The Ugly Duckling Debutante (House of Renwick #1)(3)

Was that a rhetorical question?

Her mother droned on, “And, dear, I know you are…well, you’re wicked-looking, but if you could please swallow your pride and do whatever it takes, we would be grateful. After all, this is your one and only chance for any sort of affection from another person. And we all desire affection. Even ugly children desire acceptance.”

Hearing enough, she bit her lip to keep from talking. Sara nodded her head and closed the door to the carriage. Her body felt numb. She knew all about emotional rejection; it was her cross to bear, but to be reminded by one’s own mother time and time again was the worst pain imaginable. Turning her head toward the window, she pulled her knees up to her chest and sighed. Aunt Tilda reached across and patted her hand much like a stranger would do to comfort a small child.

“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.