The Dress of the Season (11 page)

Foolishly, Sarah had thought she was doing so in support of her. The fact that it was to be Bridget’s debut Season had completely slipped her admittedly preoccupied mind. But obviously, it had not slipped Bridget’s.

So now, not only was Sarah miserable and wretched, but her mere presence was destroying her sister’s Season, too.

Brilliant.

Bridget—who had declared undying hatred of the Duke of Rayne—would marry her sister off to him, because that would be less miserable for everyone. Bitterness flooded Sarah’s mouth. So much for sisterly affection.

Sarah was so caught up in her own burning frustration, she almost missed her father’s voice when it rumbled forth again.

“I received a letter from the Portsmouth steward,” he began, his voice hesitant and careful. “He has asked that I return to oversee the installation of the new well. It shouldn’t take me more than a few days.”

“Darling, I really would prefer if you didn’t leave just now,” her mother’s voice was honey and lemon—soothing but stern, the way it always sounded when she negotiated for what she wanted. “Or if you must, make it as short as possible. The Season has only just begun, and if Sarah is to endure, she needs the support of the family behind her.”

“I was thinking I would take Sarah with me,” her father replied, much to Sarah’s own surprise. And her mother’s, apparently.

“What on earth for?” Lady Forrester asked.

Her father paused a moment before answering.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

There was a pause, heavy in the air.

“Neither did I,” her mother finally said softly. “But we’d hoped . . .”

“Hoped, but not prepared,” her father countered.

In her mind’s eye, Sarah could see her father. He was likely sitting on the edge of her mother’s favorite stuffed settee, looking down at his interlaced fingers, twiddling his thumbs the way he always did when he was thinking.

“I don’t know if she’s ready for this. I don’t know that I am.”

Sarah’s heart, dampened under layers of her own effort, went out to her father. Outside of herself, he had been the one most hurt by the Event.

Her father had loved Jason. They became acquainted as members of the Historical Society, and Lord Forrester (father of three daughters) had been practically giddy at the idea of not only a son-in-law, but also one with whom he could converse for hours and hours about antique pediments and arcane painting techniques.

“Oh, my darling.” Her mother’s voice came through the thin door, placating her husband. “Maybe we can find a way to take Sarah’s—and your—mind off the troubles.”

“I would have him removed from the Historical Society if I could,” her father stated, his voice muffled by what Sarah had to assume was her mother’s shoulder. “But I cannot allow personal feeling to belie—”

“I know, I know,” she soothed. “But for now, let us be thankful that Rayne had the good grace to remove himself to the Continent. And let us hope he—”

And that was the point that Sarah decided she had heard enough.

Because as hard as it was to think and hear about her parents’ disappointments in her—it was infinitely more difficult to dwell on the Duke of Rayne, where he was, and what he was doing.

She stood up abruptly and crossed the foyer as fast as her feet would carry her to the library, without concern that her footfalls were too loud or rapid to be mistaken for a servant’s. Without care for the eyes of the footman following her. And without any idea for whom she would meet inside the library’s doors.

“Oh my God!” Sarah cried, coming to a sudden halt.

“I’m afraid not, Miss Forrester,” the elegant figure that lounged with a volume of poetry in her hand said. “It’s just me.”

“L–Lady Worth,” Sarah breathed, as breeding won out over shock, and she curtsied. Phillippa, Lady Worth, the unofficial but undeniable reigning leader of the ton, did not smile and stand in return. Instead, she flipped the book shut and regarded Sarah with a bemused expression.

“Oh, so you do know who I am. I was beginning to wonder if you remembered me at all from last Season.”

