Page 13 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Thirteen

O ver the following days, too many to count, Rosalind rarely saw the duke. Whenever she caught even a glimpse of him about the house, he averted his gaze—ducking into his office or slipping out the door. The warm camaraderie that had begun to form before their passionate kiss beneath the willow tree had receded into a distant, bittersweet memory.

How she regretted that kiss. She longed instead for his friendship, for the gentle, encouraging words that had once promised guidance for the Season and her coming-out ball—a ball that had taken on a life of its own, thanks largely to Lady Smithe. More than anything, Rosalind missed their conversations. She needed to speak to him, to assure him that she would never again risk such a transgression, and to beg that he restore their friendship. After all, he was her guardian, her only link to family here in London, and in that role, she required him now more than ever.

Rosalind sat before her dressing table mirror preparing for her coming-out ball. She beheld the vision her maid had crafted—for a debut that would herald her entry into the society destined to shape her life. The reflection that met her eyes was almost unrecognizable. Once, she had been the country daughter of a duke, clad in garments a size too small and gowns that were years out of fashion. A girl who wore nothing but a simple ribbon to hold up her hair.

Now, however, the woman staring back was a stranger—a refined creation molded to society’s exacting standards. The gown, a sumptuous, rich pink that defied any notion of pastels, transformed her entirely. In that moment, she silently resolved to thank Lady Smithe for her change of heart regarding the dress. When her maid had first revealed the gown, Rosalind could scarcely believe her eyes, recalling how she had been expected to wear a washed-out color. But this dress—with its empire-cut bodice, delicate puffy sleeves resting gracefully on her shoulders, and a fit that accentuated curves she had never imagined were hers—made her question who she truly was.

A soft voice from behind the mirror declared, "You look utterly beautiful, Lady Rosalind. There will not be a gentleman present who will not fall at your feet—so lovely you are this evening." Her maid, having secured the final diamond pin into Rosalind's hair, stepped back with a proud smile. "I do believe I have surpassed myself tonight. How delightful you look, my lady."

Rosalind returned the smile. "Thank you, Mary. You have exceeded my expectations. I do not know how to thank you enough."

With a gentle laugh, the maid waved away the compliment. "It is my pleasure. I only wish for your and your sisters' happiness—you deserve nothing less."

The door to her room swung open, and in strolled Lady Smithe, resplendent in a gown of royal-blue silk and an exquisite headpiece adorned with a single, artful feather—a statement few could miss.

Her steps faltered, and the smile on her face vanished as she took in Rosalind's gown. "Whatever are you wearing? That is not the gown that was ordered for this evening!" Lady Smithe strode over, forcibly pulling Rosalind from her seat. She inspected the gown as though it were a repugnant creature in need of extermination. "You must change. This is not what we ordered." Her tone was low and menacing. For a moment, Rosalind braced herself for her ladyship to stomp her slippered foot. "I shall have words with the dressmaker. How dare she go against my wishes and produce something so utterly unacceptable—I will have the duke refuse to pay for it."

Rosalind reached out, pleading, "Oh, please do not do that, Lady Smithe." Her touch was brusquely brushed aside. "I love this dress so very much, my lady. I thought that you changed your opinion on what I was to wear…” She paused, unsure of what she should say or do. “As I am already dressed, right down to my shoes, and the ball is about to start, perhaps I can stay clothed as I am. If I were to change now, I would be late to my own coming-out ball. Besides, this is the only gown delivered today. I have nothing else to wear."

With little patience for protest, Lady Smithe grumbled under her breath. "You there,” she said to Rosalind’s maid. “Go to my wardrobe and choose the most suitable gown for a debutante—a gown in pastel hues. Now, go!"

All hope for a successful evening evaporated as Lady Smithe seized Rosalind by the shoulders, forcibly turning her about and unfastening the gown at the back. "I cannot believe the dressmaker has betrayed me so! You look positively disheveled in this gown. What will people think if they see you in public in such an unsightly color?" she snapped.

Tears blurred Rosalind’s vision, before she assisted in pushing the gown from her person, watching as it was thrown carelessly onto the bed like a piece of soiled cloth. "I don’t believe the dress is so terrible for a debutante. Perhaps the modiste simply forgot the conversation regarding altering the colors." The last thing Rosalind wanted was for the modiste to be injured by Lady Smithe’s ire.

Lady Smithe, however, was unyielding. "I shall have her head and her business before tomorrow’s close for this error."

Rosalind inwardly wilted like the wallflower she had hoped not to become when her maid returned with a pastel-peach gown—a design from last year marred by a hideous stain near the bodice. "I cannot wear that, Lady Smithe. There is a stain on the muslin—do you not see it? I will be ridiculed in society for debuting in such a gown."

Lady Smithe dismissed her concerns with a curt wave. "Do not be ridiculous, Rosalind. The dress will do perfectly well."

With no alternative, Rosalind stepped into the dress and, with her maid's help, pulled it over her undergarments. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, despair threatened to overwhelm her. The hopeful image of her debut vanished, replaced by a vision of a colorless orphan in need of nourishment and sunlight. Yet, as her maid fastened the gown at the back and ensured every detail was in order, Rosalind rallied her resolve .

The duke had spared no expense for her coming-out ball—even if he no longer spoke to her as he once had—every requirement specified by Lady Smithe for the night had been met.

"There now, that is much better and entirely age-appropriate," her ladyship declared.

Rosalind narrowed her eyes, disliking that her ladyship continued to remark about her age. "We are both three-and-twenty, my lady, and you are wearing a gown of royal blue. I do not think what I was wearing would have caused any raised brows."

Lady Smithe snapped, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, my dear. We shall have no sulking. I am far more versed in the art of society than you, even those deemed past their prime." With a final, unfriendly smile, she added, "Now come, we must make your debut downstairs. The guests will be arriving soon."

With a heavy heart and trembling resolve, Rosalind followed Lady Smithe out of her room and toward the stairs.

Her stomach twisted as she descended, for her eyes caught sight of the duke. He stood with his back turned, engaged in conversation with an unfamiliar gentleman—an early arriving guest, perhaps. His strong back and broad shoulders set her heart fluttering, and she clenched her fists at her sides, fighting the impulse to reach out to him. Since that fateful kiss beneath the willow— a kiss that had awakened in her a longing so intense she could not forget its sweetness—she had tasted the possibility of love. And she had adored it. Yet now, steeling her features against his habitual curt responses, she prepared herself for the cold indifference that had replaced their once-warm exchanges.

The duke turned as Lady Smithe joined him, and after a few words exchanged between them, his gaze met Rosalind's. In that moment, her breath caught, her skin prickled. However was she to remain indifferent to him? An impossible battle she would lose.

A frown creased his brow as his attention drifted to scrutinize her gown. Rosalind swallowed her disappointment. If the duke could barely conceal his disdain for her dress, few others would refrain from doing so. The night, already fraught with insecurity, seemed doomed to failure—and now, she was certain of it.