The Ugly Duckling Debutante(5)
Belverd obviously didn’t take that as an adequate answer and went on talking. “Renwick, one of these days, you’re going to find someone who turns that brooding head of yours, and when it happens, I’ll be standing right where I am now, relatively,” he waved his flippantly into the air, “and laughing. Yes, the day I see you fall to some poor woman’s feet, I will throw a ball in your honor.”
Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. “Big words and promises from a man such as yourself.”
“How about a wager then?” Belverd turned toward him with a devious look in his eyes. A head taller than most men, he had silver streaks running through his otherwise jet-black hair. His eyes were a grayish blue, giving him an intimidating yet calculating presence.
Intrigued. Nicholas raised an eyebrow and turned to full face Belverd. “What sort of wager, Friend?”
Belverd shifted on his feet and whispered, “If you can stay single this season, and this season alone, without any sort of scandal or a marriage, I’ll give you the feather.”
Nicholas’s eyes widened in surprise. “The feather? You’re just going to give me the feather?” The feather—an actual feather, highly prized by the group of gentlemen—represented one’s rank and station above the rest of the men. It had been passed amongst them to the gentleman who achieved a great victory or won a wager. The man who possessed the feather could ask a favor of anyone, including Prinny himself, and it would be granted. It was an honor highly sought after in Nicholas’s circle of friends.
Nicholas didn’t even have to think about it. He was, after all, going to live chaste for the rest of his days, and it wasn’t as if some girl would suddenly appear in the ton who would change that for him. He was more likely to be struck by lightning. He smiled and shook Belverd’s extended hand. “You, my friend, have a deal.”
Chapter Three
Sara jolted awake as the carriage rumbled to a stop. A hand shook her shoulder roughly, and she opened her eyes groggily to peer out the carriage window.
"We have arrived," announced her aunt, slicing through Sara's somnolent fog and jerking her abruptly into the present reality. It wasn't just a nightmare. This was really happening, and it frightened her out of her mind.
She quickly moved to the carriage door and took the hand of the footman to step down. Her first glance at her aunt’s townhome gave her pause as she disembarked the carriage. It was located on a row of extravagant mansions, and still it stood out as breathtaking in its magnificence. Just how wealthy was her distant aunt?
As if she heard her thoughts, Aunt Tilda suddenly turned. “Don’t gawk, girl. It isn’t becoming of a lady. Now hurry along inside. Drake will show you to your chambers. I’m sure you will wish to freshen up before the modiste arrives.”
Sara stared at her blankly, a modiste? She would get dresses? Just how many dresses would she have? Her insides turned to jelly in the realization of how completely out of place she really was.
“Oh, and Sara?” Sara turned as she stepped over the threshold of the magnificent house.
“Yes, Aunt?”
“Do remember to refer to me as Lady Fenton. We’re in London after all. Addressing me in such a familiar way is frowned upon.”
“As you wish,” Sara said. Venturing further into the house, the first thing she noticed was the sheer beauty of the place. The walls were adorned with expensive paintings and moldings of Greek mythological creatures. The floor was engraved marble and shined to perfection. Even the servants were better attired than she.
She should have felt self-conscious, but she spent her life being stared at and told she was ugly, so why would she feel any different in this situation? The servants working in the great hall bowed to acknowledge her as Drake led her to the stairs where a petite lady’s maid about the same age as Sara offered a brief curtsy.
“Miss Ames, this is your maid. She will direct you to your room,” the old butler instructed her.
“This way, my lady.”
Sara had never been addressed as anything but her Christian name; it was odd being showed a sort of honor, as though she really was a lady and above the station she actually possessed. She silently followed the young girl up the stairs and gasped as her eyes rose to the huge chandelier hanging above the middle of the stairway. It appeared to be plated in gold and reflected light from the outside windows. The stairs seemed to extend indefinitely, until they finally reached the hallway, and Sara was led all the way to the back corner room.
“This room is yours, my lady. I will return later to help you get settled, but for now you will want to prepare for the great Madame Francois. The bath has been drawn for you.” She curtsied and turned to leave.