Authors: Chelsea Roston
Tags: #romance, #Murder, #England, #biracial, #Regency, #napoleonic, #1814
Colors of a Lady
Chelsea Roston
Copyright 2014 Chelsea Roston
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter One
As she stood at the top of
a suitably elaborate staircase overlooking her own ball, Lady Emma
Daphne Wren remembered how much she hated such affairs. How easily
she deluded herself over the winter! She spun wild cottony dreams
of the magic of the Season. By the time end of Twelfth Night, she
was ready to head back to London. Through the fittings and her
dance lessons, she maintained the rosy view of the Season. Visions
of charming earls and devastating dukes danced across her mind.
Her delusions disappeared when the curling
rod first burned her neck. Though her hair twisted itself into
tight coils naturally, they were not the fashionable type of curl.
Though the men certainly matched the handsomeness of her daydreams,
they never smiled at her with more than practiced politeness. Emma
had gone through the Season once before. She adored the filmy gowns
and detested the forced small talk. Not that Emma had much to say
beyond small talk to strangers, she just hated it all the same.
She had to marry. This circus was a
necessary evil to achieve that. This particular ball kicked off the
Season. Her mother, Lady Sheridan, hosted it every year. All of the
elite families of the
ton
attended the event. Their
daughters hoped to make a good impression on both the bachelor sons
and their snooty mothers. Emma, too, hoped for the same. If last
year was any indication, no one would seek a union with her family,
unless it was through her elder sister.
Emma thought again of marriage. To be frank,
she knew well to whom she would like to be wed. Her eyes raked over
the bucks of the ton who milled about as they paid court to their
favourites. Second sons wasting away in debt. Military heroes on
leave from the war. Heirs to earldoms eager to sire an heir. Then,
she found him, the Catch of the Season.
She guiltily focused upon the long-legged
male with coal-black curls. He exuded the same perfection he always
had. His eyes crinkled as a quick smile crossed his lips. He was
too far away for Emma to see the colour, but she knew from memory
that they were grey, the shade that reflected the English sky most
of the year. She had known this man since she was but a child. A
silly, boisterous child with too many thoughts and too high of
dreams. He was not for her. The finely shaped ear in which he
whispered belonged to her elder sister.
“Caroline,” Emma muttered. Her sister of the
offensive good looks. The flaxen hair. The ocean-blue eyes. The
porcelain skin. She had been created to entrance men. Caroline did
it with such an innate grace that Emma had not the heart to hate
her. She may find her infuriating and want to cut off her silky
hair, but surely all sisters felt that way. What was the use of a
sister if one could not hate her on sight one day and be thankful
for her a minute later? Not that Emma would ever utter such words
to her.
If Emma thought of God more than when she
was obligated to in church, she would be certain he had laughed the
day she was born. A foil to her bright sister. Unruly coils of hair
the shade of strong tea and a pair of too big eyes to match. Her
olive skin proved prone to darkening with even a sliver of sunshine
in the sky. Visitors and distant family felt no shame at all in
comparing them to the sun and the moon. Emma thought to compensate
with her obstinate yet charming ways.
“Emma dear!” Her father's voice boomed up
the flight of stairs. The Earl of Sheridan stood at the bottom; his
brown wisps of curls greyed at his temples. A few guests cut off
their conversation to peak up the stairs at the missing debutante.
Emma ducked back down the hallway. She needed to find the strength
to face this onslaught.
“Emma!” Another shout. This one feminine and
threaded with mirth. Emma turned back towards the staircase and saw
a ginger ball of energy bounding up towards her. It was
unmistakably Helena Mallory, daughter of the deceased Viscount
Mallory. The title now belonged to her brother, Lord Hector
Mallory.
Helena could never remain tidy for even a
single hour. Her lavender skirts were muddied on the hems and
wayward tendrils of her copper hair escaped the shoddy silver pins.
Emma noted a few new freckles across her nose though her skin
retained its fair tone. Though not as fair as the alabaster maiden
who glided up the stairs after her. Her white-blonde hair was
strewn with ivory pearls in a simple knot. Her pale blue eyes
focused determinedly straight-ahead, never straying from that
invisible target.
“Lettice, how regal you look this evening,”
Emma said. The girl lifted her head in greeting, gaze trailing over
to the bouncy Helena. Her lips drew down at the corners.
“The streets are covered in snow. How on
earth did you become so muddy?” She inquired.
“Of that I am not sure,” Helena replied with
a shrug. “Oh do not give me that look, Lettice. I shall die right
here on these very steps if you dare chastise me tonight.”
Lettice rolled those almond-shaped eyes to
the heavens. “Emma, why ever are peering through the bannisters
like a naughty child? Enjoy yourself.”
“I find myself overcome with the most
frightful case of nerves.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should
retire for the night.”
“Over my dead body,” retorted Helena. Emma
looked to her friend and tilted her head to the side.
“You are awfully morbid tonight.”
“It is my third season, how could I not be?”
