thought I’d look for something good to read. Any recommendations . . . ?” He glanced at the book she held before her. “Ah,
A Reflection on Refinement
. I see you are arming yourself before heading off to the battlefield—I mean, the ballroom.”
Harriet frowned at his acid tone.
“I thought this book might prove helpful.”
Tristan shook his head. “You’ll have a far better chance catching yourself a husband by being yourself, Harriet, than by following whatever advice you’ll find in that absurd tome.”
She gave a small
harrumph
, reaching down to quickly untether Robbie. He was obviously still angry with her, and now ridiculed her attempts to secure her safe future. “And of course, your vast experience in finding a husband qualifies you to make that observation. I thank you for the advice, Tristan, but I’ll take my chances with someone who’s donned a corset at least once in their lifetime. Good day.”
She turned and walked swiftly away, tugging for Robbie to follow.
Chapter Six
There is nothing like dancing after all. . .
One of the first refinements of polished societies.
—Pride and Prejudice,
Jane Austen
Harriet spent nearly every waking moment of the next few days preparing for the assembly.
Among the first things she did was hire a ladies’ maid, something she’d never had the need for before, though they certainly could have afforded the luxury. She had grown up dressing herself and arranging her own hair in its customary chignon simply because she preferred it, but according to Lady Harrington, the services of a ladies’ maid in town were not just a luxury. They were a necessity.
Her name was Delphine and she was French (as all good ladies’ maids are). They spent the entirety of a day just trying out a variety of coiffures, making note of those that best complemented Harriet’s features, and still other notes of those that did not. They experimented with cosmetics, Balm of Mecca, some lip rouge, but Harriet found she preferred to forgo the paint, thinking it made her look too like a French porcelain doll. The services of a dancing master were engaged, and within just a couple of days, Harriet had learned the steps of at least a dozen new dances.
She accomplished more in the space of those few days than she had in a month at home. It seemed an extraordinary amount of preparation for one simple night out, but if it helped her to find a husband by the end of the month, then Harriet was all for it.
On the night of the assembly, Harriet sat at her dressing table staring in the mirror while Delphine fixed her hair, her stomach twisting in worrisome knots. Her gown had not yet arrived from Madame Angelique’s, and the hour was growing quite late. What if her gown wasn’t ready in time? What if she completely forgot how to dance the quadrille? What if she got so nervous, her stomach so upset, over the importance of this one night, she threw up on her best possibility for a husband?
At the sound of the front door knocker, and the footsteps of the footman approaching her chamber, Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. At last, her gown had arrived.
The box from Madame Angelique’s was pink and pretty and tied with a bright red ribbon. Harriet slipped the silk creation on, waiting while Delphine quickly arranged her skirts around her, then turned to see the finished product in the glass.
A moment later, bedlam erupted.
“Auntie Gill!”
Devorgilla hastened up the three flights of stairs to Harriet’s bedchamber to find her beloved niece standing in the middle of the room with tears rolling down her freshly powdered cheeks.
“Whatever is the matter, Hattie?”
“Look at this!” Harriet turned to the glass once again. “I cannot go to the assembly looking like . . . like . . . I mean, good God, I’m half undressed! My ankles are showing. Not only that, my breasts are showing!”
The gown was cut in a Grecian style with a high waist over straight, unadorned skirts meant to
A Reflection on Refinement
. I see you are arming yourself before heading off to the battlefield—I mean, the ballroom.”
Harriet frowned at his acid tone.
“I thought this book might prove helpful.”
Tristan shook his head. “You’ll have a far better chance catching yourself a husband by being yourself, Harriet, than by following whatever advice you’ll find in that absurd tome.”
She gave a small
harrumph
, reaching down to quickly untether Robbie. He was obviously still angry with her, and now ridiculed her attempts to secure her safe future. “And of course, your vast experience in finding a husband qualifies you to make that observation. I thank you for the advice, Tristan, but I’ll take my chances with someone who’s donned a corset at least once in their lifetime. Good day.”
She turned and walked swiftly away, tugging for Robbie to follow.
Chapter Six
There is nothing like dancing after all. . .
One of the first refinements of polished societies.
—Pride and Prejudice,
Jane Austen
Harriet spent nearly every waking moment of the next few days preparing for the assembly.
Among the first things she did was hire a ladies’ maid, something she’d never had the need for before, though they certainly could have afforded the luxury. She had grown up dressing herself and arranging her own hair in its customary chignon simply because she preferred it, but according to Lady Harrington, the services of a ladies’ maid in town were not just a luxury. They were a necessity.
Her name was Delphine and she was French (as all good ladies’ maids are). They spent the entirety of a day just trying out a variety of coiffures, making note of those that best complemented Harriet’s features, and still other notes of those that did not. They experimented with cosmetics, Balm of Mecca, some lip rouge, but Harriet found she preferred to forgo the paint, thinking it made her look too like a French porcelain doll. The services of a dancing master were engaged, and within just a couple of days, Harriet had learned the steps of at least a dozen new dances.
She accomplished more in the space of those few days than she had in a month at home. It seemed an extraordinary amount of preparation for one simple night out, but if it helped her to find a husband by the end of the month, then Harriet was all for it.
On the night of the assembly, Harriet sat at her dressing table staring in the mirror while Delphine fixed her hair, her stomach twisting in worrisome knots. Her gown had not yet arrived from Madame Angelique’s, and the hour was growing quite late. What if her gown wasn’t ready in time? What if she completely forgot how to dance the quadrille? What if she got so nervous, her stomach so upset, over the importance of this one night, she threw up on her best possibility for a husband?
At the sound of the front door knocker, and the footsteps of the footman approaching her chamber, Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. At last, her gown had arrived.
The box from Madame Angelique’s was pink and pretty and tied with a bright red ribbon. Harriet slipped the silk creation on, waiting while Delphine quickly arranged her skirts around her, then turned to see the finished product in the glass.
A moment later, bedlam erupted.
“Auntie Gill!”
Devorgilla hastened up the three flights of stairs to Harriet’s bedchamber to find her beloved niece standing in the middle of the room with tears rolling down her freshly powdered cheeks.
“Whatever is the matter, Hattie?”
“Look at this!” Harriet turned to the glass once again. “I cannot go to the assembly looking like . . . like . . . I mean, good God, I’m half undressed! My ankles are showing. Not only that, my breasts are showing!”
The gown was cut in a Grecian style with a high waist over straight, unadorned skirts meant to
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