The Ugly Duckling Debutante Read online

  The Earl of Renwick had enough money to support more than one wife and a mistress, even if they all had children and houses of their own. He had a thriving mercantile business as well as old money that, thanks to his ancestors, continued to double and triple with the years. It seemed the more money he gave away to charity, the more money he had. It was an endless pursuit. At one point, he thought to bankrupt himself just so he could be free of the sins of his youth, not that it was all that long ago.

  He sighed and walked to the edge of the dance floor. Sir Belverd was waiting for him with a smirk on his face.

  “How old was that one?”

  Lord Renwick held back a smile. “Oh, I believe this is her first season. She can’t be more than one and seven.”

  Sir Belverd took a sip of champagne. “It seems they just keep getting younger and younger.”

  “Or we keep getting older,” Nicholas finished.

  Belverd chuckled. “Yes. Well, my friend, at least some of us have a mind to settle down. What are you now? Almost past your thirtieth year and you still have no wife or children?”

  Nicholas hated this type of conversation. He knew Belverd meant well; after all, Belverd had married the most chaste and wonderful woman in the entire ton. Men with his luck had natural bragging rights.

  “Marriage isn’t for me,” he answered, putting his own champagne down. It had suddenly gone dry in his mouth. He knew he was lying to himself saying marriage wasn’t for him, but he just couldn’t see a way where lust and love met in the middle. If he ever did marry, he would want her to be innocent enough to not push him past his physical limitations, and sweet enough to be a good mother. It was a nearly impossible find, considering his present company. Plus, any good Christian woman would be disgusted by his past. He didn’t deserve anyone good and didn’t desire to marry anyone as blemished as he.

  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.

  “Pardon me? Who is Madame Francois?” Sara asked hesitantly.

  The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, she cleared her throat and answered. “You don’t know? She is the most sought after modiste in the country, Miss.”

  “Oh,” was all Sara could manage in reply before she was rendered otherwise speechless upon entering her room. She froze. It was blanketed in purple velvet. The luxurious bed sat nearly as high as her waist, something she had never seen before. The windows were large and opened onto a balcony overlooking a beautifully maintained garden. An ornate gold mirror faced the bed as if to taunt her. She stepped up to it hesitantly and sighed. God had not performed a miracle. She was still…unique, or as some people described her, wicked-looking. Though she didn’t know what was so wicked about black hair, except that it wasn’t considered as comely as golden tresses.

  Her skin was dark, but she thought it complimented her hair quite nicely. She opened her mouth to examine her teeth as her aunt had done. They were white and straight, something out of the ordinary for anyone in London, especially young girls.

  At least I have my teeth, she thought.

  She pulled off her dusty morning dress and eased herself into the bath that Davina had prepared. The stress of the day seemed to melt away. Grabbing the soap, she washed her body slowly, methodically, and then allowed her eyes to close in relaxation. It wasn’t until she heard voices down the hall that she knew she had fallen asleep for the second time that day.<
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  Sara put on the nearest robe when a tall French woman burst into the room. Her face was wrinkly like paper but her eyes had the brilliance of crystal blue water.

  “Let us have a look then,” Madame Francois said in a thick French accent. “Oui, oui, I understand.” She pulled Sara’s shoulders back as she pushed her toward the mirror. “We shall cut here, and here.” She motioned at Sara’s hair then toward the bottom of her hem. “She will look, how do you say, foreign?”

  She said it more as a question; it was then Sara realized she was speaking to her aunt. Her aunt sighed heavily. “Do you think it will help?”

  “Bah!” Madame yelled. “Help? Who am I? Am I not Madame François? She shall be exquisite, the talk of the ton.”

  Aunt Tilda seemed unimpressed. “Well, get on with it then.”

  “As you wish,” came the clipped answer.

  Nausea swept over Sara, and she was ready to lose whatever measly food she had eaten that day. How could they cut her hair? Her long black hair? How could that possibly help?

  Madame François leaned in behind her in the mirror. “Your face is too thin to hold such weight. You need to be free.” And with that she took scissors to Sara’s hair and cut. Sara covered her gasps with a fist and cringed as she watched her once waist-length hair topple to the ground. What was left now hit just below her shoulders in dark waves.

  “C’est magnifique,” Madame mused. “Some natural curl—the men will go wild, no?”

  Sara closed her eyes sorrowfully as Madame continued to measure her. “How many gowns?”

  Her aunt named an outrageous number, as well as a riding habit and some walking dresses. “That should be enough,” she finished with a nonchalant wave of her hand. Madame François made some notes on the measurements, then kissed Sara’s aunt on both cheeks and left the room with a curt nod to Sara in the mirror. Sara watched the retreat of Madame’s reflection, then her gaze fell upon the bed behind her.

  A dress with stockings, a chemise, and a beautiful ribbon lay there.

  “Madame happened to have a few dresses she could spare until she finishes with yours. Your first ball is tonight. I need to assess your behavior and how much work must be done. You may as well know, I plan to ask a distant cousin of mine to undertake your training for presentation to the ton. He is the best, after all. I just hope he’s willing to take you on.”

