The Secret Mistress by Mary Balogh Page B

have called her
fine
, as Tresham and Ferdinand had done? Or
distinguished
, as Rosalie had done? Or
lovely
, as Betty had done? Or
pretty
? Or would she have frowned, as she had done in the past, at her daughter’s gangly height or at the extreme darkness of her hair and the indelicacy of her complexion? Or, as she had done once when Angeline was thirteen, at the fact that her eyebrows did not arch elegantly above her eyes?
    She had been in the middle of one of her increasingly rare stays at Acton Park at the time, even though Papa was already dead and therefore no longer to be avoided. Angeline had spent the whole of the subsequent week peering into mirrors, trying to arch her eyebrows the way Mama did. But when she had tried the new expression on her mother, Mama had told her she looked like a startled hare and warned her that she would have furrows in her brow before she was thirty if she was not careful.
    Perhaps her mother would have approved of her in white, Angeline thought. It was what she had almost always worn herself. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she would have seen more clearly than ever that Angeline in no way resembled herself and would have been unable to disguise her disappointment and her conviction that Angeline would never be the daughter she must have dreamed of. Although Angeline was no longer gangly, she was even taller than she had been at the age of thirteen. And her eyebrows would still not arch.
    But she was
not
going to grow maudlin over the hopelessness ofher looks on this of all nights. She smiled dazzlingly at Rosalie without releasing her brothers’ arms, and they all made their way to the ballroom together.
    Its long length looked like an indoor garden, a luscious indoor garden, laden down as it was with white flowers—lilies, roses, daisies, chrysanthemums, among others—and green leaves and ferns. They were in banks about the perimeter of the room and circling the pillars. They hung in exuberant profusion from baskets on the walls. They were reflected in mirrors. The room was filled with their combined scents.
    The three large chandeliers had been on the floor for the past several days while every piece of silver and crystal had been polished and shined and dozens of new candles had been fitted in place. The candles had been lit now and the chandeliers hoisted up close to the gilded ceiling, which was painted with scenes from Greek mythology. The wall sconces had been filled with candles, which were also alight.
    The wood floor gleamed. The French windows along one long wall had been opened back so that guests could stroll on the lamp-lit terrace beyond. The orchestra members had already arranged their instruments on the dais at one end of the room. At the other end, the doors to the adjoining salon were open so that guests could help themselves to drinks and other refreshments from tables covered with crisp white cloths.
    It was all … overwhelming.
    Angeline had only ever attended informal dances in the drawing rooms of the more prosperous of her neighbors at home and a couple of assemblies at the village inn.
    She stepped alone into the ballroom and stood there, her hands clasped to her bosom, trying with all her might to resist the urge to weep.
    This was
it
. This was what she had longed for throughout the lonely years of her girlhood.
    Suddenly she felt lonelier than she had ever felt.
    And so excited she could scarcely breathe.
    Tresham stepped up beside her, drew her arm through his again, set his free hand lightly over hers, and said not a word.
    She had never loved him more.
    N O ONE HAD cheered wildly over Edward’s maiden speech in the House of Lords, but no one had jeered either. And he had not noticed anyone nodding off to sleep during its delivery. Several members had even shaken his hand afterward. One elderly duke, who carried a hearing trumpet with him but had not used it all afternoon as far as Edward had noticed, had even commented that the speech had been a fine piece