Chapter 3

"Tonight's ball will be essential in establishing your foothold in this season's marriage mart," Aunt Philippa drawled as she circled around Gemma. "And that means perfection. If you can help it, do not rattle on about novels, or the opera. Or anything else, for that matter. Let everything you say leave them wanting more ."

Already, Gemma wondered if she'd just traded in one matchmaking aficionado with another. She straightened her back, lifting her chin and hoping she wouldn't do anything to earn her aunt's censure tonight. Though she probably would.

At her feet, Udolpho arched his back, purring loudly.

"I still don't know what you find charming about that mangy little thing," Aunt Philippa sighed.

"Udolpho," Gemma picked the cat up, placing a kiss on his forehead, "Udolpho is my companion. I simply couldn't leave him in Willow Grove. Mama doesn't understand him."

Aunt Philippa raised an eyebrow, and did not return Gemma's grin. "Put him down, and show me your walk."

Gemma sighed and put down Udolpho, and began to promenade across the bedroom, doing her best to balance in her uncomfortable shoes.

"That will suffice, I suppose."

"How many people will be in attendance?"

Aunt Philippa gave her dress a tug, causing Gemma to gasp. "Everyone who matters in London society. I am very well connected. Now, let Rose arrange your hair and put on the finishing touches. I'm going to see how everything is coming along downstairs."

Gemma sighed with relief when her Aunt Philippa swept out, the very epitome of pomp and circumstance. Rose, the chatty young maid her aunt assigned her, hurried over and began to work on Gemma's dark hair, arranging it in a becoming style, curling the tendrils around Gemma's temples and cheeks for embellishment. She nestled brilliants in the coil atop Gemma's head, and proceeded to apply the slightest bit of colour and touch of balm on the lips.

Gemma blew out a shaky breath, leaning forward slightly to examine herself, tilting her head this way and that. She'd gotten thinner since arriving in London, and she owed this mostly to nervousness, and busyness. She had already attended a handful of smaller parties with her aunt, but they had been with only her aunt's closest friends, and a whist party here and there. Other than that, she had yet to truly see the social scene that London had to offer.

Udolpho meowed, nudging his head against Gemma's leg, and she bent down to gather him in her arms. A ball in my honour . Which meant that she would be the center of attention. Gemma's stomach twisted and she closed her eyes. "I wish you could come with me, Udolpho," she whispered. In the mirror reflection, she watched Rose smile softly as she lay out her shawl on the bed.

"You will do very well, Miss," Rose spoke up in her thick accent.

"I would not be surprised if I tripped on my way down the stairs," Gemma stood, her legs wobbly.

Rose's mouth twitched. "I doubt you will, Miss."

***

"Do stop fidgeting, Gemma," Aunt Philippa whispered, without even glancing in Gemma's direction. Gemma straightened at once, locking her arms at her side. She hoped to achieve her aunt's majestic stance, straight back, a languid way of looking around, as if nothing in the world could cow her. The first of the guests began to filter into the room, and the reception line began to build.

"This is Duke and Duchess Elmore," Aunt Philippa began with the first couple, a finely-dressed pair. Lady Elmore wore glistening silk and jewels at her throat that glistened in the candlelight. Both of them studied Gemma closely when Aunt Philippa introduced her, and she might have been a pinned butterfly in a glass case, the way they stared. Too freely, too critically. She wanted to run up to her room and hide in there all of a sudden rather than stay here next to her aunt, and endure an evening full of artifice and scrutinizing. Everything about her first debut came rushing back to her in a dizzying fashion, and her thoughts began to run together.

The last time she'd been at a party like this, in a room like this one, she'd just found out about her father's failing health. His dark moods had begun to manifest, and he'd started to lock himself away for days upon days.

Gemma took a deep breath to center herself. She couldn't let herself think about that.

"Is something amiss, my dear? You look pale." Aunt Philippa whispered, before transforming her tone abruptly to greet a young man, "A pleasure to see you, Viscount Standridge. Permit me to introduce my niece, Gemma Hayesworth."

Gemma just barely remembered in time that she was meant to curtsey.

Viscount Standridge bowed low over her hand, and she didn't miss the way his gaze flickered over her. Oh yes, she distinctly remembered despising it when men did that during her debut season.

She offered him a pasted-on smile as the viscount moved on, and Aunt Philippa leaned close to her, whispering, "He makes eight thousand pounds per year."

