Page 31

Seven

“In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.”

Aristotle

AUGUST 17, 1821

Gwen stared at her reflection in the glass, anxiously adjusting the folds of her gown while Buttercup whined and circled her slippers. The pup, newly scrubbed and brushed by a diligent groom in the mews, was scarcely recognizable from the bedraggled creature she had adopted.

Fortunately, Buttercup had revealed herself to be an amiable shadow, content to trail Gwen from room to room and gaze up at her with doleful brown eyes and a twitching snout, as if awaiting instructions only Gwen could give.

“What if they do not like me?” she asked in a whisper.

Octavia snorted, twisting a final curl into place atop Gwen’s head with efficient fingers. “What is there not to like? You’re a delight.”

Gwen’s mouth tugged sideways. “Not according to anyone I know.”

“Oh, posh. The girls from school were envious, and the boys … foolish to a man. Anyone with an ounce of sense finds you charming.”

“But Lady Astley looked ready to faint when we were found on the terrace.”

“Lady Astley is an embittered old bat,” Octavia said, releasing a breath through her nose. A few wispy tendrils escaped from the nape of her neck, betraying her haste. “She would have reacted the same if you had been caught reading sermons aloud. Her household staff tells stories that would curl your hair faster than any iron.”

Despite herself, Gwen smiled. But the tension returned almost at once. She resumed rhythmically clasping and releasing her hands, until⁠—

“Stop that.” Octavia gave her knuckles a quick tap. “You will crease your gown before the dinner even begins.”

Startled, Gwen glanced down and saw the wrinkled patch she had created. With a wince, she tried to smooth the delicate silk, though her fingers trembled. The dinner had dominated her thoughts, looming like a performance for which she had not rehearsed nearly enough.

She was to meet his parents.

The butterflies in her stomach launched into a fresh frenzy, and she pressed a hand to her middle, feeling slightly unwell. What must they think of her? What had they heard about the evening on the terrace?

Aidan.

She mouthed his name silently, still unable to believe she was to marry so esteemed and handsome a gentleman.

Her gaze drifted to the nearby table, where Debrett’s Peerage lay open, spine cracked from repeated consultation. With familiar fingers, she turned to the entry for the Viscount of Moreland once more, though she could have recited the text from memory by now.

The Abbott family boasted a long and illustrious line of titled ancestors, while Gwen’s own lineage felt painfully unremarkable by comparison. Her father was the third son of a minor baron, only set to inherit because his eldest brother had no heirs and the middle brother had passed away two decades earlier.

And her mama? A scholar’s daughter with no ties to society or even the gentry. Respectable, yes, but entirely unsuited to the ballrooms of Mayfair.

What must they think of Lord Aidan Abbott’s offer of marriage to insignificant Gwendolyn Smythe?

Gwen, Gwen the Spotted Giraffe.

The cruel schoolyard chant rose unbidden in her mind, and the bravado she had summoned at the modiste’s shop when facing down Milly dissolved in a flash. Tentative onfidence was no match for the thought of meeting the Morelands—a distinguished and wealthy family with ancestral estates and discerning expectations.

What if they stared as Lady Astley had done? What if their astonishment turned to dismay?

What if they found her entirely unworthy?

What if they simply did not like her?

“Right, you are ready,” Octavia announced, stepping back with a satisfied nod.

Gwen glanced up to see her reflection in the long mirror, now crowned with a carefully arranged fall of red curls. The rest of her thick hair had been coaxed into an intricate chignon, worthy of any duchess’s daughter.