Page 31 of Unending Joy
“Oh, nonsense indeed,” Westwood agreed calmly, “because there are no properties in Shropshire or Bath.”
“Ah.” They liked to tease Freddy, and normally he did not mind, but could not disguise his irritation with Joy being such an object of amusement. “If this turns Joy’s Season into a gauntlet of fortune hunters, I shall hold all of you personally responsible.” That remark drew a chorus of half-ironic protests.
“Us?” Westwood coughed. “You propose to hold me personally liable for my offhand remark, made quiteinadvertently, and quite without intention that it be repeated? Cunningham, you are turned tyrant.”
“He is,” Montford agreed with a faint grin, “but a well-meaning one, I believe.”
Freddy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had not meant to sound so heated, but anxiety prickled at him in a way he could hardly name. Joy was her own person—vivacious, adventurous, impossible to contain. The notion of her heart being trifled with by a man who might not appreciate all that she was…that notion roused in Freddy an uncomfortable mixture of protectiveness and indignation.
For a moment each gentleman was quiet, turning over the matter in his mind. Only Stuart, who had an adventurous wife himself, ventured a small reflection. “I do believe that Joy’s best chance of happiness, if she does not choose St. John, lies with a man who admires her high-spiritedness—who would never scold her for an unladylike impulse. One who might even share her enthusiasm for those pursuits Society deems improper. She is rare, is she not?”
“Hear, hear,” they all agreed and raised their glasses to Joy, but leaving Freddy feeling completely unsettled inside.
CHAPTER 10
Joy adjusted her spectacles for the hundredth time since stepping into the carriage, tugging the delicate gold frame as though it had somehow shifted from the last careful adjustment. They were so uncomfortable and she felt as conspicuous as though she had a target painted on her face. Her heart fluttered beneath her bodice, and she drew a long, steadying breath, hoping Faith and Westwood would not notice her agitation. Across from her, Faith sat as serene as ever, her pale blue silk gown shimmering subtly in the dim carriage light. Beside Faith, Westwood lounged in comfortable silence, impeccably tailored and thoroughly unperturbed, as though the evening ahead held nothing more challenging than one of their usual, quiet family dinners.
But for Joy, this evening at Lady Constance Houghton’s was nothing of the sort. It would mark the first time she had dared to appear before a full company—gentlemen included—in her spectacles. She had survived a seemingly endless series of teas and visits over the past week, suffering through interminable hours where conversation had rarely risen above whispered admonitions of her recent escapades and faintly pitying commentary on her upbringing. “Her parents died when she wasa babe, poor child,” one dowager had sighed loudly, as though Joy’s hearing were impaired rather than her sight.
“Perhaps her accident damaged the demure part of her head,” another had mused in hushed tones, lifting her lorgnette with a pointed glance in Joy’s direction. It had taken all her strength of will not to scowl at them, keeping instead a falsely sweet smile firmly pasted upon her face. She had nodded meekly, dutifully sipped weak tea, and endured as best she could their endless scoldings and thinly veiled judgements. She wished her sisters would just send her back to the country, where at least she could roam fields freely rather than be trapped in drawing rooms with women twice her age or more whispering about her as though she were absent—or incapable of understanding their every word.
Tonight would be different. There would be younger people at Lady Constance’s dinner, gentlemen among them. And Colonel St. John. She had overheard Faith mention his attendance, though her sister had made a valiant attempt to disguise the revelation beneath casual conversation. Joy was not fooled. Her pulse quickened at the mere thought of facing him across a candlelit dinner table, bespectacled and vulnerable. Would he find her altered? Less charming or witty, her eyes magnified through glass?
Her gown had been chosen with meticulous care, partly to bolster her confidence, partly at Faith’s insistence. Pale lilac silk fell in elegant, shimmering folds, embroidered subtly with silver thread in a delicate floral pattern along the hem and sleeves. It was fashionable without being ostentatious, perfectly suited to her age and standing, as Faith had repeatedly assured her. Tiny pearls caught the faint flicker of lantern-light from outside. Her ebony curls had been carefully arranged by the maid’s skilful hands into an artful cluster atop her head, secured by pearl-headed pins that matched her gown. The overall effect waspleasing, sophisticated even, though Joy could scarcely believe such words might be applied to her.
