very great pity.
So, dressed in a ball gown of heavy, pale golden satin, her hair caught up, but for one large, plump curl that hung over her shoulder, Camille prepared to socialize with her set. Merry placed a heavy velvet cloak of topaz velvet around her shoulders and handed her a fur-lined tippet for her hands, before stepping back with a happy sigh.
‘You be beautiful!’
Camille chuckled. ‘If I am it is because your handiwork has made me so. You do not need to wait up.’
‘I will, though,’ Merry replied smartly. ‘You’ll not be putting yourself to bed.’
Camille did not point out that she had been doing so for some time before Merry had arrived on the scene. Instead, she merely shrugged. ‘Then build up the fire and nap. I may be quite late.’
Kerrimere, the Fallston country residence, was an impressive stone building that was a true manor house. Footmen were waiting to usher the guests in, holding umbrellas up to lessen their discomfort as they hurried into the house. Clearly, a great many people had thought as she had, for guests continued to arrive behind her and the rooms were well populated, more so than she would have thought possible in the country. Some guests must have travelled some distance to attend.
Camille drew a deep breath, handed over her cloak and tippet, and sailed forward to be received by her host and hostess for the evening.
She had met both of the Fallston’s at Mrs. Harkness’ diner party, of course. Amelia Fallston, elegantly dressed in pale blue sarcenet and diamonds, gave her a wide smile. ‘Lady Durham, how brave of you, coming out in this dreadful weather!’
‘How could I not? My first English ball. I am very excited.’
‘Well, let’s hope we don’t disappoint, hey,’ Lord Fallston boomed. As thin and fragile as his wife looked, his lordship was the exact opposite, a portly gentleman with an enormous voice. They seemed like an odd couple, complete opposites really, but so often it was with marriage. It was almost certain that it had been an arrangement between the two families. Lady Fallston was considerably younger than her husband, forty to his fifty-five, perhaps. Camille wondered if the poor woman had ever been happy with the match and didn’t wonder that she might pine after the likes of Tapscott.
The ballroom, while not enormous, was certainly large enough to comfortably accommodate several hundred people and it glittered with light, a lustrous glow throwing a patina of gold that reflected the soft sheen of her gown. Camille smiled at this person and that, many of them unknown to her, trying hard not to look for Lord Tapscott. He might not even be here. While it was certain Lady Fallston would have invited him, there was not certainty that he would put in an appearance. Although, after showing up the other day, it was unlikely that he would show any discretion.
She was hailed the moment she walked into the ballroom by Clara Harkness and several young ladies, surely debutantes on the brink of enjoying their first Season.
‘Lady Durham,’ Clara said happily, ‘but how pretty you look!’
Camille smiled. ‘Not nearly as pretty as you, Miss Harkness. Your dress is as lovely as you are.’ And indeed, on this occasion neither mother nor daughter had gone too far and her pale blue silk dress suited her to perfection.
Clara blushed. ‘Thank you. These are my friends, Helena Goring and Olympia Farringdon.’
Introductions having been made, the three girls set about quizzing Camille about her gown, demanding to know who had made it for her. By the end of the conversation, she suspected that the little dressmaker would be receiving calls from some new patrons in the not too distant future.
For the first hour after her arrival, she was kept busy with the social necessities, undergoing introductions (not everybody had attended Mrs. Harkness’ dinner party), making conversation and, when the music started up, taking to the dance floor. She danced every
So, dressed in a ball gown of heavy, pale golden satin, her hair caught up, but for one large, plump curl that hung over her shoulder, Camille prepared to socialize with her set. Merry placed a heavy velvet cloak of topaz velvet around her shoulders and handed her a fur-lined tippet for her hands, before stepping back with a happy sigh.
‘You be beautiful!’
Camille chuckled. ‘If I am it is because your handiwork has made me so. You do not need to wait up.’
‘I will, though,’ Merry replied smartly. ‘You’ll not be putting yourself to bed.’
Camille did not point out that she had been doing so for some time before Merry had arrived on the scene. Instead, she merely shrugged. ‘Then build up the fire and nap. I may be quite late.’
Kerrimere, the Fallston country residence, was an impressive stone building that was a true manor house. Footmen were waiting to usher the guests in, holding umbrellas up to lessen their discomfort as they hurried into the house. Clearly, a great many people had thought as she had, for guests continued to arrive behind her and the rooms were well populated, more so than she would have thought possible in the country. Some guests must have travelled some distance to attend.
Camille drew a deep breath, handed over her cloak and tippet, and sailed forward to be received by her host and hostess for the evening.
She had met both of the Fallston’s at Mrs. Harkness’ diner party, of course. Amelia Fallston, elegantly dressed in pale blue sarcenet and diamonds, gave her a wide smile. ‘Lady Durham, how brave of you, coming out in this dreadful weather!’
‘How could I not? My first English ball. I am very excited.’
‘Well, let’s hope we don’t disappoint, hey,’ Lord Fallston boomed. As thin and fragile as his wife looked, his lordship was the exact opposite, a portly gentleman with an enormous voice. They seemed like an odd couple, complete opposites really, but so often it was with marriage. It was almost certain that it had been an arrangement between the two families. Lady Fallston was considerably younger than her husband, forty to his fifty-five, perhaps. Camille wondered if the poor woman had ever been happy with the match and didn’t wonder that she might pine after the likes of Tapscott.
The ballroom, while not enormous, was certainly large enough to comfortably accommodate several hundred people and it glittered with light, a lustrous glow throwing a patina of gold that reflected the soft sheen of her gown. Camille smiled at this person and that, many of them unknown to her, trying hard not to look for Lord Tapscott. He might not even be here. While it was certain Lady Fallston would have invited him, there was not certainty that he would put in an appearance. Although, after showing up the other day, it was unlikely that he would show any discretion.
She was hailed the moment she walked into the ballroom by Clara Harkness and several young ladies, surely debutantes on the brink of enjoying their first Season.
‘Lady Durham,’ Clara said happily, ‘but how pretty you look!’
Camille smiled. ‘Not nearly as pretty as you, Miss Harkness. Your dress is as lovely as you are.’ And indeed, on this occasion neither mother nor daughter had gone too far and her pale blue silk dress suited her to perfection.
Clara blushed. ‘Thank you. These are my friends, Helena Goring and Olympia Farringdon.’
Introductions having been made, the three girls set about quizzing Camille about her gown, demanding to know who had made it for her. By the end of the conversation, she suspected that the little dressmaker would be receiving calls from some new patrons in the not too distant future.
For the first hour after her arrival, she was kept busy with the social necessities, undergoing introductions (not everybody had attended Mrs. Harkness’ dinner party), making conversation and, when the music started up, taking to the dance floor. She danced every
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