His Forbidden Debutante

Randolph James Caulfield, Earl of Penwick, stroked the single-edged razor across his right cheek, removing the night’s growth of whiskers with one fluid pass. His valet, Strickler, a kind, intelligent man and excellent manservant, would have preferred to perform the duty, but Penwick, having come to the title unexpectedly a scant eighteen months prior, chose to keep some deeds as close to his former life as possible. Much had changed in a short span of time and comfort was found in the mundane routines of his past.

Wiping his face clean of shaving soap, he applied cologne, a fragrance of spicy bergamot and cashmere, and turned his attention to the toothbrush and mint powder lying in wait on the towel-draped washstand. Fastidious with personal hygiene, he allowed his valet to assist with wardrobe only, otherwise not enjoying the fussy ministrations other titled gentlemen considered their privilege. Again, past practice dictated his comfort. He had no need for Makassar oil or pomatum, and combed his short-clipped wavy hair away from his face before he stepped from the mirror. Noting the time, he turned as Strickler entered his bedchambers.

‘I’ve seen to the fire and your daily schedule, milord. Your body-linen is arranged on the clothing horse in your dressing room, pressed and brushed. I will strop your razor with your permission and replace the hot water for your attendance after your wardrobe is complete.’

‘Very good.’ Penwick nodded his approval. ‘Inform me of my appointments while I prepare for the day.’ Strickler had attended his position for over a year now, yet the formal distinction between servant and employer was drawn with a broad stroke. Penwick didn’t know whether he’d rather it any different, again out of depth with the fresh title. A few of his comrades established a casual ease as they instructed staff or managed their valet, yet he remained conflicted. In truth, he had no need of a personal valet and considered the upper-class affectation perpetuated to invigorate one’s self-importance, a trait Penwick didn’t possess and would not acquire. With frank honesty, what he needed was a sincere friend.

‘Yes, milord.’ Strickler scurried to open the door to the inner chamber where a pristine wardrobe was organised and displayed within the shelves and closets. Waistcoats, overcoats and linen shirts hung from hangers, as neatly ordered as soldiers in formation. Trousers and breeches flanked the far wall. In the centre of the room stood a large mahogany top chest where several drawers patiently held smalls, stockings and cravats. Footwear of every necessity, Hessians, Wellingtons, Jack boots and court shoes, lined the lower shelf of the room’s perimeter. Strickler immediately arranged the wardrobe, aware but never questioning the one drawer of the bureau which remained locked at all times. Penwick kept the only key.

‘This will do.’ Penwick shed the towel around his waist and donned smalls before accepting the fresh linen shirt offered, the fasteners at the cuff time-consuming, the silence awkward. High-waisted breeches followed, the fall buttoned to the band, before he donned a waistcoat embellished with elegant sage-green embroidery. Atop this came his tailcoat with pale grey facings and then a stock, followed by a cravat that Strickler worked with swift efficiency to tie into a stylish knot. Penwick held no favour for bows or ruffles, the trappings of required clothing already an unfavourable portion of his morning. Layer after layer was added, disguising the man he once was, and embellishing the earl he’d now become.

‘Will you wear tall boots, milord, or do you prefer the white-topped Hessians?’ Strickler had already made the fashionable choice and carried the Hessians as he returned to the chair without confirmation. Perhaps his valet anticipated he’d capitulate to the fashion recommendation without complaint. The realisation didn’t sit right, but with little concern for which boots to select, Penwick took the chair and accepted the footwear. He’d done everything as he should and followed politesse to the letter, sparing no expense. As a result, he felt as trussed as a dinner goose at St Michaelmas.

‘My schedule?’

‘Yes, milord. You have appointments through late afternoon. Following breakfast, Lord Chelsney is expected at the stables. After which you’ve allotted time for fencing practice, a bath and change of clothes. Lunch with the Lending Library Foundation at two, your weekly dance lesson at four and then off to the jeweller’s where you are to choose your betrothed’s wedding ring.’ Strickler paused, an encouraging smile slanting his slim lips upward before he reclaimed a noncommittal, austere demeanor.

An unwelcome ill-ease ran through Penwick at the latter statement. How ridiculous. He’d chosen his bride particularly, selected her with the utmost care from his list of suitable marriage candidates, observed her in society, conversed with her on numerous occasions and, at last, convinced himself she would suit. With the wedding in less than a fortnight, he’d need to overcome this odd reaction to thoughts of marriage. Claire deserved better.

It wasn’t as if he’d never considered the institution. True, he’d foreseen his future with a different outcome, but his plans had fallen apart unexpectedly; a story as common as a lost letter in the post or a broken heart. His eyes slid to the brass lock on the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, all at once anxious to be left in private.