Gemma tried to maintain her smile. Eight-thousand pounds or not, he possessed a countenance she did not admire.

Gemma spent what must have been an eternity greeting strangers, trying to remember names, trying to come up with some excuse to return to her bedchamber, to fetch something—anything, really. To powder her nose, perhaps? Or re-apply color to her lips?

She was just about to sink into the crowd, after the last introduction, when her aunt touched her arm. "Oh, come now. I must introduce you to a dear friend of mine. Lord Colin Neville."

Gemma turned to stare up into an older gentleman's brown eyes, which crinkled in a soft smile.

"Lord Neville, my long-lost niece, Gemma Hayesworth. She's been hiding away in the country."

"Ah yes, the humble little country dweller." Crow's feet appeared at the corners of his eyes as his smile broadened. At his temples, she noted touches of gray hair, indicating that he must be well over twenty years her senior. Perhaps even older than Aunt Philippa.

"Oh, Lord Neville," Aunt Philippa chortled, fluttering her fan. "Do not jest."

Gemma's face heated at the man's rather odd remark. She tried to smile, dipping in a small curtsey.

"It appears that the merrymaking has begun," Lord Neville murmured as the ensemble started to play. He turned to Gemma, and bowed again. "Might I have the honour of this dance, Miss Hayesworth?"

Gemma glanced at Aunt Philippa, who gave a small nod, as if hissing, "Do accept his invitation." She could only imagine Aunt Philippa's expression should she attempt to refuse.

"It would be an honour." She curtsied again, and took Lord Neville's proffered hand, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. She crossed the shiny floor to assume her place in the row of women waiting for the dance to begin.

"It is my understanding, Miss Hayesworth, that you have entered London society once before?"

"Ah—yes. Well over four years ago."

"It is a shame about your father. Permit me to extend my sincerest regrets. Your father was an estimable man."

"Thank you," Gemma's throat closed. She attempted to change the subject. "What is it that you enjoy as leisure, Lord Neville?"

"I thoroughly enjoy a good ride, or a walk about Hyde Park."

The dancing began, and Gemma tried to remember the steps she'd been relearning over the past few days. Aunt Philippa had been kind enough to bring in a dancing instructor, but the instructor had been wildly exasperated by Gemma's lack of grace while dancing.

She moved forward, focusing on the placement of each foot, and as she circled with Lord Neville, her hand in his, she held her breath, hoping she didn't trip. So distracted was she by the art of dancing that she didn't hear a word her partner spoke until he addressed her, in an uncertain tone. "Miss Hayesworth?"

Gemma flinched. "Oh, yes." She could do one of two things: pretend as if she'd heard him, or simply ask him to reiterate. "How lovely."

"Lovely?" Lord Neville's pale eyebrows drew together and Gemma's stomach dropped.

"Forgive me," Gemma was thankful for the opportunity to turn away from him, sure that her face had gone beet red.

He offered her a slight smile when she circled back to face him. One step forward, two steps forward, three steps forward…and back.

"Ah," he let out a soft chuckle, something like dismay tugging at his features. "I see that I am boring you. Droning on and on…" he managed a polite smile when she drew close to him again. "Forgive me."

"No, no—forgive me," Gemma blurted. "I truly did not design to ignore you or disregard our conversation. It is merely—I mean—" her face burned hotter until it might have outshone the candelabra hanging high above their heads.

"Never mind," Lord Neville grasped her hand, leading her forwards in the dance procession. "Let us turn to other more diverting subjects. How have you found London this season? Your aunt tells me she means to take you to a concert promptly."

"Indeed she does. She hopes for me to see an Italian opera."

"Pray, have you attended such a concert before."

Once, with Father. "Yes—but it has been a considerable length of time since then."

"Well, I pray that you find it a pleasurable experience."

The dance drew to a close, and Lord Neville bowed low, Gemma curtsying. He had not led her off the floor but for a moment when several young men cornered them, and each asked Gemma for a dance. Her card filled up rapidly, the last dance reserved again by Lord Neville. Gemma found this astonishing, as she had likely insulted him by her inattention. But Aunt Philippa might be pleased, since she evidently held Lord Neville in high-esteem. Her pointed glances when he'd approached earlier indicated she hoped to make a match of Gemma and Lord Neville.