As the carriage rumbled along the cobbled streets, Joy clasped her gloved hands tightly in her lap, wishing fervently that Freddy might have been permitted to accompany them. Freddy would have known just what to say to calm her nerves—very likely something irreverent enough to make her laugh and forget her anxieties entirely. But no, Freddy had been forbidden her presence this past week as if he were the very source of her mischief, the catalyst for her recklessness. Absurdity itself! Yet here she was, venturing into the social fray without her closest confidant and ally.
Faith seemed to sense her unease and offered a gentle smile, reaching across to lightly touch Joy’s hand. “You look perfectly lovely, Joy. Truly, you have nothing to fear.”
Joy attempted a brave smile in return. “Thank you, Faith. But supposing—” She paused, her voice betraying her uncertainty. “—supposing the spectacles make me look utterly foolish? I do not think I can bear to be laughed at again.”
“They do nothing to diminish your beauty, Joy,” her motherly sister was compelled to say. “Once the newness wears off, no one will even notice them.”
Westwood’s voice broke in softly, gentle yet firm. “No one would dare laugh, Joy. And if any do, rest assured I shall deal with them most severely.” The faintest twinkle in his eyes softened his stern words, as if he would do something so absurd.
“Yes, and I shall help,” Faith added with playful resolve. “We shall set them all straight. Spectacles are hardly a crime, and they rather enhance your eyes.”
Joy was grateful for their support, though what else could they say? As the carriage slowed before Lady Constance’s town house, her stomach tightened anew. Lanterns illuminated the grand entrance, footmen standing in readiness to assist guestsdown from their conveyances. It was too late now to retreat; there was nothing for it but to face the evening bravely.
She took Westwood’s offered hand, stepping carefully down from the carriage into the warm glow of lantern light. Faith adjusted a stray curl atop Joy’s head, offering a last, encouraging smile. “Remember, Joy—confidence. Even if you must pretend.”
Joy nodded, straightening her shoulders whilst refraining from any retort of how the entire Season was one big farce of pretence.
Inside, the entrance hall was filled with elegant guests mingling beneath ornate chandeliers, their gowns and coats glistening in soft candlelight. Joy felt a familiar pang of dread, her hand drifting unconsciously to adjust her spectacles again. Faith gently intercepted her wrist, whispering softly, “Leave them, dearest.”
“Faith! Westwood! And Miss Joy, how charming,” Lady Constance greeted them warmly, sweeping forward to take their hands in turn. “And such fetching spectacles, Joy. Quite dashing!”
Joy murmured her thanks, her cheeks burning slightly. Was the compliment genuine, or was Lady Constance merely displaying kindness? Whilst it was better than the alternative, her hopes of them going unnoticed failed.
Her uncertainty deepened as she was escorted further into the drawing room, acutely aware of curious gazes following her, eyes assessing her through jewelled lorgnettes and fans subtly raised to conceal whispering mouths. Then, abruptly, her gaze caught that of Colonel St. John, standing by the mantelpiece in his dress uniform, his own gaze fixed firmly upon her.
As St. John approached, Joy noticed how strikingly dashing he appeared in his Regimentals. His scarlet coat, perfectly tailored and adorned with gold braid and polished buttons, accented his broad shoulders and lean figure. His white breechesand gleaming black boots added to the impressive uniform, drawing appreciative glances from nearly every lady present. His dark hair was combed into the Windswept style and framed his confident face and sparkling eyes.
“Miss Whitford,” St. John greeted smoothly, offering her a respectful bow. “I must confess, I hardly recognized you at first with your new adornment.”
Joy raised her chin, determined to hold her ground despite the fluttering in her chest. “Adornments? My spectacles, you mean. Do they so drastically change my appearance, Colonel?”
“Only in that they enhance what was already lovely,” he replied effortlessly. “I see now your eyes hold even greater depths—perhaps more perilous to gentlemen than ever before.”
