“What?” cried twenty-year-old Grace when Prudence cavalierly announced her intentions. “Prudence, darling, have you lost your mind? You would sell yourself for a guinea?”
“Yes,” said Prudence petulantly, and lifted her chin, her gaze daring anyone to challenge her.
“Should you not at least aspire to a crown, dearest? What will a guinea say of your family? You must agree that a guinea is insufficient for your body and your soul.”
“Mamma!” Prudence cried. “Why do you allow her to tease me?” And then, unsatisfied with Lady Beckington’s indifferent response, she’d flounced off, apparently encountering several doors in her haste to flee, judging by the number of them that were slammed.
The Cabot girls were as close as sisters could be, and even Prudence’s hurt feelings could not keep her from the excitement of watching her older sisters dress for the evening. Honor and Grace were highly regarded among the most fashionably dressed—that was because their stepfather was a generous man and indulged their tastes in fine fabrics and skilled modistes.
On the evening of the soiree, in preparation, gowns were donned and discarded as too plain, too old or too confining. In the end, Honor, the oldest at twenty-one, selected a pale blue gown that complemented her black hair and blue eyes. Grace chose dark gold with silver filigree that caught the light and seemed to sparkle when she moved. Honor said it was the perfect gown to set off Grace’s gold hair and her hazel eyes.
When they descended to the foyer, their stepbrother, Augustine, who was to accompany them as the earl and his wife had declined the invitation, given the earl’s battle with consumption, peered at them. Then he rose up on his toes and said dramatically, “You surely do not intend to go out like that?”
“Like what?” Honor asked.
Augustine puffed out his cheeks as he was wont to do when he was flustered. “Like that,” he said, studiously avoiding looking at their chests.
“Do you mean our hair?” Honor teased him.
“No.”
“Is it my rouge? Does it not appeal to you?”
“No, I do not mean your rouge.”
“It must be your pearls,” Grace said with a wink for her sister.
Augustine turned quite red. “You know very well what I mean! I think your gown is too revealing! There, I’ve said it.”
“It’s the fashion in Paris,” Grace explained as she accepted her cloak from the footman.
“One cannot help but wonder if there is any fashion left in Paris, as it all seems to be upstairs in this house. I wonder how you know the fashion of Paris seeing as how Britain is at war with France.”
“Men are at war, Augustine. Women are not,” Grace said, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Don’t you want us to be fashionable?”
“Well, yes, I—”
“Good, then it is settled,” Honor said cheerfully, and linked her arm through her stepbrother’s. “Shall we?”
As was often the case, Augustine was overwhelmed by his stepsisters. With a good yank on his waistcoat to bring it down over a belly that had gone a little soft, he muttered that he did not care for their revealing clothing but allowed them to lead him out all the same.
* * *
THE CLARENDONS’ GRAND SALON was so crowded that there was hardly enough room to maneuver, and yet, all eyes turned toward the Cabot sisters.
“As is ever the case,” said Grace’s friend, Miss Tamryn Collins, “all gentlemen are held in thrall by the Cabot sisters.”
“Silly!” Grace said. “I’d wager the only gentlemen held in any sort of thrall are those who have been pressed by their families to make an offer to a debutante who will bring with her a generous dowry.”
“You underestimate the appeal of a pleasing décolletage, I think,” Tamryn said dryly.
Grace laughed, but Tamryn was right. Honor and Grace, separated by only a year, had been out for more than a year. By all rights, they ought to have received and accepted an offer of marriage, for wasn’t that the point of coming out? But Honor and Grace were beautiful young women and had quickly discovered they enjoyed the chase far too much to give it up for marriage just yet—not chasing, mind you, but being chased.
And they were very well chased.
It was no secret that the alluring Cabot sisters were as good a match as any young gentlemen might hope to make—pleasing to the eye and in spirit, and backed by the wealth of the Earl of Beckington.
“Oh, no,” Honor said, and took hold of Grace’s arm. “Grace, you must intercept him.”
“Who?” Tamryn asked, standing beside Grace as she peered into the crowd.
“Mr. Jett!” Honor whispered loudly. “He’s coming across the room, straight for us.”
“For you, you mean,” Grace said, and slipped her hand into Tamryn’s. “We must flee, Tamryn, lest we be locked in boring conversation for the rest of the evening. Have a lovely evening, Honor.”
“Grace!” Honor exclaimed, but Grace and Tamryn had already escaped on a wave of giggling, leaving Honor alone to graciously rebuff Mr. Jett’s most ardent attention.
With Tamryn gone off to have a word with a friend, Grace wended her way through the ballroom.
Grace danced, too, one set after the other, never lacking partners. But when the odious Mr. Redmond cast an oily smile in her direction and began to move toward her, she was relieved that Lord Amherst should suddenly step before her and bow grandly.
“Come quickly,” he said, holding out his hand. “I mean to rescue you from Redmond.”
“My hero!” Grace said laughingly, and slipped her hand into his, following his lead onto the dance floor.
Grace liked Lord Amherst. As did every other debutante. He was handsome and always had a warm laugh for her. He never failed to charm, and in fact, that was his reputation; he charmed every woman he met with his outrageous flirting and suggestive innuendo. That’s why Grace liked him so—she rather enjoyed flirting and suggestive innuendo.
He bowed as the dance began and said, “I’ve been trying to reach you all night, fighting my way through this bloody crowd for you.”
“What? There were no other dance partners for you?”
“Miss Cabot, you tease me mercilessly. You know there’s not another woman in this room that can compare to you.”
“Not even one other?” she asked as they rose up on their toes and then down, twirling around and facing each other once more.
“Absolutely not,” he said, and winked.
“My lord, you are the king of compliments.”
“Can you blame me? A woman as beautiful and spirited as you deserves nothing less than to be continually flattered. My heart has been quite lost to you.”
Grace giggled at his silliness. “Confess—you’ve said that to every other girl in attendance tonight.”
“Miss Cabot, you wound me. I have not said that to every other girl in attendance tonight. Only the beautiful ones.”
Grace laughed. They turned to the right, then to face each other again as they made their way up the line.
“Lord,” Amherst suddenly muttered. He was looking at a point over Grace’s shoulder. When Grace glanced