And sure enough, her aunt bustled up to her, drawing Gemma towards the refreshments. She snatched Gemma's card to examine it. "Lord Neville again?" she gasped.

"Aye," Gemma smiled, hoping that the evening would take a turn for the better. She just needed to make it through without utterly mortifying her generous aunt or causing her to regret ever bringing Gemma back to London.

"I beg you to refrain from using aye in conversation , " Aunt Philippa whispered. "Heavens, you've been in the country perhaps too long."

Gemma's stomach twisted. It was not exactly desirable for us either, to sell Father's estate, his things, and most of his books. But we were afforded no choice.

A server passed carrying glasses of Madeira—Aunt Philippa adored Madeira, as she'd declared last evening. She plucked one off the tray and handed it to Gemma, before taking one for herself. "Come, now, I see the Nelsons over there. They are most eager to learn more about you."

The rest of the hour passed lost in the labyrinth that was conversation with some of London's premier socialites. The Nelsons were a younger, handsome couple, around Aunt Philippa's age, and they adored the opera and travel to Venice. They told her all about the Carnevale , before it had been abolished in 1797, although private masked events were still held throughout the city every year.

Gemma wished that such an event could be held here in London. The thought of hiding behind a mask. The sting of her missteps and misapprehensions would be dulled by the anonymity of a face covering. She turned her head and through the crowd spotted a young woman standing near the wall, beside an older man and woman, presumably her parents. She looked as lost and alone as Gemma felt, and at last, she managed to extricate herself from Aunt Philippa and the Nelsons, slipping across the room to exchange her wine for lemonade. The room had become rather stuffy, and she'd prefer ice-cold lemonade to the slightly warm Madeira.

The young woman, it took her a moment to recall, had to be Miss Prudence Harcourt, who she'd met earlier at the reception line. At least, she prayed that she remembered her name correctly. She approached the young woman, whose blond curls were crimped perfectly around her rosy, round cheeks, giving her a cherubic look. Her eyes were lowered to the ground as she sipped her own glass of lemonade beside her parents. They hardly seemed to remember her presence, so absorbed were they in sloshing wine and gossiping with several others.

"Good evening, Miss Harcourt," Gemma offered Prudence her warmest smile. She dipped in a curtsey, and Prudence returned the gesture, nervousness in her glance.

"Good evening, Miss Hayesworth," she said in a rush.

Gemma's mind raced as she searched for something to converse about with Prudence. "Is this your first season?" She inquired.

"Oh, no. ‘It is my third."

"My second," Gemma told her.

"The marriage mart can be…tempestuous," Prudence sighed.

"I do think Lady Kenway is in need of diversion these days. I can't think why else she would think to invite Lord Oliver Hayesworth's daughter," A woman's tinny voice caught Gemma's attention, and Prudence must have heard too, for her eyes went wide.

"Family or not, it truly is generous of her to put so much time into the girl."

"As I said, she seeks diversion. The Hayesworth girl is her pet."

Gemma stiffened, unable to meet Prudence's eyes. Her face and eyes burned. And suddenly, her stays squeezed into her ribcage, digging into her lungs it seemed. She whispered to Prudence an apology and excused herself, slipping through the guests till she finally reached the doors leading to Aunt Philippa's extensive gardens.

The kiss of the evening air greeted her, and she closed the door behind her quietly, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears leaked down her cheeks.

And then she tore herself off the wall and hurried down the stone steps into the tunnel of bowers that led from the terrace to the hedge maze.

The nausea of panic rose in the back of her throat, and she struggled to breathe in and out, her heart pounding so hard it made her dizzy. Compose yourself, she told herself severely.

She began to recite in a shaky whisper, "Lyra, Vega, Orion, Andromeda, Cepheus, Cassiopeia…" Gemma closed her eyes, her voice trailing off as memories of Mother frantically telling her to send a servant for the doctor…Gemma telling Mother that all the servants were gone…Mother screaming at Gemma to get a doctor herself then…

She started to recite anew, frantic to keep herself from bursting into sobs. "Lyra…Vega…Orion…Andromeda…" Gemma's thoughts swam, and she couldn't seem to summon the next name.

"Cepheus and Cassiopeia."

She let out a cry when she turned to see the tall figure of a man peeking from around the corner of the bower. He stepped out into the faint light from the house. He extended his hand—a handkerchief, she discerned in the shadows of dusk.