made for her.
They’d had little chance to see London. She and Aunt Mary made some hurried purchases in the shops near the dressmaker’s rooms. Jo purchased a blue satin hat with a soft white feather, and a painted fan made of ivory sticks with a silk tassel. She chose a silk shawl as a gift for Mrs. Laverty.
The shop fronts displayed exotic wares. It was noisy and exciting, with bustling pedestrians, the shoppers strolling the pavements while vehicles crammed the roads. She could have stayed for hours looking into shop windows, but Aunt Mary complained of sore feet, so Jo hailed a hackney, and they went home.
On the evening of the ball, Sally helped Jo dress and arranged her hair as best she could. Disappointed, Jo stood before the Cheval mirror to study the effect. The color of the ballgown suited her, but the fussy style didn’t. Even her mother’s pearl necklace failed to improve it.
“It makes me look a bit…lumpy,” Jo said in despair.
“I think it’s pretty, Miss Jo.” Sally was fresh from the country with no more idea of the ways of Society than Jo, but she was eager to learn and friendly, which Jo appreciated.
Jo gave the blonde maid an encouraging smile. “We shall learn together, Sally.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I have no recourse but to wear it.” She gathered up her shawl, reticule, and fan and went down to join her father, determined to enjoy her first ball even if she sat out every dance for the entire evening.
Her father smiled as she entered the parlor. “You look beautiful, Jo.”
Aunt Mary, beside him in purple and black lace, warmly agreed.
Mrs. Millet was there to greet them in the hall of the Rivenstock’s townhouse in Westminster. She introduced them to their host and hostess. Lord Rivenstock, his crimson waistcoat straining over an enormous stomach, rudely viewed Jo from head to toe through his quizzing glass on its black velvet ribbon. His wife merely nodded before turning to welcome the other guests. Jo’s face felt stiff, and her smile wavered.
They entered the ballroom, gaily festooned with lanterns, and decorated with vases of flowers on every table. Jo wondered again why the Rivenstocks had issued them an invitation. Were they paid? Or might they owe Mrs. Millet a favor?
Jo refused to let such concerns spoil her first ball, her attention captured by the smoky ballroom crammed with noisy guests dressed in glorious finery. A footman took them to their chairs, and a handsome young footman approached with a tray of champagne and lemonade. When Jo’s hand hovered over the glass, the footman cleared his throat.
She glanced up at him, then remembered Mrs. Millet’s advice. Young ladies did not drink champagne. The footman angled the tray to bring the lemonade closer. Jo gave him a smile and took it, and was glad of it, for the ballroom, a series of rooms opened to form one long space, was stuffy and overheated. The overly perfumed guests mingled on the edge of the dance floor and barely glanced their way. They might have been part of the wallpaper, which was a bilious green decorated with gold ribbons and bows.
An hour passed, and another set ended. The young footman reappeared. He raised his eyebrows when she took a glass of champagne. He smiled at Jo’s shrug and moved away. Jo had a glass of Madeira once and hadn’t much cared for it, but the champagne was infinitely better. After she’d finished the glass, her nervousness eased.
At the announcement of a quadrille, people left their seats and crossed the floor with their partners. Her father had engaged a Frenchman, Monsieur Forage, to teach Jo the dance steps. While she had danced at assemblies, her partners could not be compared to the elegant gentlemen here.
When the orchestra on the dais struck up, she tried not to wriggle her toes, longing to join the dancers on the floor. But no gentleman asked her. Growing despondent, Jo watched the dancers going through the steps. The young ladies were in white or the palest pastels. Aware of how wrong she looked, Jo sat, her back as stiff as a poker, while Aunt Mary talked with Mrs. Millet.
Her father had become friendly with a couple who hailed from Wiltshire. He regaled them with how Jo had been delightfully plump and freckled as a child and excelled at the lute. “She has her mother’s gift, she sings like an angel,” she heard him say. Jo cringed and wanted to