Coupled Betrayal

Chapter 3

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July 19, 1879

London flurries with movement as people rush to get ready for balls. On today's platter, Lord Notlimah hosts a grand ball for his daughter's seventeenth birthday.

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"I am absolutely miserable."

"Don't exaggerate and take a deep breath," my mother scolded.

The corset restricted my breathing and Emily only seemed to make the cords tighter.

"M'lady, please hold your breath," Emily instructed again as she reached the end of the corset.

"It's tight enough, Emily."

My mother, who sat in the corner chair, instructed the corset to be tighter, "she needs to be the belle of the ball. This ball is special."

"You say that about every ball, Mama."

She walked towards the vanity and uncapped some rouge, "I just feel today's the day you land yourself a husband."

Once again, the phrase was a common one in my mother. I insisted today would be like every other.

"Nonsense! Put on that dress and stop complaining." My mother walked out of the room with a humph.

Emily finished tying my corset but thankfully left it slightly loose. I raised my hands so she and another maid could slip the blue bodice over my head. It displayed much of my decolletage, and I constantly tugged at the lace. Emily found a matching blue capelet with gold embellishments so that I could be more comfortable at the ball. Emily was an angel on earth.

Once in the carriage, my mother and father looked at possible options for husbands.

"Doctor Jay."

That was a rotund gentleman who spoke two words; good evening. Sometimes, good afternoon.

"Lord Roch-Gilbert."

Lord, no. He was a worse dancer than I, and I suppose he is handsome but he couldn't stop talking of war and military.

"Mr. Fergusson."

"I'm not marrying a widower!" I exclaimed, and my mother hushed me.

I wondered if Stephan would be there; even after four years, he was still in mourning. We corresponded every once in a while, and he never came to London for the season. I wondered then about the lesser known son, the third Fergusson. Last I'd heard, he studied at Oxford and became very popular his summer in France; ladies dropped at his feet. I never saw him after the unfortunate meeting in my library four years prior.

"Do you know if his son will be in attendance?"

"Dear Stephan?" she asked, "no, he's still away. Claude Fergusson will be attending, but that's not of much importance. I don't like the young man.

We reached the ballroom and my mother handed me my dance card and reminded me not to lose it again.

"I won't lose it."

My father helped us out the carriage and they walked arm in arm, with me trailing behind. I spotted Charlie in a stunning floral dress. Sneakily, I parted ways and walked towards her.

"Hey, Charlie."

She yelped and turned around, "How many times have I told you to call me Charlotte?"

"Not enough, evidently."

She sighed, admitting defeat. We caught up on our latest mishaps until a young man, son of Lord Barnett, the owner of the post office, signed his name for the first dance and whisked her away. Casually, I made my way to a servant with a round plate of delicacies. Just as I reached for a chocolate, Lord Roch-Gilbert gifted me with his presence. He signed my dance card for a later song and left. Nine other men signed my card intermittently throughout the night.