Page 29 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

London, June 1876

“So what do you think? I merely told her the truth.”

Cressida’s eyes danced about the assembled merrymakers who formed a half-circle about her, crowding in so they very nearly trod upon the hem of her plum evening gown. Each one of them hung upon her every word, their eyes wide and lips parted, more than ready to laugh.

And to think, she’d worried about being lonely, had been afraid to be shunned by her peers.

“Go on, then,” someone urged. “What did she have to say to that?”

“Well,” Cressida began, setting her empty champagne coupe upon a passing footman’s silver tray before continuing, “when I admitted that yes, what she’d heard was true, that I’d gone and ‘thrown my life away on some poor doctor,’ she shrieked. That, I confess, I did not expect. A terrible sound. And then, threatening tears, why, the poor woman had the gall to ask me if I might reconsider.”

A titter went through the group.

“What, reconsider?” Mrs. Rickard exclaimed, looking as glittering and resplendent in her evening wear as any duchess or countess Cressida had formerly known. “Weeks after the ceremony?”

Mrs. Rickard, or Harmonia, as Cressida had come to regard her, had heard this tale more than once. And yet she had the good grace and dramatic insight to gently encourage its retelling for the party attendees who were not as close with the former Lady Caplin, and current Mrs. Collier. They were similar in that respect, Mrs. Rickard and her—they both understood how to play to a crowd. Perhaps that was why they counted each other as close friends now.

Cressida reached out to snag another coupe of champagne—this one full—from a different footman’s tray.

She’d worried about finding staff for the new house, as it was not quite in fashionable Mayfair, but slightly north of Oxford Street—near the agreed-upon border, but still definitively within Marylebone. Matthew had laughed at her fretting and kissed her upon her head, assuring her it’d not be a problem. He’d been correct, as it turned out. For coin was king everywhere, as it turned out. And it could procure a decent residence and a decent living, even when one’s existence was on the margins of polite society.

She took a small sip, glancing over the rim, enjoying the building anticipation.

“Yes, wouldn’t that be just the thing? Imagine, discovering you’ve wedded a total boor,” she said, her voice lilting, “abysmally equipped in matters of… well. Shall we just say matters of the heart?”

Everyone chortled.

“It brings to mind my first marriage,” she said lightly, and was rewarded with even more guffawing.

“It leads one to wonder why you didn’t simply… reconsider that one,” Harmonia jested, earning her own laughter.

“So, how did you respond?” pressed a tall, red-haired artist in a loose green velvet gown, a Bohemian sort who was one of Harmonia’s set. And now, Cressida’s.

“Why, what was there to say? When one’s modiste lives and dies by her reputation, and, I suppose, that of her clientele?”

Cressida drew one hand outward and shrugged elegantly. The hired players kicked up into an energetic music hall ditty, no doubt at the direction of Arthur. His young friends and compatriots practically littered the drawing room, but Cressida would not complain. She found that she preferred their frenetic, youthful energy to that of the ton. Even Middlemiss had become dear to her, somehow.

“And yet,” she said, a wicked smile upon her lips, “I informed her that while she might possess reservations about dressing a ‘poor doctor’s wife,’ that I trusted Mr. Worth would have no such compunction.”

The crowd broke out into a ribald mixture of laughter and applause, people shouting out their own jibes over the din.

It was a bawdy thing to do, but Cressida struck a pose to better model her elegant gown created by the aforementioned Mr. Worth, mesmerizing with its shimmering silk, a school of intricately stitched fish swimming about its hems. Now without a coat of arms, Cressida had adopted the goldfish as a sort of personal motif.

It suited her.

As did the relaxed nature of her new position. In truth, her guest lists featured fewer titles and less-revered names, but they were far more enjoyable. While some small part of her harbored a disbelief that she’d never again attend court, nor be invited to shooting parties at the storied estates of dukes and earls, Cressida found she hadn’t the time to be bothered.

