“No fear, my girl, I have a grand plan. A plan even you can’t ruin.” She smiled cheerfully before putting a covering over her eyes and going silent, most likely to sleep.
It’s an adventure, it’s an adventure, Sara kept repeating over and over again in her head to keep herself from crying. Being mortified in front of her family because of her looks she could handle, but being humiliated in front of the ton was quite another. “Dear God, if you can do miracles, I ask for one right now. Make me pretty; make me loveable. I don’t care if I let my family down, I just don’t want to feel this way ever again.” The stress of the day overwhelming her, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Two
Nicholas Devons, seventh Earl of Renwick, was exhausted. Though only a measly thirty years of age, at this moment he felt ancient, as if his name should already be appearing in history books. One always did at debutante balls—how many had he seen in the past few years? And how many more would he have to endure? His title demanded he do his duty by attending. Not only was he required to attend, but he also must dance—and dance he would, because it was expected of him.
Overbearing mothers clad in glitzy dresses stared at him heatedly, leaving him feeling like he was in the fires of Hell itself. Actually, at this moment he wished he were anywhere—no matter how hot and torturous—but here. It was a nightmare fit for one of those fairy storybooks his nieces so often begged him to read at bedtime.
He rolled his eyes when yet another mother approached with daughter in tow. “My lord,” she bowed lower than her dress should have allowed, considering her bosom nearly fell straight out of it, and smiled, revealing yellowish teeth better suited for a horse. “Allow me to present to you Lady Alisa.” The young girl, who looked barely old enough to be out of the schoolroom, was complete with the new French style of dress which hardly left anything to the imagination. Her hair, pulled into tight ringlets around her head, was dusted with so much powder, he couldn’t actually tell her real hair color. Her lips were large and painted with rouge, and her eyes had so much kohl on them, she looked like a raccoon.
Bending over her hand, he cursed his rotten luck and brought her shaking fingers to his lips. Her ‘look’ was probably a ruse. Her hair must be some disdainful color for her mother to go to so much work to cover it up. A pity, really. If she wore less face paint and powder, she might be attractive. Might being the key word.
“My lord.” She bowed lower than her mother, which Nicholas thought nearly impossible, and smiled revealing straight white teeth, although quite small and not fitting for her large mouth. Her gums seemed to stick out more than her teeth, making Nicholas stare longer than usual. Lady Isabel, the mother in question smirked, taking the purpose of Nicholas’s stare as encouragement and pushed her daughter into his reluctant arms. With a huff of satisfaction she said.
“If you’ll just excuse me then,” and without an other word scurried away without looking back.
And so it happened Lord Renwick was stuck with this untamed and amiable creature called Alisa. “Is this your first season?” he asked politely while leading her to the dance floor.
“Yes.” Blush crept into her cheeks when she bowed before him and took her place in the dance. Talking to this woman was his own version of torture. It was why he never talked to women; naturally, they never really had anything intelligent to say.
The dance ended a painful two minutes later, leaving Nicholas displeased with his new acquaintance. She was—what was the word? Oh yes, boring. He bowed deeply, taking her hand in his own and brushed a light kiss across her glove. Her hand trembled at his touch. He controlled the urge to smile. Had it really been so long ago that he had been the famous rake of the ton? Taking innocent girls into darkened rooms and locking the doors behind him. Now that he was really thinking on it, the girls he took pleasure in were hardly innocents. They were basically begging him with their eyes to bed them, not that it gave him any right to do so. He hadn’t truly known then what it was like to be religious or a strong believer in a higher power. Most of the ton looked at Christianity as a cult, not realizing it was the one true way to Salvation. Since his days frolicking around with married and unmarried women of the ton, he had come to realize it was better that he not give into the lustful desires of man.
No, he would be like the disciples. He would stay single and donate his money to charity whenever possible. Controlling his impulses was never his strong suit, but in the past year he found it easier and easier if he just stayed away from the more tempting of the female sex. They were, after all, extremely frivolous. Were the debutante balls not mere examples of the idiocy of the ton? Families spent fortunes in the name of their daughters’ debuts, hoping to find them a good match. Many of them aimed for viscounts, earls, and even dukes, though the last were extremely hard to come by these days. Most dukes were overweight, over-brandied versions of Nicholas’ own grandfather and not the marriageable type. It didn’t stop the mothers from pursuing the match, though it should have. They still threw their young girls at men twice their ages for a title. The whole thing made him ill. He may have a reputation, but at least he didn’t marry for money. Not that he needed it.
The Earl of Renwick had enough money to support more than one wife and a mistress, even if they all had children and houses of their own. He had a thriving mercantile business as well as old money that, thanks to his ancestors, continued to double and triple with the years. It seemed the more money he gave away to charity, the more money he had. It was an endless pursuit. At one point, he thought to bankrupt himself just so he could be free of the sins of his youth, not that it was all that long ago.
