Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(39)

“Thank you, monsieur,” Anna said. “You are very skilled.”

“It will do,” her aunt said.

It was not the end of Anna’s ordeals, however. Her grandmother and other aunts arrived soon after luncheon and only just before Madame Lavalle and two assistants took up residence in the sewing room with enough bolts of fabric and accessories to set up a shop and piles of fashion plates for every type of garment under the sun. The modiste had been commissioned to clothe Lady Anastasia Westcott in a manner that would befit her station and permit her to mingle with the ton as the equal of all and the superior of most.

Anna was exhausted at the end of it. Not only had she had to be measured and pinned and prodded and poked; she had also been forced to look through endless piles of sketches of morning dresses and afternoon dresses, walking dresses and carriage dresses, theater gowns and dinner gowns and ball gowns, and numerous other garments—all of them plural, for one or even two of each would not do at all. She was going to end up with more clothes than all the ones she had ever owned put together, Anna concluded.

Even more overwhelming, perhaps, was the fact that apparently she could afford it all without putting even a slight dent in her fortune. Her aunts had all given her identically incredulous odd looks when she had asked the question.

She had fought several battles before they all withdrew to the drawing room for tea. Some she had lost—the number and type of dresses that were the bare essentials, for example. Some she had won simply by being stubborn, according to Aunt Mildred, and mulish, according to Aunt Matilda. Frills and flounces and trains and fancy lace trims and bows had all been firmly vetoed despite vigorous opposition from the aunts. So had low necklines and little puffed sleeves. She would be Lady Anastasia, Anna had decided, but she must also remain Anna Snow. She would not lose herself no matter how ferociously the ton might frown. And frown it would, Aunt Matilda had warned her.

Oh, and there was her court dress, over which she had almost no control whatsoever, since it was the queen herself who dictated how ladies were to dress when being presented to her—and Lady Anastasia Westcott must be presented, it seemed. Her Majesty expected ladies to dress in the fashion of a bygone age. Anna’s mind had not even begun to grapple with that particular future event yet.

The Earl of Riverdale arrived with his mother soon after they had settled in the drawing room. The earl—Cousin Alexander—actually commented upon how pretty Anna’s hair looked after bowing to all the ladies and before seating himself beside his sister and bending his head to talk with her. Anna found herself wondering if she was blushing and hoped she was not. She was unaccustomed to being complimented on any aspect of her appearance—especially by a handsome, elegant gentleman. He was looking at Elizabeth with a softened expression, almost a smile, and Anna felt a twinge of envy at the obvious closeness of brother and sister. Where was her own brother?

Their mother, Cousin Althea, sat beside Anna, patted her hand, agreed that her hair now looked prettier than it had, and asked how she did. But there was not much chance of conversation.

Aunt Matilda knew a lady of superior breeding and straitened means who would be only too happy to be offered genteel employment for a week or so, coaching Anastasia upon the subject of titles and precedence and court manners and points of fact and etiquette in which her education appeared to be sadly if not totally deficient.

Anna’s grandmother expressed doubt over whether Elizabeth was chaperone enough for Anastasia in such a large house and suggested again that Aunt Matilda take up residence with them. But before Anna could feel too much dismay, Cousin Althea spoke up.

“I would move here myself, Eugenia,” she said, addressing the dowager while patting Anna’s hand, “if I felt my daughter’s presence did not lend sufficient countenance to Anastasia. However, I am quite convinced it does.”

“Lizzie is the well-respected widow of a baronet and sister of an earl,” Cousin Alexander said.

No more was said on the subject. Anna suspected that her grandmother would have been happy to rid herself of Aunt Matilda’s oversolicitous attentions for a while.

Aunt Mildred knew of a dancing master employed by dear friends of hers to help their eldest daughter brush up on her dancing skills before her come-out ball. “Do you waltz, Anastasia?” she asked.

“No, Aunt,” Anna told her. She assumed it was a dance. She had never heard of it.

Aunt Louise clucked her tongue. “Engage him, Mildred,” she said. “Oh, there is a great deal to do.”

It was almost a relief when the Duke of Netherby strolled into the room following the butler’s announcement.

*

There were a dozen congenial ways—at the very least—in which he could be spending an afternoon, Avery thought. Prowling about his own home waiting for a drunken ward to awaken was not among them, though it was what he had been doing. And trotting around to South Audley Street to escort his stepmother home was not one either. Casually fond of the duchess he might be, but he did not involve himself a great deal in her life. Nor did she in his. Very rarely did he escort her anywhere. Nor, to be fair, did she expect it. And if he did go there to fetch her home, he would doubtless find himself knee deep in Westcotts and seamstresses and French hairdressers—were they not all French?—and Lord knew what else. Probably the very proper and very properly elegant Riverdale, with whom he had no sound reason to be irritated, would be there, for he was very definitely the sort who would escort his mother. Avery had every possible reason to pursue one of those dozen congenial activities and give South Audley Street a wide berth.