shoulder at him, her cloud of dark hair loose and her mischievous smile just starting to dawn. The image was as clear and fresh as a midsummer sky.
“My dear child, I do understand your sentiments in this matter and, believe me, they do you great credit,” Lady Aurelia fluttered her hands expressively, “But you must allow me to be your guide in this matter. Trust me when I tell you that there can be no possible objection to you attending her grace of Rotherham’s ball.”
‘Really,’ she thought crossly, ‘ Clive’s betrothed was being quite bothersome about the whole business of mourning. And it was, after all, for a mere father! One might almost infer that Clive was correct in his suspicion that she did not wish their impending marriage to become public knowledge. That would not do’. Lady Aurelia and her imposing sister had discussed the matter at length and were agreed … the only thing that could save Clive’s reputation and with it the Sheridan name was a good marriage. It seemed a shame that this innocent child was to be the sacrifice that the house of Sheridan required. But Lady Aurelia was able to convince herself that all would be well. If a little voice questioned her conviction – in the wee small hours as she lay awake – there was, after all, something in Clive which even his close family found repugnant … well, it was a quiet voice and easily silenced. Her ladyship was not given to dwelling on that which she found unpleasant. Besides, the girl was quite tiresomely lovely and Lady Aurelia, who lived for fashion, was looking forward to having the pleasure of advising her on what to wear. She had already counselled Rosie extensively on the thorny subject of suitable mourning attire. It was, her ladyship assured her, perfectly acceptable to now wear subdued, matte colours. Excessive trimming and jewels must, of course, be avoided.
“And while, my dear, it it would be prudent to wear gloves or scarf of dove grey to announce your grief during the day, white is perfectly acceptable, I do assure you, for evening wear.”
Tonight Rosie was becomingly attired in a silk-brocade gown of soft mauve, embroidered all over with tiny flowers. Detailed shaping on the back and the tight stomacher accentuated her slender figure. A waterfall of white lace at the elbows with matching trim at the low cut neck drew attention to the smooth creaminess of her skin. Dainty satin shoes trimmed with diamante studs peeped from beneath the heavy skirts. Lady Aurelia’s maid had styled her hair and, conceded that Miss Delacourt’s complexion needed no enhancement. She had added only a string of pearls and matching tear-drop earrings before standing back, satisfied, to admire her work.
“Oh, miss!” she clasped her hands to her breast, permitting herself a tiny moment of indulgence, “You are prettier than any picture.”
Rosie smiled in response, it was impossible not to find pleasure in a dress such as this, she decided. What a pity it was – to all intents and purposes at least – for the benefit of Clive, on whom, she felt sure, it would be wasted. The mask of respectability he wore in the country, and which was largely effective in concealing his true nature, had been allowed to slip somewhat on his arrival in London. His aunt’s plump face hardened into unaccustomed lines when she heard that he had taken lodgings in a less than fashionable part of town because of the constraints on his purse. Heaven forbid that she should find out how often he frequented a certain notorious gaming hell. Or, indeed, an even more nefarious establishment run by a lady rejoicing in the name of Ruby Portal. Rosie, glancing idly at a pamphlet he had carelessly discarded, had read enough about the services offered by Miss Portal to make her shudder.
In spite of this, London had proved to be all that her girlish dreams had promised, and more. The vibrant city, fully recovered from the fire of the previous century, was thriving
“My dear child, I do understand your sentiments in this matter and, believe me, they do you great credit,” Lady Aurelia fluttered her hands expressively, “But you must allow me to be your guide in this matter. Trust me when I tell you that there can be no possible objection to you attending her grace of Rotherham’s ball.”
‘Really,’ she thought crossly, ‘ Clive’s betrothed was being quite bothersome about the whole business of mourning. And it was, after all, for a mere father! One might almost infer that Clive was correct in his suspicion that she did not wish their impending marriage to become public knowledge. That would not do’. Lady Aurelia and her imposing sister had discussed the matter at length and were agreed … the only thing that could save Clive’s reputation and with it the Sheridan name was a good marriage. It seemed a shame that this innocent child was to be the sacrifice that the house of Sheridan required. But Lady Aurelia was able to convince herself that all would be well. If a little voice questioned her conviction – in the wee small hours as she lay awake – there was, after all, something in Clive which even his close family found repugnant … well, it was a quiet voice and easily silenced. Her ladyship was not given to dwelling on that which she found unpleasant. Besides, the girl was quite tiresomely lovely and Lady Aurelia, who lived for fashion, was looking forward to having the pleasure of advising her on what to wear. She had already counselled Rosie extensively on the thorny subject of suitable mourning attire. It was, her ladyship assured her, perfectly acceptable to now wear subdued, matte colours. Excessive trimming and jewels must, of course, be avoided.
“And while, my dear, it it would be prudent to wear gloves or scarf of dove grey to announce your grief during the day, white is perfectly acceptable, I do assure you, for evening wear.”
Tonight Rosie was becomingly attired in a silk-brocade gown of soft mauve, embroidered all over with tiny flowers. Detailed shaping on the back and the tight stomacher accentuated her slender figure. A waterfall of white lace at the elbows with matching trim at the low cut neck drew attention to the smooth creaminess of her skin. Dainty satin shoes trimmed with diamante studs peeped from beneath the heavy skirts. Lady Aurelia’s maid had styled her hair and, conceded that Miss Delacourt’s complexion needed no enhancement. She had added only a string of pearls and matching tear-drop earrings before standing back, satisfied, to admire her work.
“Oh, miss!” she clasped her hands to her breast, permitting herself a tiny moment of indulgence, “You are prettier than any picture.”
Rosie smiled in response, it was impossible not to find pleasure in a dress such as this, she decided. What a pity it was – to all intents and purposes at least – for the benefit of Clive, on whom, she felt sure, it would be wasted. The mask of respectability he wore in the country, and which was largely effective in concealing his true nature, had been allowed to slip somewhat on his arrival in London. His aunt’s plump face hardened into unaccustomed lines when she heard that he had taken lodgings in a less than fashionable part of town because of the constraints on his purse. Heaven forbid that she should find out how often he frequented a certain notorious gaming hell. Or, indeed, an even more nefarious establishment run by a lady rejoicing in the name of Ruby Portal. Rosie, glancing idly at a pamphlet he had carelessly discarded, had read enough about the services offered by Miss Portal to make her shudder.
In spite of this, London had proved to be all that her girlish dreams had promised, and more. The vibrant city, fully recovered from the fire of the previous century, was thriving
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