Page 3 of The Secret to Swooning (London Secrets #6)

In Which We Learn How to Swoon Properly

O utside Lady Catherine’s townhome, Ann tried not to look like a dying fish. But her mama had transformed into an entirely different woman, one who valued scheming over virtue.

“Now,” her mama said, “you must make sure to swoon with a smooth face. Entirely slack.”

Ann snapped her mouth closed but still had no words with which to respond.

“Even the hint of a frown, and what should be a beatific swoon will turn into something rather unfortunate. He’ll run screaming instead of folding you into his arms. The folding is key, Ann. Remember that.”

“But… I don’t control what he does, Mama. I—”

“Just do. Not. Frown. Ever. But especially when you swoon.”

“Mama, I don’t think I should swoon at all.” Ann hunched nearer the wall of the townhouse, ducking her face away from a passing pedestrian. “I fail to see how it will secure me a husband.”

“Normally, I would not recommend it. But Lord Trevor”—her cheeks turned an alarming shade of red—“has wasted your time. You’re approaching… the shelf .” The last two words were hissed, as if to speak them were to give them life.

“I’m all of two and twenty,” Ann said. “Surely, I’ve a few more years before—”

“No. You do not. Not with that plain countenance and uninteresting figure.”

Ann crossed her arms over her chest. She thought she looked rather nice today.

After her conversation with Lord Dartmore, her cheeks had been rosy and her eyes bright.

He always looked at her like she was lovely, and so she always felt lovely afterward.

He’d proposed, too, transforming from silly friend to hard-edged suitor in a breath, and that had made her feel… desired.

All that desirable loveliness drained right down her body, out of her feet, and made a puddle on the ground.

She almost waved goodbye to it as it rolled in watery tendrils down the street.

The world was unkind to women—especially plain ones like her—but she knew she must marry.

Better to remember the facts her mother set before her than to dwell on how Lord Dartmore made her feel.

“Now,” her mother said, “listen closely. Timing is of the utmost importance. You must wait until something shocking has been said. Are you with me so far, Ann?”

“Yes, Mama. Time the swoon correctly.”

“Next, you must place your hand gently upon your brow. Palm out. Always”—she shook her finger in Ann’s face—“palm out.”

“Like this?” Ann placed the back of her hand to her brow.

“Lacks elegance. But good enough. Next, you stumble oh-so-slightly on your feet. Not a large rocking, mind you. Only enough to waft the tendrils of hair at your temples.”

“Waft tendrils. I can do that.”

“Then you make a slight moan and let all your muscles go loose. Make sure”—she placed a hand on Ann’s shoulder and leaned so close their noses almost touched—“this is of the utmost importance. Are you attending me?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Make sure, once you’ve loosed your muscles, that you fall toward the man whose interest you wish to catch.” She stepped away from Ann and clasped her hands before her. “Fall into the arms of the wrong man, and all is lost.”

“I understand.”

Her mother’s hands wrapped around her upper arms, giving her a shake. “Do you? The swoon is not a method to be taken lightly. It ignites men’s passions and their protective instincts. If utilized incorrectly, it could result in utter disaster. Chaos of the first order.”

Was her mother about to swoon?

“I understand, Mama. Truly, I do. I’ll fall into the right man’s arms!”

She pursed her lips. “I remain unconvinced.”

“Have I not done everything just as you’ve always asked me to? I did everything perfectly with Lord Trevor, and—” She snapped her teeth together.

“You’re right, Ann. I apologize. You’ve always been a good, dutiful girl. Lord Trevor’s folly is not yours.” She smiled.

A smile! Finally!

But it did not light Ann up as it usually did. It felt like a ghost light leading her down the wrong path.

“I trust you, daughter,” her mother said as she marched up the steps. “We shall greet our hostess first. Then we’ll breech the circle of conversation occupied by the best matrimonial prospect.”

Ann scurried to catch up. Entrance into the townhouse happened in a blur—knocking, a sour-faced butler, an absurdly ornate entrance hall, announced at the parlor where the guests milled about.

The walls of the parlor suffocated beneath tapestries and gilt-framed paintings. Every piece of furniture polished to a mirror shine, as were the parlor’s inhabitants. Nothing out of place—from cravats and fichus to hessians and slippers.

Her mother pushed her farther into the room. “There she is. Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Don’t wobble when you curtsy.”

No, she would save the wobbling for the swooning.

Ann looked to where her mother pointed. And her heart stopped. She dug her heels into the soft, thick rug beneath her feet.

