would find it very difficult indeed to sit by quietly while Lydia became engaged to Lord Randol. “In that instance, I suspect that I must play the coward who crept softly away before the end of the skirmish,” she said aloud, greatly startling the footman whom she passed at that moment.
Chapter Six
Miss Lydia Davenport and Mademoiselle du Bois were launched into London society a few weeks later. Lady Basinberry had spared no effort or expense on her nieces’ behalf, especially since Mr. Davenport had unwittingly given her carte blanche to do as she wished by saying that he did not want to be bothered with the nonsense except to be sent the bills. Lady Basinberry therefore took full advantage of her brother’s generosity. A full string orchestra was engaged, the ballroom was hung with new sarcenet-lined draperies, the cook was consulted with, and a lavish selection of refreshments was decided upon for the refreshment table. The afternoon before the ball, very nearly an entire hothouse was transferred to the Davenport ballroom. It was the overwhelming sight of the riotous blooms that finally caused Mr. Davenport’s face to blanch, and he tottered away to his study, ordering the butler to bring him a bottle of cognac. “I am utterly undone,” he was heard to mutter.
Two weeks before, Lady Basinberry had inspected Michele’s wardrobe and pronounced all of her gowns too dowdy for an opening ball. She had taken Michele firmly to task, declaring that she would not have a niece of hers appear in rags.
“Come, ma’am! It is not as bad as all that!” Michele protested, laughing.
“You might as well give over, Michele. Our aunt is not likely to cease her bullying unless you do,” Lydia said, greatly entertained. She herself had no difficulty in accepting Lady Basinberry’s declaration that she required a new gown, and she could not really find it in her heart to sympathize with her cousin’s odd reluctance to do the same.
“Lydia speaks the unvarnished truth, my dear. I am known to be quite obstinate when I wish something to be done,” Lady Basinberry said.
“I suspect that to be an understatement, my lady,” retorted Michele. But she did at last give in to Lady Basinberry’s insistence, and quickly found herself in a whirl of fabrics and at the mercy of a voluble French modiste. The consultation and choosing of fabrics, the measuring and the countless fittings, left Michele feeling very much like a pincushion.
The finished gown was delivered at the town house just hours before the ball. Upon seeing herself in the gown, even Michele was forced to concede that the effort had been worthwhile. The gown was an intriguing liquid blue that shimmered to shades of gray when she moved. The high waistline emphasized her high full bosom and the skirts fell away to cling to the curve of hip and thigh. Pearls adorned her ears and were twisted about her slender neck. Her soft black hair was held in place with a pearl comb.
Before going downstairs, Michele inspected herself in the cheval glass. The maid put the finishing touch to Michele’s toilette by pinning to her low bodice a nosegay of white roses and delicate gypsophila. The corsage had been sent up by her uncle, and she had received it gratefully. A spray of carnations had been delivered for her from Sir Lionel, and she had frowned when she read the attached note, because it expressed warmer sentiments than she was prepared to encourage in any gentleman, and particularly in one whom she had once deeply hurt with her rejection.
“Magnifique, mademoiselle,” the maid murmured.
Michele surveyed her reflection critically, not really seeing the raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty who returned her stare. She did not particularly anticipate the evening’s entertainment, but she had agreed to participate in the offerings of the Season. She had long since come to realize that that was the subtle substance of her promise to Lady Basinberry. It both annoyed and amused
Chapter Six
Miss Lydia Davenport and Mademoiselle du Bois were launched into London society a few weeks later. Lady Basinberry had spared no effort or expense on her nieces’ behalf, especially since Mr. Davenport had unwittingly given her carte blanche to do as she wished by saying that he did not want to be bothered with the nonsense except to be sent the bills. Lady Basinberry therefore took full advantage of her brother’s generosity. A full string orchestra was engaged, the ballroom was hung with new sarcenet-lined draperies, the cook was consulted with, and a lavish selection of refreshments was decided upon for the refreshment table. The afternoon before the ball, very nearly an entire hothouse was transferred to the Davenport ballroom. It was the overwhelming sight of the riotous blooms that finally caused Mr. Davenport’s face to blanch, and he tottered away to his study, ordering the butler to bring him a bottle of cognac. “I am utterly undone,” he was heard to mutter.
Two weeks before, Lady Basinberry had inspected Michele’s wardrobe and pronounced all of her gowns too dowdy for an opening ball. She had taken Michele firmly to task, declaring that she would not have a niece of hers appear in rags.
“Come, ma’am! It is not as bad as all that!” Michele protested, laughing.
“You might as well give over, Michele. Our aunt is not likely to cease her bullying unless you do,” Lydia said, greatly entertained. She herself had no difficulty in accepting Lady Basinberry’s declaration that she required a new gown, and she could not really find it in her heart to sympathize with her cousin’s odd reluctance to do the same.
“Lydia speaks the unvarnished truth, my dear. I am known to be quite obstinate when I wish something to be done,” Lady Basinberry said.
“I suspect that to be an understatement, my lady,” retorted Michele. But she did at last give in to Lady Basinberry’s insistence, and quickly found herself in a whirl of fabrics and at the mercy of a voluble French modiste. The consultation and choosing of fabrics, the measuring and the countless fittings, left Michele feeling very much like a pincushion.
The finished gown was delivered at the town house just hours before the ball. Upon seeing herself in the gown, even Michele was forced to concede that the effort had been worthwhile. The gown was an intriguing liquid blue that shimmered to shades of gray when she moved. The high waistline emphasized her high full bosom and the skirts fell away to cling to the curve of hip and thigh. Pearls adorned her ears and were twisted about her slender neck. Her soft black hair was held in place with a pearl comb.
Before going downstairs, Michele inspected herself in the cheval glass. The maid put the finishing touch to Michele’s toilette by pinning to her low bodice a nosegay of white roses and delicate gypsophila. The corsage had been sent up by her uncle, and she had received it gratefully. A spray of carnations had been delivered for her from Sir Lionel, and she had frowned when she read the attached note, because it expressed warmer sentiments than she was prepared to encourage in any gentleman, and particularly in one whom she had once deeply hurt with her rejection.
“Magnifique, mademoiselle,” the maid murmured.
Michele surveyed her reflection critically, not really seeing the raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty who returned her stare. She did not particularly anticipate the evening’s entertainment, but she had agreed to participate in the offerings of the Season. She had long since come to realize that that was the subtle substance of her promise to Lady Basinberry. It both annoyed and amused
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