The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(2)
“Miss Emma Hammerson.”
The large lady in pink urged her sweet-faced charge forward, leaving Charlotte at the head of the line. Now she could see the royals, the Prince Regent and his sisters standing either side of the elderly Queen. The butterflies grew tumultuous.
She turned to Lavinia. “Are you sure you do not want to go first?”
“And precede your mother’s moment of triumph in her beautiful daughter?” Her cousin smiled. “I am happy to wait.”
“She does look beautiful, doesn’t she?”
Mama’s rare compliment pricked warmth in Charlotte’s eyes, the fond expression one she had not seen terribly often of late. Perhaps it was the pressure of organizing so many things for her court presentation and upcoming ball. She eyed Lavinia’s gown, so similar to hers, save it was a pretty peach color, unlike Charlotte’s white. But the hoops, the large bell sleeves, the requisite ostrich feathers were the same as those worn by the other ladies present. During their shopping expeditions to acquire such necessities, she’d often heard Lavinia’s disapproval about the folly of hundreds of pounds spent for a gown worn only once. But then, Lavinia had grown up in rural Gloucestershire and had, until recently, little idea as to how things were done in society.
“I believe you the prettiest lady here today,” her cousin continued.
“You exaggerate,” Charlotte said, never too sure in her appearance.
“Not at all. You are quite in your best looks.”
At Lavinia’s comment, Mama assumed a look of complacency, nodding to the dark-haired Lord Chamberlain, as if expecting him to agree.
From the image greeting her in the mirrored door Charlotte thought she looked well, despite the ridiculous hooped petticoats doing nothing for anyone’s figure. Her dark blond hair had been expertly styled by Ellen, Mama’s lady’s maid, whose skill in dressing hair far surpassed that of Sarah, Charlotte’s own maid. The diamond drops in her ears, an early birthday present from Father, were of a beautiful cut and brilliancy; the pearl necklet everything expensive yet modest.
The dress itself, though of a style fashionable half a century ago, did suit her curves and tiny waist a little more than some others. Elegant silver embroidery embellished a petticoat of crêpe, trimmed with wreaths of white roses, with a double flounce at the bottom, fringed with silver. The train and body were of white crêpe and silver tissue, the short sleeves trimmed with blond lace and pearls, tied in two parts with a silver band. A laurel tippet, silver girdle, and white kid shoes topped with tiny rosettes completed her grande toilette, although standing for so long had made the ensemble weigh far more than one expected. But everything was in order, and enough—she hoped—to make her acceptable to the Queen.
“Lady Charlotte Featherington,” the Lord Chamberlain called, unnecessarily loudly, considering they were standing so close.
Charlotte bit back a grin as Mama mumbled something about not being deaf, and returned the gentle pressure in Lavinia’s clasped hand before moving forward, careful not to step on the lacy flounces of her bulky petticoats.
“Come.”
Mama’s grasp held nothing of gentleness, rather a feeling of determination. Charlotte kept her smile fixed in place as she walked to where the elderly Queen Charlotte sat, surrounded by the prince and princesses, with various attendants standing just beyond. Moisture lined her hands. She wished she could wipe them; thank goodness she wore gloves. “Glide like a swan,” Lady Rosemond, the specialist on court etiquette, had cautioned. Since her lessons on gliding and curtsying appropriately, Charlotte had practiced studiously. Today would not be the day for any form of inelegance.
As she drew closer, she saw the lines marking the Queen’s face, which elicited a pang of sympathy. She appeared very weary, which was not a surprise considering how many young ladies had been presented already today. Plus, the burden of her son’s antics, which filled so many a hushed conversation, must prove a trial. Heart soft, she drew close, stopped at the marked spot, and inclined her head.
“My daughter, Lady Charlotte Featherington,” Mama intoned.
Now was her moment. Lifting her gaze, she met the pale blue eyes gazing steadily in her direction. She smiled wider, and then bent her right leg behind her left before slowly, carefully, bending her left leg as far as she could, until her right knee almost touched the floor. Holding her upper body as straight as possible, she then forced herself to slowly rise, before finally, finally, she was fully upright again.
“Exeter’s daughter?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Queen nodded before shifting in her seat slightly. “Come here, child.”
Charlotte moved closer and knelt. Lady Rosemond had instructed her for this next stage, too. Leaning forward, she bent her head, and felt the cool lips of the Queen press her forehead.
A kiss on the forehead for the daughters of nobility; an outstretched hand to be kissed by anyone else.
After what she judged a sufficient amount of time had passed, Charlotte pulled back, and resumed the posture Lady Rosemond had insisted upon. Straight back, chest out, chin up, but not looking like a soldier standing on parade.
“Charlotte.” The Queen’s gaze connected with hers, her stilted voice betraying her Germanic ancestry. “Such a pretty name, do you not agree?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Stiff cheeks relaxed at the twinkle she saw in the blue eyes.