“Lady Worth, of course I remember you,” Sarah replied, blushing to the roots of her hair. “I attended your garden party last year, and of course you were at . . .”
my engagement party
, she stopped herself from staying. Instead she shook herself. “I apologize, let me fetch my parents. It is quite odd hours for calling, but—”

“Yes, I am aware it is quite odd hours for calling,” Lady Worth replied as she stood to her full height. She was dressed in easily the most beautiful evening gown Sarah had ever seen, but to Lady Worth, it was likely just her Tuesday ensemble. “Your butler may seem stern, but entry was fairly simple. I just told him I had been here for your supper party and had left a reticule behind. He allowed me to search on my own.” Lady Worth suddenly frowned. “I am going to recommend to your mother that you reinforce the need for security with your staff. After all, I could have been a thief—or worse yet, a newspaper reporter.”

“My mother,” Sarah repeated, latching onto a solid form throughout Lady Worth’s bewildering speech. “Yes, allow me to fetch her, she’s just across the hall . . .”

“Never mind that.” Lady Worth waved her hand in dismissal of the idea. “I have come here to see you.”

“Me?” Sarah squeaked.

“Yes, child. For heaven’s sake, when did you become such a mimic? Last Season you seemed to have more brains that that.”

Sarah, not having an answer to that, prudently remained silent.

“How long have you been in town, Miss Forrester?” Lady Worth asked, as nonchalant as if she had asked the question in full daylight in a room full of society ladies.

“A fortnight, ma’am,” Sarah answered, her eyes following Lady Worth as she gently paced the carpet.

“And in that fortnight, how many invitations have you received from me?”

“Ah . . . I am uncertain . . .” Sarah hedged.

“As luck would have it, I am entirely certain. Two. You have received two invitations from me to come to tea. I know this because I rarely ask anything of anyone more than once.”

“Oh,” she replied, knowing she sounded stupid and out of her depth . . . because in truth, she was. “I think, ma’am”—she tried valiantly—“that my mother thought—that is, she didn’t want us to accept any invitations until after we had settled . . .”

But at that, Lady Worth stopped pacing, and simply stood with her hands on her hips. “I have always preferred the truth to pretty lies, my dear. But if you insist upon continuing with that sentence at least speak it with conviction.”

Sarah’s head came up sharply. She met the challenge in the taller lady’s eyes. And decided to rise to it.

“How could I visit with you, Lady Worth, when your family is connected to Jason’s?”

Sarah had thought to shock Phillippa Worth. And she had. But not for the reasons she had imagined. Because while she read surprise in that lady’s eyes, she also recognized not horror, but applause.

“Yes, my husband’s brother is married to the Duke of Rayne’s sister.” Lady Worth waved her hand in the air again, seemingly waving away anything that she did not consider important. “But that is exactly why you
should
have accepted my invitation.”

“Lady Worth, I . . .” Sarah tried, but suddenly, she felt very tired. The weight of the party, overhearing her parents and sister’s conversation, and now the mad assault on logic and propriety that was Lady Worth being in her library, settled over Sarah, and she could no longer stop her shoulders from slumping.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked, already half seated on the settee.

Lady Worth, to her credit, immediately sat down with Sarah and, in what she must have thought was a sympathetic gesture, patted Sarah’s hand.

“Would you like me to call for some tea? Or perhaps sherry?” Lady Worth inquired kindly.

Sarah let out a small, exhausted laugh. “Lady Worth, we are in my house. I should be offering tea to you.”

“Oh,” she replied, with a smile. “I nearly forgot. And I think this will be simpler if you take to calling me Phillippa, and I call you Sarah.”

“What will be simpler?” Sarah asked hoping to finally understand . . . anything.

Lady Worth—Phillippa—regarded her quietly for a moment.

“It’s too early in the Season for you to be this tired,” she finally observed.

Sarah thought about denying it, thought about making excuses . . . but somehow, she couldn’t fight it any longer. She couldn’t pretend to be even and fine. The only thing left to do was admit her failings.

To give in to gravity’s pull.

