Merry Christmas, My Love

Long white satin gloves covered her hands and arms, and lovely green satin slippers peeked out from under the hem of her gown. Her mother’s pearls surrounded her throat, with the matching earbobs dangling from her ears.

She felt utterly ridiculous.

This woman in the mirror was not Lady Elise Smith, accepted bluestocking, sworn spinster, and hostess of well-respected gatherings of the intellectual elite of London. This woman was on the prowl for a husband. Something she never, ever wanted.

She still could not believe she couldn’t persuade Papa to dispense with this crazy idea. She’d laughed, cajoled, teased, and even—God help her—stamped her foot like a child. He was adamant.

Her, married! Married women had no freedom. They did what their husbands decided they should do. They bore children and held balls and soirees. They made morning calls where they shared the latest gossip.

Never did any married woman she know browse the shelves of Hatchard’s bookstore in anticipation of a lively debate later that evening with knowledgeable friends.

And to hold her sisters’ happiness as a threat if she did not consent to this ridiculousness was the absolute worst thing Papa could have done.

Elise had been mother and sister to Marigold and Juliet from the time they were five and six years, when their mother had died from consumption. She’d taken over the mother role, and by four and ten years, the well-being of her father, also. It was she who kept track of his social calendar, who met with Cook and the housekeeper to make certain his home ran smoothly, and assured his cigars were always available and his brandy at his fingertips.

And now he was throwing her to the lions. Not well done, Papa.

“Elise, you look fabulous.” Juliet burst into her room with Marigold following, both of them full of excitement and happiness. Charlene had apparently finished with them, also, since they were both dressed in beautiful gowns with becoming hairstyles.

“I look ludicrous.” She turned from the mirror and faced her sisters. “And I feel silly.” She pinched the sides of her gown and held her hands out. “This is not me.”

Marigold sat on her bed. “I know, but you do look wonderful.”

Elise reached for her fan, shawl, and reticule. “What I am hoping is I will attend a few of these affairs and after receiving no attention—which I am counting on, by the way—Papa will understand this whole idea of me marrying is as foolish as I look.”

Marigold and Juliet looked at each other.

“What?”

“I really don’t think with the way you look that you won’t receive any attention,” Juliet said. “Also, you are what the ton calls new blood. You have not appeared in a ballroom in a few years.”

“Smartly so, I might add.” Elise walked to the door and opened it. “We might as well move along. This disaster of an evening will not commence until I get there to make it happen.”

“Papa!” Elise stopped at the bottom of the stairs and regarded her father. He had not attended a ton ball, as far as Elise knew, for several years. Yet here he stood in formal clothes, looking very handsome, she might add, ready to escort his daughters to the Cummings’ ball.

“Papa, you look splendid.” Juliet walked up to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You are such a fine escort for us.”

“I asked my cousin, Florence, to again act as chaperone for the Season, but she was unable to take up those duties, so I am afraid you are stuck with me and whoever else I might coerce into the role.” He looked at Elise. “My dearest Elise, you are a vision of loveliness.”

It was hard to remain angry at Papa. He was such a sweet man and merely wanted what was best for his daughters. The only way she could persuade him away from this benighted plan was to not encourage any men and spend her time as close to a potted plant as she could. Once he realized the likelihood of her attracting men was hopeless, he would abandon his scheme and all would return to normal.

In a flurry of gowns, laughter, and teasing, the family descended the stairs and entered the Pomeroy carriage. Elise stared out the window, annoyed at herself for the feeling of anxiety churning in her stomach. She had no reason to be nervous. The people who attended these functions, and their opinions, meant nothing to her. Of course she wouldn’t measure up. She was Lady Elise, the bluestocking, most likely the joke of polite society.

That was fine with her. She had her purpose in life, and it did not encompass being a flighty debutante in search of a husband. She was respected and well thought of. In her circle of friends, of course. Those who believed flaunting oneself dressed like a peacock for the sole purpose of dragging some poor bloke to the altar was derisory.

The carriage drew up to the front door of the Cummings’ townhouse, and Elise’s dinner seemed to want to make a reappearance. She tamped down her foolishness. She was an earl’s daughter. A person in her own right, with friends, and held in high regard.

Papa stepped out and turned to assist his daughters. He did look wonderful tonight. He was still a handsome man, a devoted father, and in some cases—like now—a stubborn, unreasonable man.

He tucked her arm into his, and, with Juliet and Marigold following behind them, he led them up the path to the door where the butler took their invitation. They joined the queue of guests as they were announced. Once their names were called, they descended the steps. Elise felt as though she was going to faint.

There were so many people! And they were all staring at the four of them. Her mouth dried up, and she gripped Papa’s arm so tightly, it would be a wonder if he didn’t have bruises in the morning.

He patted her hand. “Relax, daughter. ‘Tis only a ball.” He led them through the throng, stopping on occasion to talk with a friend, and each time introduced Elise, who was mostly unknown to the Quality crowd. Several women stepped into his path and bantered with him, which startled Elise. He wrote his name on a few dance cards, which stunned her further.

Marigold and Juliet had left them as soon as they reached the ballroom to visit with their friends. Elise, of course, had no friends here. Her friends were busy with important things, not dressing up in silly clothes and bowing and curtseying left and right.

“I am placing you and your sisters in the hands of Lady Dearborn for the evening, my dear. She will act as chaperone, since I will be visiting the card room in between the dances I have promised.” Papa presented her to an older lady who stood with other matrons and regarded Elise through her quizzing glass. From the expression on her face, she did not seem to find her wanting. She hated that the woman’s apparent approval relieved her.