‘That will be all, Strickler.’ Penwick accepted the pocket watch and guard chain the manservant held in his gloved palm, the wait for his valet to leave a moment too long. Then he turned the key in the lock and slid the drawer open to reveal a tightly bound packet of letters, the papers well creased and wrinkled from countless handlings, the pages a potent addiction.

Guilt was quick to put a dampener his actions. He should be rid of the letters. Cast them into the fire or drown them in the Thames. Cleanse all memory of the words and promises that scarred his heart, and end his dependency on the impossible.

But he couldn’t.

The realisation he possessed this weakness weighed heavily on his soul. How could he enter into marriage, a sacred union built on honesty and trust, when his truest emotions, love, devotion, passion, lay tied with a ribbon hidden in his wardrobe? How could he betray his intended and compromise his own integrity? With the deepest reverence, he respected his betrothed. She presented a kind smile and clever intelligence. He’d encountered not one poor word in reference to her reputation or family. Still, despite earnest effort, he’d collected no tender emotion.

He cleared his throat as if the action would somehow rid him of the reality of his choices. He had a duty, a new station to uphold. He would marry. He would propagate and carry on with the most congenial of relationships. Ardent affection could develop were he to allow it the opportunity. This was the truth and the lie he told himself daily while enduring the ritual of overdressing required of his station.

He slammed the drawer closed and locked it before he could change his mind. He would not read a letter this morning. He had a long, happy future to look towards and the letters did not signify.

Chapter Two (#ulink_115fea06-05f9-5b77-9835-ffc21afbc1bd)

Dearest, I cannot allow you to speak poorly of your dance ability. You are, no doubt, a swan in the ballroom, a rose among weeds, delicate, graceful and captivating. I long to waltz with you, hold you in my arms and circle the floor, proud and honoured to be offered the boon. One day we will waltz. You have my word.

Livie allowed a gentle smile, the remembrance of Randolph’s words bittersweet, the letter in her lap dated over a year ago. At the time, she had believed his vow to be no more than a fairy-tale wish made by a kind gentleman who knew her solely through correspondence, never having seen or conversed with her in person. Yet as their exchanges grew in frequency, through weeks and months, emotion became more important than probability. Their conversations evolved into lively banter, two friends who hinted at more, a man and woman who’d met under the most unlikely of circumstances and forged a relationship by letter writing.

How she looked forward to his heartfelt missives, their discussions exploring every subject imaginable, no topic off limits or too mundane. Perhaps it was the act of committing the words to paper and sending them into the post that freed her from inhibition. She shared fears and aspirations, goals and accomplishments. The anticipation of his reply kept her counting the days and mentally listing all the new questions and comments she longed to include in her next message.

Together they spoke with refreshing candour and frank honesty, which led to a natural progression of sentimental affection and, though they never confessed it, feelings of love. An undercurrent of adoration and devotion laced their final letters, hinting at what might be were one to take that final step, to wish hard enough and plan a meeting. She clenched her eyes closed against the onslaught of emotion she worked so hard to ignore.

Because Fate had intervened.

She’d never foreseen the accident or impairment that interrupted her life, crushing her dreams along with her legs.

She inhaled, holding the breath until her lungs hurt to prove she was alive and in control, then folded the letter with care and returned it to the wrinkled pile kept in a small rosewood box on her dresser. How odd so much time had passed and the memories of Randolph’s words remained vivid, as if they’d conversed only yesterday. Unwilling to consider her loss any longer, she turned away, that segment of her life beyond her now. Too much time had passed. She needed to look towards a bright new future.

She would master the steps of every waltz, cotillion and quadrille, her ability more polished with each lesson. She would embrace her come-out, her sister’s zealous plans and effort not going to waste, and she would pursue a congenial place in society.

All in all, if one couldn’t have eternal love, one could have shoes… many, many pairs of lovely, fanciful shoes. Shoes represented freedom and choice, the ability to move forward and stand tall. The distraction prompted a smile and she spied the brown wrapped box she’d snuck upstairs and hid under the coverlet at the foot of her bed. Strategically placed pillows helped to obscure them somewhat, though the situation was only temporary.

She closed the door and turned the lock before peeling away the brown wrapping, her anxious fingers fumbling with the lid as she finally opened the carton.

What was this? Where were the orchid silk slippers with matching ribbons and delicate embroidered embellishment?

With haste she upended the box and dumped the contents atop the mattress as if another pair of shoes lay hidden beneath the plain black walking boots she’d discovered within.

But no, nothing except a small burlap pouch, as unattractive as the leather boots, slid into view when she examined the contents. Disappointment rippled through her, yet she couldn’t complain when she should never have made the purchase in the first place.

For no other reason than curiosity, she lifted the pouch and pulled loose the drawstring at the top, spilling the contents into her cupped palm. A pair of bow-shaped shoe clips captured the afternoon sunlight slanting through the window and glistened with blinding clarity. The clips were encrusted with a multitude of large, clear stones that could only be some type of glass crystal, for were they real diamonds, their size and cut would have been enough to secure wealth beyond imagination.