“I don’t know what to do,” Sarah admitted. “Tonight, we had our first party—my mother was so excited to be a hostess again, and it’s my sister’s first Season, and it was just—”

“Terrible,” Phillippa supplied. At Sarah’s questioning look, Phillippa smiled in bemusement. “Really, you should simply assume that I know everything already. It saves time.”

“Yes, but how—”

“At least three of your evening’s attendees were at the Newlins’ ball after your fete. Interestingly, no fewer than five people fought through the crush to rush to my side and let me know—as the only connection to the Duke of Rayne in town—just how unfortunate your supper party was.”

Sarah started rubbing one of her temples. “Wonderful. Everyone will know.”

“Oh, I’d expect that it will be in the papers tomorrow.”

“So all of London thinks I’m a fragile mourner for a missing Duke.”

“Where did you find that description?” Phillippa peered at her intensely.

“My . . .” not wanting to implicate her sister, Sarah changed tack. “I feel like I’m disappointing my family, most of all. And I don’t know what I could do differently. I smile, and everyone thinks I’m covering my feelings. I frown, and everyone thinks I’m about to break down and cry. I don’t know how to act under such scrutiny. I wish I could just go back to being one of a thousand girls. And not—”

“‘The Girl Who Lost a Duke’?” Phillippa finished for her.

Sarah nodded, then turned her gaze to her hands. “My father . . . I think he’s planning to go back to Portsmouth soon and perhaps it would be easier—”

“Don’t you dare,” Phillippa intoned severely, her expression suddenly focused and serious. “Now you listen to me—first of all, do not concern yourself with how your family feels right now. I know it is curious advice, but you have been a dutiful daughter for your entire life. You have never given them reason to be disappointed in you, so do not let them make you feel as such now. Nor should you let the world make you feel as if you are somehow damaged goods. You are no such thing. In fact, when one takes a thorough accounting of your actions, one can only conclude that you have not only done no wrong, you have, in fact, done everything right.”

“Exactly!” Sarah cried. “I did everything right.
Everything
. I got top marks from every teacher I had, I learned to play the pianoforte—a little—to sew, to speak French and Latin. I came to London, and only accepted dances from men my mother approved of. And then I met a man who was supposed to be the one I would spend the rest of my life with and I . . .” Her voice broke, an echo of the seam that still sat along her heart. “I did everything right. And somehow, I still lost.”

“You lost a battle.” Phillippa agreed. “But the war is long. And the enemy . . . changeable.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.

“Public perception,” she said with a smile, “is a tricky thing. The world looks at you now as ‘the Girl Who Lost a Duke.’ You have to change that. Else, no amount of time spent in Portsmouth is going to kill that idea here. In fact, as more time passes, it will be cemented as such.
You
have to make the world stop looking at you with pity.”

“How?”

“First of all, stop looking at yourself with pity. Tell yourself a hundred times a day that it was Jason’s loss, not yours, in ending the engagement. Even if you don’t believe it.” Phillippa gripped Sarah’s hand. “Then, you take London by storm. Be charming, vivacious. Just this side of outrageous. Flirt with appropriate men and dance with inappropriate ones. Be the person every hostess absolutely must have at her party. Put on a mask and save your true feelings for when you are in private. Soon enough, all of London will have forgotten the ‘Girl Who Lost a Duke,’ and instead think the Duke of Rayne utterly mad for having let you escape.”

“I . . . I don’t know if I can do all that,” Sarah replied breathlessly.

“
You have to.
It is how you survive.” Phillippa’s face suddenly shuttered with old memories. “It is how I did.”

Sarah looked at the hand gripping hers. Then, she ran her gaze up the elegant dress and stature of the queen of society sitting in her library. But for once, it was not the extravagant dress or the beautiful jewels at her throat that Sarah envied. It was her posture. Her conviction. Her strength. Phillippa Worth was everything a young lady aspired to be. And she knew it.

“How do I begin?” Sarah asked.

Phillippa’s eyes lit with anticipation. “We already have.”

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The Dress of the Season