An older woman sat in a chair at the back center of the room as if it were a throne. Her steel-gray hair piled high like a crown, and her grim mouth looked as if it had never smiled a day in her life.

And right beside her, his face alive with some joke, stood Lord Dartmore and his cousin Mr. Blake.

Dartmore grinned and bowed, and her heart did its usual welcome for him—speeding up and flipping fast. Dartmore… here? This is the last place on earth a man like him would wander.

Her mother tugged Ann forward. “ Do stop dawdling.” She spoke to Ann under her breath before lifting a beaming smile to the enthroned lady. “Dearest Lady Catherine.” Her mother dropped a long, slow curtsy. “We are delighted to attend to you this afternoon.”

“Lady Shelfington.” The lady with the steel-gray hair sniffed. “I am glad for your presence to distract me from the bad manners of these two… gentlemen.” She stabbed her chin toward Lord Dartmore and Mr. Blake.

Dartmore bowed. “Merely trying to enliven this event, my lady.”

“Go enliven some other event. You were not invited.”

“My grandfather, the Earl of Bennington, was.”

“And you are not he.”

“He will be one day,” Mr. Blake said.

Lady Catherine sniffed, turning her back on Lord Dartmore and his cousin to excise them from the group.

“Lady Shelfington… you were prettier in youth than you are now. During our come out, the men would look at you almost as often as they did me. Humph . But you have not the history of good looks found in my family, I’m afraid.

Is this your daughter?” She nodded at Ann.

“This is my daughter,” Ann’s mother said. “Lady Ann.”

Ann curtsied, ripping her gaze from Lord Dartmore. “I’m pleased to make—”

“Stand up straight, girl!”

Ann snapped to her full height just as Dartmore’s eyes grew hard, his shoulders stiff, and if Lady Catherine had deigned to glance his way, she’d have found herself skewered on the sharp point of his disapproval.

Lady Catherine did not seem appeased, despite the improvement of Ann’s posture. “My daughter is also Anne. But with an e . A superior spelling. Do you use the e ?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady.”

Lady Catherine tsked. “A shame. A waste, really, to never elevate your name. What could you have been thinking, Lady Shelfington?”

“I… I suppose,” her mama stuttered, “I was thinking of economy?”

Dartmore leaned close enough to feel the whisper of his breath across her ear. “Superior ladies don’t need extra letters to elevate them. You have no need of an e .”

“What did you say?” Lady Catherine demanded.

“Only that e’ s always elevate names. I’m considering adding another to mine.”

“I recommend against it. You’ll have too many then.” Lady Catherine turned her attention back to Ann. “For those with less talent, looks, and standing than myself and my daughter, economy in naming is a commendable impulse.”

Ann’s mother looked about the room. “Is your daughter here today? Will we have the honor of meeting her?”

Lady Catherine jerked her chin higher. “She is too refined and gentile to suffer the oppression of such a crush. She is resting in her rooms.”

“I’m convinced she does not exist.” Another whisper fell upon Ann’s ear. “A terrible creature, if she’s real.”

She stifled a laugh, covered her mouth with her hand.

Ann’s mother wrapped a hand around her arm. “It is charming to see you again, Lady Catherine, but there are many here that envy your company, and we will not deny them.”

Lady Catherine waved them away, and Ann’s mother pulled her into the crowd.

Dartmore’s smile vanished. The smile blooming in Ann’s own chest vanished, too. She’d never questioned leaving him before, had always known where her heart wanted to be but trudged away from it—from him, nonetheless—to win her parents’ approval, to be the perfect lady.

But now… when she knew he wanted her back…

she could not look away, and her body ached to return to him, blast the consequences.

His brows pulled low over storm-crackling eyes.

She’d seen him look like that at her only once before—when she’d kissed him to make another man jealous.

Anger. Passionate rage. She’d hurt him, perhaps, but she’d hurt herself, too.

Because the man she’d been trying to evoke jealousy in had never noticed, and after that, she’d viewed Lord Dartmore in an entirely different way.

She longed for the passion in his eyes, but not passionate anger. Passionate desire.

Her mother dragged her toward a group. “There. Lord Dunnington. Perfection.”

Ann ripped her gaze from Dartmore to look where her mother bid. Lord Dunnington had perfect posture, perfectly fashionable hair, and a perfectly pleasant face. No hint of an improperly wicked smile.

Her heart sank. Her feet turned to lead.

“He’s desperate for a wife,” her mother said. “I’ll place you on his right. You know what to do after that.”

Ann nodded. Swoon. And win herself a husband. And a new set of chains to squeeze her tight.