She replied. Emma had the supreme luck of a doting father. He
thought nothing of allowing her to retire to the country for one
year instead of debuting as her friends did, so this was only her
second season. She needed to be in her best looks for the marriage
market. Two years did not transform her into a swan as she had
hoped. Her skin had lightened nearly a shade, but she felt plumper
than usual. All hips and thighs that did not look well in the
fashionable high-waist gowns. As much as Emma loved the Greeks, she
wished their aesthetics were not so popular with the London elite.
Perhaps some fleshier Renaissance aesthetics would be better. Then
at least she would have a chance. As it was now...Emma let out a
sigh. This would not do.
“Let us descend,” Lettice spoke up. “Your
mother keeps looking up here. She may drag you down there
herself.”
“Oh dear, I cannot have that, can I?” Emma
shook out her sage green skirts. She hoped they would fall along
her curves in a becoming fashion. Of course, she might as well wish
to have lost a stone or two over the winter.
Emma pushed her shoulders back and held her
head high. Lettice and Helena fell in step behind her as she
summoned her learned grace to lead the way downstairs.
The matrons of the ton shared sidelong
glances. Everyone present watched the daughter of the house dance
and flirt with the Season's most eligible buck. They would be the
toast of the Season. Surely, they would marry. One did not do the
Season to dawdle and flirt.
“But,” stressed a somber matron, “that girl
is in her fourth season with no marriage offers despite her great
charms and fortune.”
They all sniffed in agreement. It was
peculiar that this paragon of beauty was still unmarried. Lady
Sheridan, however, the maid's mother, could not contain herself at
the sight of her daughter's beau. With her peacock feathers shaking
with excitement, she scurried away from the huddled women and sough
to share the news with her husband.
Lord Sheridan took a long, deep swallow from
his glass of his watered-down wine, listening to the chatter of a
few young debutantes. They chattered at great length about Caroline
and Lord Hartwell, the Duke of Kellaway’s son.
“They must marry,” said a dour looking girl.
“See how they look at one another? A love match.”
“As the daughter of an earl, she is an
acceptable choice for a future duchess,” agreed another with wide
set eyes.
“I feel bad for Lady Emma though,” began the
first one. “She will never have such a brilliant marriage. Why, I
would be surprised if she ever married. She is far too dark. Even
her dowry will not help her case. It is her second season and I
just feel bad for her.”
Her friend turned to her with a surprised
look. “Lady Wren is in her third season. Why do you not feel the
same shame for her?”
“Because she must be choosing not to marry
while Lady Emma has no choice but to remain so.”
“You are a fool.”
He let out a heavy sigh. Just like last
year, his daughters would remain an important part of gossip. Until
they married, which seemed to be never. Despite what the rest of
the
ton
thought, he thought both of his daughters were
beautiful. He knew from the first day he set eyes on Emma that her
genteel life would not be as gilded as her sister’s.
Other fathers felt bad for him and his lack
of an heir. They also claimed that boys were easier to raise. They
sent them away to school until they were finished and then pushed
them out on the world to find a suitable wife. It also did not hurt
to hope they were not selfish fools who sought to claim their
inheritance early.
But daughters, Lord Sheridan signed again.
He had to agree they required a little more finesse. Oh they were
quite some work. For sixteen or seventeen years, one had to keep
them busy with governesses in a vain attempt to make them
marriageable. Then, at the end of those years, you were forced to
fund their first Season with dresses for every single hour of the
day and enough fripperies to drive a man mad. Of course, one could
never be sure that it would be a single Season. There was also the
matter of ruination due to someone's son. Lord Sheridan shuddered
to think of the scandal that could cause. Of course, she would be
either paid off with an annual stipend or forced into marriage.
Both seemed to be better options than a spinster daughter who would
be nothing more than a burden to her surviving relatives. He knew
he was being far too harsh. His daughters had great inheritances
and would live well even if they chose to remain unmarried.
How many more years did he have left of this
dance? These routs and musicales stuffed full of people he had
never liked much. Time spent in their company only worsened his
opinion of them. Like that horrible woman, Lady Worthing and her
son, Percy. That boy must have fallen from a tree at a young age
and knocked his head a few times.
Lord Sheridan was taken from his thoughts
once he caught sight of the outrageous feathers that only his wife
would consider fashionable. He braced himself with a swig of the
wine for whatever absolutely pressing news she had to relay.
“Lord Sheridan, I have absolutely wonderful
news! Our dearest, lovely daughter is talking to Marquess Hartwell,
the Duke of Kellaway's son! I do sense a match coming along, do you
think not?” She beamed at her husband, exposing the too white teeth
of which she was fond. Her face still retained remnants of her
prized beauty.
“I do hope you mean our dear Emma, instead
of Caroline, my dear. Seeing as we decided to focus on Emma this
Season, since you did not take her too many events last year,” he
replied dryly.
“Do not be silly, it is Caroline. Emma has
ensconced herself with those friends of hers instead of making
herself known,” she rebuked with a sniff. “But, dear Caroline, the
apple of her dear mother's eye, will certainly make a match this
Season.” Lady Sheridan stated, puffing with maternal pride. Her
eyes fell upon her younger daughter, standing near the dancers with
her two friends. They were a perfect trio: a redhead, a blonde and
a brunette. Emma had the poor sense to inherit thick dark curls
that remained woefully out of fashion.
