London, 1813
“The first Almack’s ball of the Season,” declared Miss Penelope Beckett’s father as they entered the grand ballroom together. “Aren’t you glad your old papa managed to get you the voucher?”
Penelope clutched her skirts, her hands sweaty inside her elbow-length gloves. “Indeed, Papa,” she said, striving to keep her tone even. “The most exclusive ball in London.”
The expansive room bustled with a crowd of hundreds of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. Ladies’ feathered hair accessories swayed as they moved, while the light from countless candles and two-tiered crystal chandeliers shimmered on the dark glass panes of six round-arched windows. Pale blue swagged draperies framed the windows beneath elegant, scrolled pelmet heads.
The long walls featured pale blue bays separated by pink marble columns adorned with scroll-like spiral ornaments. Some bays displayed Roman-style sculptures of striking half-naked men. Penelope longed for a pen and paper to sketch them. Others featured rococo mirrors, creating the illusion of an even grander space. Friezes, festoons, and paterae—shallow dishes used in ancient Rome—decorated sections of the walls.
The twelve Almack’s balls held each Season were not only the most exclusive, but also the most significant events in an unmarried lady’s quest for a husband. However, Penelope had a different goal in mind.
She fidgeted with her earlobe, attempting to calm her nerves. After three unsuccessful Seasons, she had undoubtedly been cast aside as a spinster, unfashionable and unwanted. A different path lay before her. The Duchess of Ashton, London’s most ardent patroness of female artists, would be present. An introduction to the duchess might afford Penelope the opportunity to showcase her art and perhaps embark on her career as an artist. Who needed a husband for that?
Beside her stood her cousin, Miss Alexandria Beckett, who observed everything with the same wide-eyed fascination as Penelope. Alexandria was a beautiful young woman with sweet, well-defined features, her hair styled in small curls. She looked striking in her pale lilac ball gown.
“Yes, I am glad to be here, Papa,” Penelope said as they walked deeper into the ballroom. Her father remained oblivious to the true reason for her enthusiasm. Her eyes scanned the guests, searching for a lady in her fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and dark eyes, whom she had occasionally glimpsed at other social gatherings, but to whom she had never been formally introduced.
A band played an English country dance tune from the musicians’ gallery above. The room was full of humming conversation and the mingled scents of wine, perfume, and perspiration.
“Though, how did you manage to obtain the voucher?” Penelope added. “And why now, when I’ve been out for three Seasons already?”
Despite her being considered a spinster, he must still be thinking of marrying her off.
Her father, a short, paunchy man in his fifties, pursed his lips, causing wrinkles to form on his cheeks. He had lost some of his handsomeness since her mother’s passing. Perhaps it was due to his reddened, puffy face, a consequence of excessive port and brandy consumption, as well as his sleepless nights spent away from home. His pale blue eyes with yellowish whites narrowed at her. His powdered wig, a fashion from the previous century, quivered as it always did when he became angry.
“Aren’t you grateful that I managed to get you in at all?” he said. “I daresay it took quite a few favors. But I did it.”
Penelope’s chest tightened. How she wished Mama were still alive. Papa had always been a better man with her around. Since Mama’s passing, it seemed as though Papa barely acknowledged Penelope’s existence. He had forbidden her from pursuing art some time ago, insisting that a woman’s duty was to raise children, nothing more. However, his frequent absences allowed her to continue painting and drawing against his wishes.
“Where’s your dance card?” he asked. “I see the Viscount of Bridgemere approaching.”
A sinking feeling settled in Penelope’s stomach. Not this again, she pleaded silently. If Papa had gone to such lengths to bring her to Almack’s, he must be truly determined to find her a match. Yet, chances were that her future husband, like most men of the time, would share Papa’s opinion and forbid her from seriously pursuing art.
