Chapter 12

T he invitation arrived on the first of December:

Your presence is requested

At the Wicked Widows’ annual Christmas Ball

To be held at Matron Manor on Christmas Eve

Commencing at eight o’clock in the evening.

An additional slip of paper was tucked inside the invitation with a handwritten note from Lady Sylvan:

Don’t even think of declining. I have the perfect gown for you—red velvet, trimmed in gold. It belongs to Mrs. Johnstone, who has agreed to lend it to you. It will fit, and you shall look divine! We’ll make up a room for you at the house, and I want to hear all about your cottage.

Charlotte

In truth, although Gwendolyn wasn’t much for balls, she was grateful for the invitation. Mariah was making the short journey back to her parents’ home south of London, meaning Gwen would be alone for Christmas. Of course, she would see the entire village at church, and she was confident some family would invite her to join them for Christmas dinner.

But she knew already that, were she to accept such an invitation, she would spend the whole evening fretting about what she perceived to be an imposition. It would have been different if there were a handful of spinsters in town who might gather for their own celebrations, but there were not.

Well, no matter. It happened that Gwen was a member of a circle of such women.

The Wicked Widows.

And so, the day before Christmas, Gwendolyn went up to London. She was greeted by Lady Sylvan and Mrs. Johnstone, the owner of the dress she was to borrow for the ball.

Gwendolyn felt a bit self-conscious as they ushered her up the stairs at Matron Manor. Lady Sylvan and Mrs. Johnstone were both sophisticated and confident. Lady Sylvan had on a gown of gold brocaded silk, and Mrs. Johnstone wore one of midnight blue velvet with a daring neckline. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn was wearing a plain gown of olive-green wool, which was practical both for beekeeping and carriage travel in December. But she could not help but feel like a cabbage next to these hothouse flowers.

Lady Sylvan’s voice was warm as she said, “Tell us all about your cottage. Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”

The pair proceeded to ask Gwen all manner of questions about her country life in Merstham. If they found it dull to spend the afternoon with a mousy bluestocking whose married life had lasted a mere eight hours and whose conversation centered around beekeeping rather than romantic conquests, they gave no sign of it. Just when she thought she must be boring them witless, they would ask another question, and they laughed uproariously when she told them the story about little Mercy Charbonnel spearing Joseph in the arse with her hatpin.

“I like this Miss Mercy,” Lady Sylvan said.

“She may only be fifteen,” Mrs. Johnstone noted, “and not even married, much less a widow. But I am going to keep an ear out for her. Should the right set of circumstances arise, I think she has the makings of a splendid Wicked Widow.” She clapped her hands. “But come, Gwendolyn. It’s time to get you dressed for the ball.”

That was what Gwendolyn had been afraid of, and her trepidation grew tenfold when Mrs. Johnstone brought out the ballgown she meant for Gwen to borrow. It was precisely the sort of garment she avoided like a malarial swamp. It was red , for one thing, with a low-cut velvet bodice and gleaming satin skirts embroidered with gold. It was the type of garment a sophisticated, confident woman would wear. Did they not understand that was not her?

Lady Sylvan and Mrs. Johnstone seemed ignorant of this fact, because they ignored her protestations. With the help of the pair of maids they summoned, they proceeded to strip her of her practical olive dress and stuff her into the scandalous scarlet gown.

“There!” Lady Sylvan exclaimed over Gwendolyn’s sputtered protests. The marchioness seized Gwen by the shoulders and spun her to face the cheval mirror. “How do you like it now?”

The first thing Gwen noticed when she looked in the mirror was that her cheeks were almost as red as the gown. The second was her decolletage, which was on display like a rack of Christmas lamb in the butcher shop window. “I look ridiculous!” she hissed.

“No, you don’t.” Mrs. Johnstone stalked over to the mirror, scooping Gwen’s discarded dress from the floor as she went. She draped the olive fabric over the upper quarter of the mirror so that all Gwendolyn could see was her reflection from the neck down. “Pretend you’re not the one wearing it. Imagine it’s someone else.”

“But I know it’s me,” Gwen protested weakly.

Mrs. Johnstone gave her a sharp look. “Do it! Imagine you saw some other woman walk into the ball wearing this gown. What would you think of her?”

Gwendolyn tried, really tried, to pretend she was looking at someone else. It was difficult, but the truth was, she never looked at another woman and thought she was too plump or that her neckline was shamefully low.

For some reason, she saved all her most unkind thoughts for herself.

The fact that her face was covered made it just possible to suspend her disbelief. “I would think,” Gwen said haltingly, “that the woman wearing this dress was daring. Confident.” She peered at the reflection in the mirror, and it struck her that, although her breasts looked bounteous, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. And the gown’s full skirts and gold sash made her waist look relatively small.

She spoke the truth in a rush before she lost her nerve. “And I would think that this woman has the sort of figure that men like.”

Lady Sylvan, Mrs. Johnstone, and the two maids crowed in delight. “And you would be right,” Mrs. Johnstone said as she removed Gwen’s dress from the top of the mirror.

Gwendolyn winced at the disconcerting image of her face attached to the voluptuous figure in the mirror.

Lady Sylvan clapped her hands. “Stop making that face!”

“But—”

“No buts,” the marchioness insisted, pulling Gwendolyn toward the dressing table. “Let us do something divine with your hair, and then you, my dear, are going to dance the night away, not hide yourself in the corner. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’ll try,” Gwen mumbled as one of the maids pulled her hair out of its tightly drawn bun.

A half-hour later, she made her way down the stairs, flanked by Mrs. Johnstone and Lady Sylvan. She spied a sphere of mistletoe suspended from the ceiling in the foyer by a red silk ribbon and made sure to skirt the edges of the room.

The ballroom glowed with soft, golden candlelight. Ropes of pine boughs had been draped along the walls, and clusters of red berries festooned each of the chandeliers. The smells of nutmeg and cinnamon, as well as the heady scent of spiced wine, caught her attention as they passed the refreshment table. Instead of the usual ballroom fare of lemonade and bite-sized cakes, it held a steaming bowl of spiced negus and a tiered tray holding mince pies, slices of Madeira cake, and miniature Christmas puddings.

As they crossed the ballroom, Gwendolyn noticed several gentlemen turning to regard them, doubtlessly because she was standing between two such stunning women.

Partners quickly came to claim Mrs. Johnstone and Lady Sylvan for the first dance. Gwen was just preparing to slip into the corner when a familiar voice said, “Gwen!”

Startled, she looked up. “Tom!”