for some furtive alliance sometime in the distant future? She considered the ladies she read about in the society news. Lady Melbourne and her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline, women who were known for their lovers, and she wondered sadly if that was the only future left to her.
She thought of the pimply faced dandies that had surrounded her at every dance since her come-out and compared them to the ideal she’d been dreaming about and waiting for for so many years. A handsome, manly officer coming back to claim her as his own.
She sighed, dispelling the futile dream. Yes, she was ready for marriage. She needed a change. Too many years spent waiting…waiting for someone she was now resigned would never appear.
Her mother patted her hand as if reading her mind.
“What you need to think about is your wedding trousseau. We shall begin making purchases immediately. I shall have Mme. Rouget stop by and measure you for your wedding gown. How fortunate for Wellington’s victory. Think of all the Paris fashions now available.
“Come, let us look at the spring edition of La Belle Assemblée. It’s full of all the latest French gowns and bonnets. Since our glorious army has driven Napoleon off the Continent, everything has a military flair.” Her mother held out the magazine to her. “Look at this riding habit with the frogged neck and epaulets.
“You must have half-a-dozen new ball gowns at least. You’ll no longer be limited to white muslin but can be much more daring in your selections.”
The thought was enticing. Gillian moved closer to her mother to look at the colored illustrations.
“You’ll need a whole new wardrobe as the Countess of Skylar. Think of the estates you’ll be mistress over. I imagine Lord Skylar will be purchasing his own residence in town and not expect you to live with Lord Caulfield, although his mansion on Park Lane is quite stupendous.”
As her mother talked on, flipping through the pages of the magazine, Gillian managed to forget her initial encounter with the cold, rude Lord Skylar and focus on the advantages of life as a young society matron.
The rest didn’t bear thinking on. Her mother wanted her married by the end of the year. A good six months away. There was plenty of time to enjoy being betrothed to one of the most illustrious names in the ton without dwelling too much on the wedding night.
“What the deuce were you thinking of, Tertius?” His father paced the confines of Sky’s dressing room as Sky finished his toilette. “From what the duchess tells me, the girl is balking at the marriage. Don’t you know how to woo a lady? Who were you living among, a bunch of wild savages in the Indies?”
Sky opened his eyes and glanced at Nigel, his valet, who was shaving him. “No, there was your usual small, tight coterie of the well-bred. I wouldn’t call them all savages, would you, Nigel?” He arched an eyebrow at his valet as the man wiped his jaw clean and handed him a glass.
“No, sir,” the black man answered, holding out a starched muslin square of cloth for his approval.
Sky lifted his chin as the man wrapped it around his neck and began the intricate work of folding it.
“Well, whatever they were, you’re back among the civilized and grateful you should be. You at last have a purpose in life, thanks to poor Edmund’s demise.”
Tertius frowned at his father’s waistcoat. “You know, I never liked puce on you. It makes you look bilious.”
His father looked down at his middle, momentarily distracted. “No? Weston himself made it up for me.” He walked to Sky’s full-length mirror and stood in front of it, his head tilted to one side, his hands pulling the waistcoat straight. He moved his body this way and that before turning back to Sky. “The color of my waistcoat is neither here nor there. To get back to the point, all I want is for you to exert yourself, make yourself tolerably agreeable to a lovely young lady of irreproachable pedigree—”
Tertius snorted. “Who has been thrust upon me as soon as I set foot on British soil, my newly inherited title not even having a chance to settle on me.”
His father sputtered. “That’s gratitude! I find you a perfectly suitable young lady to wed. I’ve already lost one son. I’ll not let the other go without issue. You’re five-and-thirty, Tertius. You look closer to the grave than Edmund ever did.”