Page 9 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Nine

R osalind sat in the drawing room that overlooked the terrace, having breakfasted alone that morning. There was no sign of the duke, even though he had promised the previous day that he would return to dine with her.

She flipped through the latest La Belle Asemblée and considered which type of dress in the current fashion publication might suit her. Taller than most women—a tall meg as she’d been termed by the reverend’s son back home several years before—left her a little self-conscious of her height. Now, however, she regarded it as a blessing. The duke was tall. Surely His Grace would prefer a taller wife…

At the sound of voices and accompanying laughter, she straightened and turned toward the door just as it opened. In stepped Duke Ravensmere, accompanied by a woman whom she had never seen before.

Lady Rosalind rose, her mind racing to identify the newcomer. The woman exuded an air of superiority; her gown alone showcased the finest quality and the latest fashion throughout London this Season—much like the ones Rosalind had admired in her periodical.

"Lady Rosalind, may I present to you your companion for the Season. This is Lady Smithe, but you may call her Vivian." The duke turned toward the woman at his side, a small smile playing on his lips. "Of course, only if that is agreeable with you, my lady."

Lady Smithe clutched the duke’s arm, her fingers tightening on his dark cloth jacket as she pressed even closer. Rosalind observed their interaction and wondered if there was something more than friendship between them. How well did the duke know this woman? She noted that Lady Smithe was undoubtedly attractive, with a curvy, distinctly feminine figure, and her smile directed at the duke was undeniably pretty.

Rosalind swallowed a surge of jealousy that swept over her as she compared herself to them both. Her own gown was several years out of fashion and far too small—especially around the bust. She silently cursed her father for his inability to care for them and leave them in such a poor state of well-being .

"It's lovely to meet you, Lady Smithe. Thank you for offering to guide me through my Season."

Lady Smithe brushed aside Rosalind's greeting without meeting her eyes, continuing instead to gaze adoringly at the duke. "It is no bother. I'm here for the Season in any case. When His Grace asked for my help, how could I refuse?"

Rosalind nodded. "Would you care to sit so we may get to know each other better?"

The duke led Lady Smithe over to a nearby settee where they both took a seat. "How do you know each other, if I may ask?" Rosalind inquired as she leaned back in her chair, clasping the publication close to her chest—a protective gesture born of uncertainty of the lady before her.

"My sister, the Countess of Ghent, married Ravensmere's best friend the earl, and so we've been thrown into each other's social spheres for several years now."

"How lovely." Rosalind paused, uncertain of her own feelings regarding their friendship—a question she resolved to mull over later. For now, she needed to learn more about her Season and what it would entail with Lady Smithe as her companion.

"So, I have never had a Season, which I'm sure the duke mentioned. Will you collect me each day for the events we're to attend? Or will you reside here? I assume the former, as you're married, and I should not think your husband would wish you far from his side."

Lady Smithe laughed, her hand scandalously clasping the duke's thigh. Rosalind looked away from the unexpected contact, now more convinced than ever that there was something between the pair.

"Oh, no, you are all wrong, Lady Rosalind. I'm a widow and therefore I shall move into the ducal home here with you, and we shall go about the Season under one roof. It makes much more sense, I believe, to do it this way. We shall be so very busy—with fittings for your gowns, purchasing new shoes and hats, gloves, jewelery. You shall be the Diamond of the Season after I have finished buffing you up like a sparkling jewel."

The idea sounded wonderful, and Rosalind hoped she would prove to be a success.

"May I ask, how old are you, my dear?" Lady Smithe inquired, her gaze taking in Rosalind's tattered gown for the first time since they sat.

"I'm three-and-twenty, my lady.”

"Oh, my heavens. So you are my age. Well, I’m certain we shall get along very well."

Rosalind felt conflicted. The woman before her—smart, confident, attractive, and forthright—had already been married and was now a wealthy widow. This fact did nothing to bolster Rosalind's self-esteem, nor did she truly believe that they would be friends. The woman’s words, while hopeful and kind, held a timbre of mockery to them.

“Had I been afforded a Season before this year, I’m certain we would have been friends.” And had her father not died, perhaps she and her sisters might still be languishing in the country until they were well past the age to marry, a fate unthinkable for her siblings, who were kind and beautiful young women. If only their dearest mama had outlived their father…

"I have organized a carriage for you both today, and Lady Smithe has instructed her maid to pack her things and move into the house. This afternoon, you will go shopping and begin preparations for the forthcoming Season. I promised Lady Rosalind that I would find her a loving husband, and that is what I shall do."

"You are too kind, dearest duke," Lady Smithe remarked, once again leaning over His Grace in a manner Rosalind found far too familiar. The woman would soon be sitting on the duke's lap if she moved any closer.

"Thank you, Your Grace. I do hope you're right."

L ater that afternoon, as arranged by the duke, a carriage pulled up outside the London townhouse to take Rosalind and Lady Smithe shopping on Bond Street. Within minutes, they were gliding along the busy thoroughfare toward a well-regarded modiste.

Inside the shop, a team of assistants presented an array of colored muslin and silks—various cuts and fabrics from which Rosalind could choose.

"I'm dark-haired, and a touch of the sun has warmed my complexion," Rosalind observed. "I believe a darker shade of gown would suit me best—no pastels."

"You are right," Madame Leroy replied, her thick French accent lending a refined lilt to her words. "You shall look beautiful in reds and blues, and a green riding suit would be ideal, I believe."

"Do you truly think so?" Lady Smithe interjected, frowning at the vibrant colors displayed before them. "You are a debutante, after all, and you should not be in bright, rich hues. It would be better to choose shades in pastels—they would suit you much more."

The modiste met Rosalind's eye and offered the slightest shake of her head, silently conveying her own preference without words.

"Thank you for your opinion, Lady Smithe. I shall defer to it on many things as you guide me through the Season, but I cannot wear colors that are pale and washed out. I must make an impression if I am to attract a husband—the gentlemen this year will not notice a wallflower. I want to shine, and on this occasion, I shall choose the colors that suit me best."

Lady Smithe's lips pursed into a displeased line, and Rosalind silently hoped she had not offended her. Despite her own insecurities, Rosalind wished for genuine friendship between them.

"Very good, Lady Rosalind," Madame Leroy announced as she moved to a nearby cupboard. She retrieved several large leather-bound volumes and set them on the table. "These are the cuts and styles of gowns available this year. Browse through them, and we shall select several dresses to prepare you for the Season. More can be made as the Season progresses."

"Thank you," Rosalind breathed, barely able to contain her excitement. The prospect of acquiring new gowns thrilled her—a welcome change from the dowdy dresses that had been too small or too short, constantly mended over the years. With eager anticipation, she prepared to open the tome and choose the designs that would usher her into a bold new future.