There were some holdovers from her prior life, of course. The pair of bachelors from her gardening club, Mr. Bunch and Baron Parfitt, the young and exuberant Sir Colin Gearing and his fellow naval officers, and, oddly enough, her brother, Sir Frederick Catton, were frequent guests at her engagements. Word had spread, it seemed, of her still-outstanding abilities as a hostess, and there were plenty of people craving amusement outside the rigid, constricting rules of the aristocracy. Without that rarefied air suffocating everyone, the atmosphere was far jollier, and parties were now so rollicking that—on occasion—certain dukes and earls even deigned to show up out of curiosity. Their duchesses and countesses, however, knew better, and did not.

Cressida did not begrudge her former friends and acquaintances this. She knew all too well how much more heavily societal sins weighed upon the shoulders of women.

“Speaking of the ‘poor doctor,’” Harmonia said as she sidled up to Cressida, linking their arms, “I believe it about time that he took some air.”

The throng of revelers parted, allowing Harmonia to lead Cressida toward the cards room.

“Oh?” Cressida raised an eyebrow. “Is he about to beggar us?”

Harmonia laughed prettily.

It was not that long ago that Cressida had puzzled over how the heiress had thrown away all her striving and hard work, turning her back on an earl’s proposal just to wed some strange fellow with a threatening look and no reputation.

The long, bright hallway smelled heavenly, due to the overabundance of floral arrangements: salvia, phlox, and daylilies. All grown in her new, modern conservatory and her tidy garden, the largest on the street. As they passed through, the sound of scuffing shoes alerted Cressida to a mischievous interloper. She looked up and caught sight of Henry, leaning over the railing, a doleful look upon his face.

She arched her brow.

With an exaggerated sigh, Henry fell back, making a great show of heading back to bed.

Cressida smiled to herself. Soon they’d no longer be able to contain the lad, so bursting with curiosity and excitement was he. More so than he’d ever been, in fact.

They passed through the wide-open doors to the cards room, and Cressida immediately spotted her husband’s sandy head of hair, his tall form that sat head and shoulders over the other players.

Now she understood Harmonia.

In retrospect, it had been quite easy to leave all that behind. What had been there to begin with? The company of vicious harpies like Mrs. William Brenchley? The same boring dances, the same old gossip, the same tired ideas and attitudes, the same cold and oppressive husbands?

Cressida broke away from Harmonia’s arm, gliding through the room as if all eyes were not upon her.

“Darling,” she cooed as she cleaved herself against Matthew, without a care in the world for rules and comportment. “What is the game?”

He slid an arm around her, pulling her closer as he placed a kiss upon her temple.

“Are you not greeting our guests?” he murmured.

“Why should I?” She lifted her chin. “Do we not pay our staff?”

He laughed in that low, gentle rumble that ignited a ripple of pleasure deep within her.

“The game,” sighed the aloof Mr. Palgrave, the bastard son of a duke who had his own experience in being viewed as an outsider by the aristocratic class, “is whist, if you must know, Lady Caplin.”

“Please,” Cressida said with a wave of the hand, “it’s Mrs. Collier now.”

She felt Matthew’s hand tighten on her waist. Suddenly she’d the urge to stand up, clap her hands, and throw every university student, artist, and upwardly mobile tradesperson out of her home. But she could wait.

For she’d waited years to know happiness like this.

She turned to look into Matthew’s eyes, so full of love and admiration.

“Shall I leave you to it, then? Or do you wish for a respite, a bit of fresh air?”

The thought of accompanying Matthew outside, to a dark corner upon the balcony, was suddenly exceptionally appealing.

But then Sir Colin Gearing, her husband’s whist partner judging by his position across from him at the table, cleared his throat and stood.

“Would you care to take over?” He hesitated, still unsure of how to address her. “My lady?”

Cressida straightened up and offered her most gracious smile to Mr. Palgrave and his partner, some elderly, worn-out Scotsman Matthew had scrounged up from his former club. As of late, he’d won election to the young Savile Club; with his propensity for snooker and card games, he’d been all but a certainty. After Cressida’s urging of several members, of course. Though her social standing might not be what it once was, she was still as savvy as ever.

Even Arthur had put in a good word, as had Middlemiss, for what that was worth.

“Yes, I believe I would,” she agreed, taking Sir Colin’s vacated seat.

She grinned at her husband.

Matthew smiled lazily back, with the expression of someone who knew they were bound to win.

For they both already had.