Not sure what to do, she raised the adornment towards the window where it caught a kaleidoscope of colour in every gleam and glimmer, the faceted reflections waltzing along the far wall. Perhaps the clips were worth salvaging from the entire mistaken-shoe incident. She’d never seen such sparkling beauty and owned several pair of slippers that would showcase the embellishment at parties or formal social functions. They twinkled in her palm with a bold wink, as if to assure her the secret confidence remained safe. She didn’t have time to consider it further as her sister’s voice echoed in the hall.

‘Livie, are you home?’

‘Yes.’ Livie yanked the coverlet over the boots, box and wrapping, shoved the shoe clips into her skirt pocket and unlocked the door a breath before Wilhelmina breezed into the room.

‘Perfect. We need to decide on decorations for your come-out. Have you chosen any colours in particular? I thought a pale shade of blue would complement nicely, or pink and lavender.’

‘Pink for certain, but we need to elevate the décor. I would hate for anyone to equate my gathering with a young girl’s birthday celebration, jejune and ordinary.’

‘How true.’ Wilhelmina’s expression changed to one of discomfort, her eyes flicking around the bedchamber as if searching for a place to rest. ‘While I have your attention, there’s something else we need to discuss.’

‘Really?’ Livie looked towards the coverlet, relieved no evidence showed.

‘Dash mentioned you’ve overspent your allowance again. The bill from the shoemaker this month exceeded last month’s, and while I truly understand your desire for fancy shoes to accompany your new-found freedom, I had little defence for your behaviour. My husband took me to task and what could I say? You couldn’t possibly need another pair…’ Wilhelmina’s faltering comments trailed off in a whisper.

‘Oh, dear.’ Livie reached for her sister’s hand, pulling her closer in hope of erasing the concerned frown on her face. Wilhelmina worried, Dash grumbled, and here Livie hid yet another pair of shoes, albeit the wrong ones, under the quilt at the foot of the bed. She needed to reorder her priorities and practise a bit more common sense. Hadn’t Esme warned her? ‘I’m sorry. I’ll do much better. I know my debut is a tremendous undertaking and with Kirby Park’s complete renovation and your recent wedding celebration, it’s selfish of me to continually overspend, most especially when additional footwear is unnecessary.’ The contrite apology matched her sincere expression.

‘Oh, Dash wasn’t terribly bothered and all is right, I assure you, but he did bring the matter to my attention.’ Wilhelmina smiled. ‘Aunt Kate and I have worried about you for so long. I suppose much as you rediscover freedom, we must allow you room to manage your independence.’

Wilhelmina led them to the bed where they took a seat and Livie paid particular attention to the hidden box, willing it to stay put despite the movement on the mattress.

‘You’ve been through a horrible ordeal and regaining your ability to walk and move freely is the greatest gift, a true cause for celebration. I understand,’ Wilhelmina continued. ‘Still, you couldn’t possibly wear all the slippers you’ve accumulated. Promise me you’ll focus on your dance lessons and party plans more than the newest designs at Lott’s.’

‘I will.’ Livie squeezed her sister’s hand tightly. ‘I promise not to go near the store and practise more mindful spending. I won’t even window-shop for fear of temptation,’ she added with commitment.

‘Thank you.’ Wilhelmina released Livie’s hand and offered a quick embrace. ‘There are so many exciting moments within reach. We have to choose your gown and decide on flowers, the menu and musicians. Your debut will be the grandest London has ever seen. I do love you so. I know I shall cry as you have your first dance.’

They sat in silence, their thoughts likely equalled in review of their shared history: a carriage accident Wilhelmina believed she’d caused, one that had claimed their parents’ lives and crippled Livie. The accident had resulted in over a year’s worth of therapy and hard work to see Livie’s legs strong and useful again, additional money worries, and then Wilhelmina’s marriage to the Earl of Dashwood and their relocation to Kirby Park, his country estate. The result had been fortuitous, her sister finding the man of her heart, but the path to true love had contained several ruts and detours, bringing them to this moment when Livie would finally celebrate her debut.

‘All this talk of dance reminds me I should get ready for my lesson.’ Livie broke the quiet, anxious to let go of the disconsolate memories and focus on what was to come. ‘I’ll think about this conversation during the entire ride to London.’

‘I’ve no doubt.’ Wilhelmina rose from the bed and headed towards the door. ‘If only your instructor could come to Kirby Park, but when you hire the best, sometimes you have to make a sacrifice. I would assume Monsieur Bournon’s services are in great demand in the city.’

‘I don’t mind travelling to Monarch Hall. Dinah is delightful company and I’m learning the most wonderful techniques. It requires a great amount of practice to appear light on one’s feet.’ She tapped her toe forward as if to begin a dance.