  Sara swallowed a sob. Of course he wouldn’t be willing. She was ugly, and who would willingly spend time with her?

  “Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, gel. You are not that ugly.” The pause in her voice sounded almost tender for a moment, but Aunt Tilda quickly recovered. “Listen—this distant cousin is, well, he used to be somewhat of a rake, but now he is reformed and sworn a life of celibacy. It’s like pulling teeth even to get him to speak to a woman, let alone teach her how to dance.”

  “To dance?” Sara squeaked.

  “How else are we to find you a suitable husband?” Her aunt snorted. “Obviously, they won’t be falling at your beautiful feet because of your face—surely you know the truth by now. But if I teach you grace and poise, and put you in a somewhat compromising situation, well …you’ll be perfect.”

  Her aunt smiled wickedly, revealing teeth like a predator. “Get dressed!” She commanded as she excused herself from Sara’s chambers.

  Sara didn’t like the sound of a ‘compromising situation’ and feared she would not escape the season without a black mark on her reputation. Perhaps she would even be ruined—not that her mother would care, as long as she married well.

  Turning to the task at hand, she put on the beautiful clothes and looked in the mirror once again. What was so ugly about her? What made people despise her so? Her own family couldn’t look at her; her sisters mocked her behind her back; and her own father thought her worthless. Nothing could be done about that now. Resolutely, she put on a brave face and walked gracefully out of her room and down the stairs to take tea and explore the house. After all, this was supposed to be an adventure—that mindset would be the only way she could live through what she had to do tonight. Attend her very first ball.

  ***

  The cool spring breeze stung Sara’s nose as the footman helped her out of the carriage. The mansion in front of her was like nothing she had seen before. Laughing couples entered through the main doors toward the bewitching music inside.

  The people of the ton were going to eat her alive.

  “Wipe that outrageous look off your face! You have a mask!” Lady Fenton elbowed her hard in the ribs then handed her a black domino. Sara donned the mask and followed her aunt into the hall.

  “Whom may I announce?” the man at the door asked.

  Lady Fenton leaned in and whispered something to the man. With a quick glance at Sara then back at Lady Fenton, he gave a curt nod and announced them.

  “Lady Fenton and her niece Lady Sai Ames.”

  The unexpected announcement of the position coupled with the surprising new name caused Sara to inhale sharply. Her aunt, sensing Sara’s tension, tilted her head toward Sara and whispered. “It makes you seem more foreign. Trust me on this. And you are every inch the lady. You have only to act like one, and they will believe it. You never know, perhaps you have some distant aristocratic blood of which you are unaware.”

  Sara doubted that, but she followed her aunt pressing on through the crowd. The people around her seemed only mildly curious. For that she was thankful.

  ***

  Nicholas felt like getting absolutely foxed. Three women had tried to seduce him in the past hour. Three!

  Gone were the days of men leading unsuspecting women into the courtyards or gardens to look at the stars. These were the days in which women, seeing exactly what they wanted, brazenly manipulated and lied in order to elicit a marriage proposal.

  The sweat on his brow was proof that one of the three almost succeeded, when he led her back into the ballroom after a tumble down the stairs. She had been whispering incentives into his ear as her breasts purposefully brushed up against his arm.

  Women.

  Now he was hiding in the hallway like some criminal waiting for the opportune moment to leave without causing a scandal. Apparently, the bet was going to be harder than he had imagined.

  He waited ten minutes, then slowly came out of the shadows, taking every precaution to glance behind him for another lady lying in wait.

  His arm bumped something irritatingly soft. Abruptly he turned and came face to face with the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Two perfectly cut emeralds stared right back at him. He began mentally preparing his rejection speech when the girl, hands trembling, stuttered an apology and tried to run away. From him.

  Not the other way around.

  Odd, that he would miss being stalked. He stepped in front of her before she could make her hasty retreat. “It’s quite alright, Miss. May I assist you with something?” His words sounded almost believable, yet his eyes were too accustomed to his rakish habits and appreciatively scanned her delectable form from head to toe.

  She paused then and smiled, nearly knocking the wind out of him. It was criminal for a girl to have such straight white teeth. “I just. . .” she began, then put her hands on her hips, drawing his attention back to the line of her body. “I just wanted to get away …You see, I’m new to all of this, and I felt. . .”

  “Overwhelmed? Objectified? Bored? Judged? Really take your pick of any of the above. I assure you, one of those words has to match what you’re feeling just about now.” The girl offered another blinding smile and leaned closer.

  If she leaned any closer, he was going to have to do something about it. Old habits died hard.

  “Thank you,” she said, eyelashes fluttering.

  “Of course. Is there anywhere I may escort you?”

  The bedroom perhaps? He shook his head to get rid of the sinful thought.

  She looked nervously down at her feet, and then shrugged. “I don’t really know if that is the best i
dea. I’ve been told I should be careful with whom I associate.”