Page 7 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
L ondon was loud, noisome, soot-blackened, crowded, loud, and altogether the most splendid place Claire Dalton had ever been.
She had visited her aunt and uncle there twice, once as a child when Charles was away at school, and once only a few years ago, while Charles was at war.
But it was one thing to visit and another entirely to be invited to be invited to Aunt Elizabeth's for the Season.
Claire still was wont to clutch the letter in disbelief, though she had now been in London for three magnificent days.
None-the-less, the letter remained to hand for re-reading and reassurance, as if without it as a talisman, London might slip away.
She even slept with the wonderful missive beneath her pillow.
It had been expected that she would go to London for her Season, but there had never been any hurry about the matter.
Italian romances might have passionate lovers of thirteen and fourteen, but young people of her class required permission to marry before age twenty-one, and Claire had only recently turned twenty.
Mother and Father had intended to rent a house the following Season, once she had reached an age of majority, and conduct the business of marrying off their only daughter then.
Aunt Elizabeth's letter had set those plans on their ear, for not only did she offer to host Claire for this Season, but insisted that she would take on the cost of appropriate attire for a young woman's first Season in London.
There was no doubt what-so-ever that it was a gift beyond expectation.
The Daltons were a respectable family name, but Aunt Elizabeth had been the only child of a rich man, and was now the source of any fortune the Daltons might claim.
George and Sylvia Dalton would put their daughter out respectably, but Elizabeth and Charles Dalton could do it with style.
Claire had been bustled into Town, shown the house, then stood in front of a tall French dressmaker with large, confident hands, who clucked, winced, and twitched her way through Claire's wardrobe before finally turning to Aunt Elizabeth in sour disapproval.
"This will never do," the woman—Madame Babineaux, announced, by Aunt Elizabeth, to be one of the finest private dressmakers in Town—proclaimed.
"We must start over from the beginning." Her accent was dramatically thick, rendering each word a puzzle.
Aunt Elizabeth nodded agreement. With that nod, Claire began a three-day regime of being fed, walked in the garden as if a pet in need of exercise, and hustled into the upper rooms of the Daltons' fine townhouse.
Madame Babineaux became increasingly comprehensible as the days wore on and Claire's wardrobe improved.
Claire could not decide if she had become accustomed to the woman's accent or if it had become more decipherable as she grew more satisfied with Claire's appearance.
"There!" Madame Babineaux said with a sudden burst of energy. "That will do. Madame Dalton?"
Aunt Elizabeth, who besides being the source of the Dalton fortune, was also the source of any modest height that Charles Edward might claim, placed her book aside and unfolded herself from the leopard-monopodia armchair whence she had waited.
She was not as tall as Madame Babineaux, but she had at least four inches on Claire and stood barely shorter than her son.
The sensation of tall women surrounding her made Claire feel as though her own diminutive height was something of a failing.
If it was a failing, though, there was no sign of it in Aunt Elizabeth's approving smile.
" Magnifique, " she said to Madame Babineaux.
"Much better. I would hardly know her for the same girl.
Ah, no!" She waggled a finger at Claire, who had begun to turn toward the mirror.
"No, let us call for my maid Marie to do your hair first, so you can receive the benefit of the full effect just as the young gentlemen of London shall tomorrow evening. Sit, my dear."
"Surely there's no need to go to such effort today," Claire protested, though she also sat as Madame Babineaux put a chair behind her knees and went to the door to call, loudly and not at all genteelly, for Marie, who appeared so quickly that she must have been waiting nearby.
"It is just family for dinner, is it not, Auntie? "
"A young woman given a new wardrobe should see herself in it for the first time at the height of her comeliness, so she understands what others will see. Marie, curl her hair high, I think, unless you believe it will make her forehead seem too broad."
Claire's fingers went to her forehead, which she had never once dreamed of as broad, and had her hand guided away by the maid. "If it were my decision, Mrs Dalton, I would clip her hair short, even if it is not in fashion, as it would make her lovely green eyes large and haunting."
"Very well, then, go ahea?—"
"Wait!" Claire seized Marie's hand and stood to face her aunt with determination. "It is my hair, Auntie, and I am not prepared to have it all cut away."
