“Remind me of your name, darling,” her new friend said. “I didn’t catch it earlier. You’re a friend of Aunt Connie’s, aren’t you?”
“Ronan Astor,” Ronan said proudly. “From New York.”
Fernanda clinked her glass against hers. “Well, Ronan, welcome to London. Here’s to a fabulous season.”
After he revealed his plan for their future, Leo continued to call on Isabelle at every possible moment, stealing kisses and demanding other advantages. She had allowed it until last night, when she told him in no uncertain terms that it was over. She would not come to him anymore when he called for her. She was not a dog to be whistled for when its master wanted it.
How low she had sunk, she thought the next evening, remembering his smirk. Leo seemed to believe that nothing would change between them—that Isabelle was merely having a little temper tantrum, and it would soon pass. Her father and mother must have been turning in their graves. Her father Charles always spoke about the glories of their house and their vaunted bloodline, but it was all so long ago. Charles was no King of France—had never even been a prince of France, but merely a vintner, a farmer, one who was too proud for his own good. He would have spit on the Bal du Drap d’Or. The annual ball commemorated the victory of the English over the French. It was said that the first celebration had gone on for days on a field of cloth-of-gold. There had been jousting tournaments, a carnival, a castle made of gold, banquets and feasts that went on for two weeks; even a legendary drakon and its rydder had performed aerobatics in the sky.
It was the night before the ball, and Isabelle was accompanying Louis-Philippe to one of the minor operas to take her mind off her pain. Her young cousin looked so handsome in his fine new clothes. She was glad that Hugh had sprung for a decent wardrobe for Louis for the season.
Isabelle recalled now that Hugh was called the “Red Duke” as a derisive nickname because it was only through a fluke of the law that he came into the lands and title, as he was a distant relative through a minor line who had lucked into the claim. He was the Red Duke, as in a red herring, a fraud.
If it were not according to Salic law, the title and lands would have rightly belonged to Louis-Philippe, who had grown up in the castle as a child, since his mother was a Valois. Isabelle and Louis had hated him so much—this interloper who came to the castle as their guardian.
So far, Hugh had kept his distance, and had spoken about setting up a match for her, but Isabelle decided she would go as far away as possible after the season. She would be of age by the end of June; she would take the small dowry her parents had been allowed to leave her, and she would make a life of her own. Perhaps she would be a governess, or a teacher. She would willingly choose a hard and humble life, as long as it was an honest one that took her far away from Hugh. It was better than being the prince’s mistress.
“Are you ready?” Louis asked, and helped her into her cloak.
She would miss Louis, she thought as she smiled and nodded at him. He would probably want her to stay, but he of all people would understand that she could not. It was too dangerous for her with Hugh around. She would never go back to Orleans, no matter what happened during the London Season.
The opera was not the escape she had thought it would be. It was about a doomed love affair, and in the end the woman killed herself. Wonderful.
“Did you like it?” Louis asked as they left their seats.
“Not particularly,” she said. “But the music was nice.”
Over at the front, there was a crowd around the prince, who was leaving the royal box. Leopold was in fine form, as usual—wherever he went there was a crowd of admirers hanging on to his every word. He did not look her way, and Isabelle was glad. He was nothing to her, nobody; she wanted nothing to do with him. Her skin crawled at the thought of him. She wanted to dunk herself in a hot bath, and scrub every inch of her skin, everywhere he had touched her.
“Come on,” she said to Louis. “Let’s go, before we are caught in the rush.”
She would stay for the ball and the rest of the season—for as long as Leo had rented the house for her—but afterward, she was going to leave this all behind.
On the morning of the royal ball, Ronan woke up earlier than usual. She could not wait to see her dress, and ran to Whitney’s trunk, her fingers shaking in anticipation. But Vera was already kneeling by it, her hand on the latch. Ronan felt the urge to shove her aside, but squelched it. “Well, let’s see it, then,” she said.
“Oh! Ronan, you’re here. I was just so excited!” Vera said, as she opened the lid.
Ronan looked over her shoulder as Vera unwrapped the layers of tissue to reveal the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. It was a sheer white silk encrusted with moonstones, silvery gems woven into the very fabric of the dress. “Look, this is for your hair,” Vera said, breathless, holding up a slim tiara made of the same stone. “And matching earrings, too!”
“Let’s hope it fits,” Ronan said, trying to act nonchalant. She left Vera to admire the dress and went to have her toast and tea, dressed for the morning in Whitney’s smart riding outfit. After the party at Lady Warwick’s, Ronan met Lady Constance at the park for a ride every morning.
Ronan liked the rigor of the season; her mentor was amusing and knowledgeable, and the morning went pleasantly. While she could not help but feel a bit annoyed that Lady Constance had sent her to a lesser party during the hunting weekend, she did not mention it. After all, she had met some truly lovely gentlemen at the Warwick dinner. At the end of the evening, Archie and Perry had declared themselves her guides for the rest of the London Season.
After an invigorating ride through the park, they repaired to a full breakfast back at the hotel. Afterward, they made a few social calls on “prominent ladies that you must know in order to secure invitations to the better dances this season.” The great ladies were polite enough to Ronan, but she had a feeling that they were assessing her chances against their own daughters’, and finding their daughters wanting. More than a few exclaimed at her beauty, and how she was sure to secure a proposal even before the ball had ended. “The pretty ones always do,” Lady Whitmore had said with a wrinkle of her nose. Ronan smiled and said nothing, but hoped that they were right. She had not traveled all this way to return to New York without a ring and a title.
As the carriage ushered Ronan back to the hotel, Lady Constance explained that the presentation at court used to happen early in the afternoon, but now it had been folded into the ball in the evening. A twelve-course dinner would be served first, followed by the formal presentation of guests to the queen, after which the Princess Dauphine would dance the Lovers’ Waltz with Prince Leopold to formally announce and celebrate their engagement. A light supper would be presented at midnight, and afterward the dancing would go on until sunrise. Ronan could hardly wait.
At long last, it was time to dress for the ball. Vera brought out the dress, carrying it as if it were a valuable and precious gem, as if she were cradling her firstborn.
Ronan was a little concerned; she was a bit more statuesque than Whitney, who was built a little smaller. But there was no need to worry. The moment she touched the fabric, the dress and the jewels arranged themselves on h
er as if they were made for her alone. The dress glowed with silvery moonlight, and with her fair coloring and platinum hair, she possessed a striking similarity to the long-lost woodland sylphs who were said to have left this earth.
“You look…” Vera had no words.
Ronan felt chills all over her body as she stared at the dress in the mirror. She had never seen herself look more beautiful. It was as if all her dreams were coming true in one moment. Surely, with this dress, she would be able to melt the heart of any lord of her choosing. Vera handed her the ostrich-feathered fan, helped her draw on the lace gloves, and knelt to slip her feet into the sparkling kidskin slippers. Not long after, the butler announced that the Lords Stewart and Fairfax had arrived to escort her to the party.
When she appeared in the lobby, Perry gave her a long wolf-whistle.