Coupled Betrayal

Chapter 8

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August 11, 1879

London is awake, and the amount of pale blue silk sold is unimaginable. Ladies and gentlemen, dozens of debutantes will traipse the Duke of Westminster's hall in blue.

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One and a half weeks passed, and the morning of the duke's anniversary, my mother saw it fit to wake me up bright and early, claiming it best for glowing and clear skin.

My eye bags begged to differ.

She oversaw Emily as she washed me and helped me ready myself for the anniversary. In the bath, Emily trimmed my softened nails and used the rose soap my mother deemed perfect for the party.

Emily put the metal rod in the fire, and I sat on the ground so the fire could dry my hair as my mother leafed through my dresses.

My mother said, "Emily, can you do the hairdo you did for Lady Airton's soiree a few months ago? It is very flattering on Angelica- the one with the hair parted in the middle and top half is gathered at the back and the rest is curled."

"Yes, my lady."

My mother smiled and kept looking through my dresses as I stared at the moving fire. The hangers stopped clinking together as my mother pulled out a burgundy dress.

"It so perfectly matches our trees in the midst of fall, don't you think?" she asked, much too pleased with herself.

Emily nodded fervently.

"I've always wanted to look like trees."

My mother threw a pillow at me, "You insolent child. This was a gift from your Aunt Rose, and you've yet to wear it."

I caught the pillow with a laugh, "I'm merely teasing you, Mama. It's very beautiful."

Emily patted my hair dry and dedicated the next hour to combing and styling my hair. She finished by curling a few tendrils to frame my face, per my mother's request. My mother left soon after to get ready herself. Emily left once she placed some rouge on my cheeks.

I plopped on my bed, careful not to lay on the perfect ringlets on the back of the head and reached for the letter I hid inside my vanity. I tore it open and rested my chin on the sheets as I began to read. The letter was from Mr. Claude. We had begun a correspondence that had at first been formal and about our meeting but now was more friendly and casual.

In that time, I discovered his handwriting was impeccable. It looked printed, and I realized my personal handwriting did slightly resemble chicken scratch.

As I held the letter in my hands, I was reminded of Mr. Claude's kiss, and I groaned.

It was a simple kiss on the hand, a gesture society and etiquette demanded, but my body refused to think so as it got all fluttery inside. Why did a kiss on the hand affect me so much?

I returned to the letter. It said,

"Dear Lady Angelica,

In response to your last letter, I will be attending the ceremony tomorrow. I apologize for my protracted reply; I had a lot of work and have just now gotten to your letter.

I, however, have some splendid news. I now have a cat. She followed me home after I spoke to a tenant, so I fed her but she stayed. She is currently on my lap, but I have yet to choose a name. She seems almost regal, her fur is a sparkling white, although I thought her gray when she was dirty. The cat may also be a reason why I've delayed everything.