"Don't be silly, child. Marie will save it and make a wig?—"
"Auntie," Claire repeated more firmly, and Mrs Dalton's feathery, colored-in eyebrows rose minutely.
"Is this how you thank me, Claire?"
A blush climbed Claire's cheeks, though whether it was of mortification or anger she could not say.
"My gratitude knows no bounds, Aunt Elizabeth, and I am nearly beside myself with excitement to turn and see this gown in the mirror.
But I have never had my hair cut, and I do not intend to start on the whim of a maid whom, although I am certain knows her business, I do not myself know.
If I am unbearably rude in this, then I beg your forgiveness, and I assure you I will find some way to repay you for the kindness and wardrobe you have already shown me, but I absolutely cannot accept any further assistance and shall call for my parents to fetch me immediately. "
High dudgeon stood in Aunt Elizabeth's face, and for an instant, Claire was convinced that she had ruined her London chances before even being introduced.
Misery rose in her breast, constricting her breath, but she would not back down, not about her hair, which she had long since imagined as her best feature.
She bit the inside of her lower lip, suspecting she looked sullen but unable to keep from crying without the distraction of pain, and stared forthrightly at her aunt.
A rustle at the door distracted Mrs Dalton before her opinion about Claire's boldness could be made plain.
All four women in the room looked that way; all four were surprised to see a nervous young maid, her skirts twisted between her hands, who hardly more than whispered, "Forgive me, ma'am, but Mr Worthington asked that you be informed that Master Charles has returned. "
"Worthington." Aunt Elizabeth echoed the name with a brief glance at Claire, then sighed unexpectedly and released the aspect of insult she had held.
"Thank you, Bridget. We'll be down momentarily.
Very well, Claire, your hair remains. Marie," she suggested dryly, "arrange it so Miss Dalton comes around to your way of thinking. "
"Yes, mum." Marie returned Claire to the chair and with hot irons, brushes, combs, and a ruthless lack of regard for Claire's comfort, pulled, tugged, curled and twisted her hair to such a degree that it was merely a matter of stubborn pride that kept Claire from pleading for her hair to be cut after all.
Torture was not, she thought, what her aunt had meant with that remark, though her aching scalp said otherwise.
Finally, Marie declared herself satisfied, and Claire was made to stand while all three women—for Madame Babineaux had stayed to observe the crown on her creation—studied her with such intensity that she began to feel like a wilting flower.
Surprisingly, though, Aunt Elizabeth smiled and stepped behind Claire to move the chair out of the way. "Turn, my dear," she suggested when the chair had been moved, and Claire, feeling tender and uncertain, faced the mirror.
The girl reflected in it was familiar, like a cousin often visited in childhood but unseen as an adult.
She was, if not beautiful, at least very pretty, much prettier than the half-imagined cousin might have been expected to be.
Her dark hair was drawn back farther than she was accustomed to, with only a few curls lowered to hide her hairline.
It did, indeed, make her green eyes large and luminous in the afternoon light pouring through the window.
Beneath those huge eyes, her nose was petite and her mouth full, all framed in a heart-shaped face given width at the chin by tendrils of curls at her nape.
Gone was the accustomed high-collared gown.
Her throat, collarbones, shoulders, and a gentle swell of bosom were bared, all pale and delicate, so white in the sunlight they shone.
In the old gown's place she had been clothed in emerald trimmed with gold, or so the rich and sumptuous colors seemed to her as they clung to her shoulders and encased her bosom before falling in soft, flawless folds toward the floor.
Astonished, Claire pressed a hand against her chest, laughing in half-confused surprise when her reflection did the same.
"I do not know myself," she whispered, and in the reflection behind her, even the maid felt bold enough to smile her approval along with Aunt Elizabeth and Madam Babineaux.
"Mother wishes to see you in the parlor." Amelia Fairburn, newly turned nineteen and the acknowledged beauty of the family, swept the library door open and made this announcement with the pleasure of someone anticipating trouble.
Benedict lowered his book to eye his sister over its top edge. "Why?"