A tall man with a round belly and narrow shoulders greeted them. As a well-bred lady, Penelope flashed a bright smile—one she often wore at these balls, leaving her face feeling wooden by the end of the evening. She was her mother’s daughter, after all, and she wouldn’t embarrass her papa or tarnish the family name.
“Bridgemere,” said Papa, his face adopting a broad smile that Penelope hardly ever saw. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Penelope Beckett, and my niece, Miss Alexandria Beckett.”
Bridgemere looked her over from head to toe with his large, wide-set eyes and nodded. The strange glossiness of his eyes made her want to shudder. “Miss Beckett, Miss Beckett,” he acknowledged Alex with a slight nod. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He turned to Papa. “Lord Beckett, your daughter is, as they say, a true beauty.”
Penelope shot Alex a brief, puzzled glance, and her cousin widened her eyes in response. As they say? Hadn’t Penelope been dismissed by the ton as an unfashionable, unsuccessful bride?
Confused but wanting to be polite, she broadened her smile until the corners of her mouth ached. “How do you find the ball, Viscount Bridgemere?” she asked.
“I daresay I’ve had the privilege of attending better ones,” he replied, his gaze drifting elsewhere. “The bread slices are too thin and the butter too thick for my liking. And dry cake always gives me heartburn.”
His voice was slow and monotonous, and Penelope’s jaw tightened as she suppressed a yawn. She glanced at Alex again, who subtly raised her eyebrows and hid a smile.
“Quite,” agreed Penelope. “I do hope you feel better.” Struggling to find a topic of conversation, she suggested, “Perhaps some weak tea might help.”
“Perhaps,” he said, looking her over once more as she maintained her bright smile. “My, my, you have the most charming smile, Miss Beckett. May I have the honor of the next dance?”
Penelope opened her mouth, hoping to quickly think of a reason to refuse him, but moments passed, and she found none. “Of course, I would be delighted.”
After that, they mostly stood in silence. Viscount Bridgemere, for some reason, seemed unwilling to leave her side. More men approached her, encouraged by Papa. Within ten minutes, she had three dances filled. As she looked through the ballroom for some excuse to leave his side, she froze.
Only ten feet away, the Duchess of Ashton talked to the Duchess of Grandhampton, a wonderfully pleasant lady. She was the grandmother of Spencer, the deceased Duke of Grandhampton, one of the best friends she had had in the ton.
Spencer…the thought of the wonderfully kind man was a heavy sadness weighing in her chest. The news of his death had reached her last September, and she couldn’t believe her ears. She missed her conversations with the duke. They had similar tastes in art, and he encouraged her greatly to pursue her goal. He was the only one she had confided in about her ambition, and he’d supported her. It had seemed as if they could talk about anything. He’d told her how admirable her independent views were, that a woman didn’t need to get married, and that he thought a woman should enjoy the same privileges as a man.
Of course, she knew he’d never been interested in her beyond that. He was a known rake, and the women he’d pursued were much more experienced than she. But Papa didn’t like her talking to and spending time with him. He had lied at least twice when the duke had come calling on her, telling him she wasn’t at home.
The duke had introduced his grandmama to her, and if only she had a chance to free herself from the circle of men that now surrounded her like flies, she could take those ten steps and greet her. The Duchess of Grandhampton would surely introduce her to the Duchess of Ashton.
She was forced to dance the three dances she had promised. As she danced, she noticed that almost every man stared at her—old and young. Talking to each other. Eyes glistening with something. Staring at her chest, at her legs moving under her ball gown as she danced.
What had happened? During the previous two Seasons, she had done her best to avoid any romantic connections because she was afraid a husband would forbid her from painting like her papa did. How could she have turned from one of the most insignificant young ladies on the marriage mart to the very center of attention?
Finally, her last dance ended. Thanking her partner, she applauded the band of musicians while scanning the guests for any sight of the Duchess of Grandhampton.
Alex came to join her. “How was it?” she asked softly, leaning close.
Before Penelope could answer, the applause died and every person in the ballroom stilled, staring towards the doors….
