have worn a different gown.”
Prim did not know what Mama was complaining about. Primrose looked down and frowned at her own gown. It was hopelessly dated and childish and frayed from use along the seams. Mama had refused to let Prim borrow one of her sisters’ more mature and sophisticated gowns in what was clearly a flash of pique. Primrose might be allowed to attend this evening, but by God she would look like a poor relation.
Mama was still talking. “. . . and I would not have brought Primrose along had I known. I don’t care what Redding said. Why did he insist on Primrose’s presence?”
Violet shrugged in that unhelpful way of hers. Her gaze scanned the room, the expression mild on her beautiful face. “I do not know. You always tell me not to pester him with trifling questions—”
“Oh! This is not trifling! This is important! This is very important, Violet.” Mama bobbed her head fiercely.
“Mama,” Aster whispered. “People are staring.”
Their mother’s face reddened as she glanced around to discover several people looking their way. If there was one thing Mama hated, it was a spectacle. To clarify, she enjoyed observing spectacles . . . as long as they did not involve her.
“Well,” she said, her voice much more subdued. “This is vastly improper. Primrose should not be here.”
Aster tried for calm. “He explicitly invited her.”
“Yes. And why is that?” Mama stabbed her fan in Prim’s direction. “Why should he care one whit on the matter of your sister’s attendance this evening?” She looked suspiciously at Violet. “Is this your doing? To delay me sending your sister away? It won’t work. She leaves tomorrow.”
“It was not me,” Violet said defensively. “Although what difference will one day make?” Violet rolled her eyes, waving in the general direction of her betrothed. “I haven’t the foggiest notion. If you really must know, why don’t you go march over there and ask him yourself, Mama?”
That was a challenge their mother certainly would not accept. And Violet knew that.
Mama puffed up like a bird with riled feathers. “Well, I would never . . .”
“Then please, for the love of all that is holy, cease haranguing me on the matter.”
“Hmpf” was Mama’s only response.
“Oh, I see dear Felicity. I must go say hello.” Violet slipped away with a relieved exhalation and Primrose envied her easy escape.
Mama whipped her glare to Aster.
Aster shrugged.
“What are you doing standing here on the fringe of the ballroom? You should be out there socializing and winning yourself some admirers.” She fluttered her hand at the dense crowd.
Despite Mama’s rebuke, Aster did not move to follow her bidding. If anything, her sister shrank back further.
Mama shook her head in disgust then turned her gaze on Prim.
It was unfortunate timing, for Prim was caught sending a glance of longing to the colorful swirl of dancing figures.
Mama scowled, her countenance turning particularly spiteful. “Do not look so pleased with yourself,” she admonished.
Prim could not help it. She was released from the prison of her room and out in Society. It was finally happening. She had thought she would be stuffed into a carriage this day and on her way north. Instead she was at a ball. It might be the only ball she would attend in the next couple of decades, but here she was, nonetheless. She would not pretend to dislike it.
It also amused her to think that Mama had been forced into this—into doing something she would have never done under normal circumstances. Aster’s warning about keeping her voice down must have had some influence, however. Mama glanced around warily and leaned closer to mouth something at Primrose that she could not even begin to interpret. The words were much too angry and flying much too quickly from her lips.
Then Mama stopped. Froze. Her eyes bulged as she fixed on something just beyond Prim’s shoulder.
The tiny hairs at the back of Prim’s neck tingled in awareness. Her stomach churned uneasily.
Slowly, Prim turned. Redding stopped before them. Her gaze skipped right over him, however, to the man beside him.
Jacob. He was here, standing before her.
The din of the ballroom faded. Prim could scarcely hear Redding speaking even as she recognized that his lips were moving. His words were dim and far away, as if coming from within a cave.
“Mrs. Ainsworth, Miss Aster, and Miss Primrose, allow me to introduce my guest this evening, the Duke of Hampstead.”
Primrose could not move.
The Duke of Hampstead.
It could not be true.
It could not be .