He sighed and walked to the edge of the dance floor. Sir Belverd was waiting for him with a smirk on his face.
“How old was that one?”
Lord Renwick held back a smile. “Oh, I believe this is her first season. She can’t be more than one and seven.”
Sir Belverd took a sip of champagne. “It seems they just keep getting younger and younger.”
“Or we keep getting older,” Nicholas finished.
Belverd chuckled. “Yes. Well, my friend, at least some of us have a mind to settle down. What are you now? Almost past your thirtieth year and you still have no wife or children?”
Nicholas hated this type of conversation. He knew Belverd meant well; after all, Belverd had married the most chaste and wonderful woman in the entire ton. Men with his luck had natural bragging rights.
“Marriage isn’t for me,” he answered, putting his own champagne down. It had suddenly gone dry in his mouth. He knew he was lying to himself saying marriage wasn’t for him, but he just couldn’t see a way where lust and love met in the middle. If he ever did marry, he would want her to be innocent enough to not push him past his physical limitations, and sweet enough to be a good mother. It was a nearly impossible find, considering his present company. Plus, any good Christian woman would be disgusted by his past. He didn’t deserve anyone good and didn’t desire to marry anyone as blemished as he.
Belverd obviously didn’t take that as an adequate answer and went on talking. “Renwick, one of these days, you’re going to find someone who turns that brooding head of yours, and when it happens, I’ll be standing right where I am now, relatively,” he waved his flippantly into the air, “and laughing. Yes, the day I see you fall to some poor woman’s feet, I will throw a ball in your honor.”
Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. “Big words and promises from a man such as yourself.”
“How about a wager then?” Belverd turned toward him with a devious look in his eyes. A head taller than most men, he had silver streaks running through his otherwise jet-black hair. His eyes were a grayish blue, giving him an intimidating yet calculating presence.
Intrigued. Nicholas raised an eyebrow and turned to full face Belverd. “What sort of wager, Friend?”
Belverd shifted on his feet and whispered, “If you can stay single this season, and this season alone, without any sort of scandal or a marriage, I’ll give you the feather.”
Nicholas’s eyes widened in surprise. “The feather? You’re just going to give me the feather?” The feather—an actual feather, highly prized by the group of gentlemen—represented one’s rank and station above the rest of the men. It had been passed amongst them to the gentleman who achieved a great victory or won a wager. The man who possessed the feather could ask a favor of anyone, including Prinny himself, and it would be granted. It was an honor highly sought after in Nicholas’s circle of friends.
Nicholas didn’t even have to think about it. He was, after all, going to live chaste for the rest of his days, and it wasn’t as if some girl would suddenly appear in the ton who would change that for him. He was more likely to be struck by lightning. He smiled and shook Belverd’s extended hand. “You, my friend, have a deal.”
Chapter Three
Sara jolted awake as the carriage rumbled to a stop. A hand shook her shoulder roughly, and she opened her eyes groggily to peer out the carriage window.
"We have arrived," announced her aunt, slicing through Sara's somnolent fog and jerking her abruptly into the present reality. It wasn't just a nightmare. This was really happening, and it frightened her out of her mind.
She quickly moved to the carriage door and took the hand of the footman to step down. Her first glance at her aunt’s townhome gave her pause as she disembarked the carriage. It was located on a row of extravagant mansions, and still it stood out as breathtaking in its magnificence. Just how wealthy was her distant aunt?
As if she heard her thoughts, Aunt Tilda suddenly turned. “Don’t gawk, girl. It isn’t becoming of a lady. Now hurry along inside. Drake will show you to your chambers. I’m sure you will wish to freshen up before the modiste arrives.”
Sara stared at her blankly, a modiste? She would get dresses? Just how many dresses would she have? Her insides turned to jelly in the realization of how completely out of place she really was.
“Oh, and Sara?” Sara turned as she stepped over the threshold of the magnificent house.
“Yes, Aunt?”
“Do remember to refer to me as Lady Fenton. We’re in London after all. Addressing me in such a familiar way is frowned upon.”
“As you wish,” Sara said. Venturing further into the house, the first thing she noticed was the sheer beauty of the place. The walls were adorned with expensive paintings and moldings of Greek mythological creatures. The floor was engraved marble and shined to perfection. Even the servants were better attired than she.
She should have felt self-conscious, but she spent her life being stared at and told she was ugly, so why would she feel any different in this situation? The servants working in the great hall bowed to acknowledge her as Drake led her to the stairs where a petite lady’s maid about the same age as Sara offered a brief curtsy.
“Miss Ames, this is your maid. She will direct you to your room,” the old butler instructed her.