Page 8 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
“Thank you,” Anastasia said a little distantly, and stood up from the chair by the dressing-table. She went to her bed, lifting the soft, filmy shawl and her small, drawstring velvet reticule from it, and then she walked out swiftly into the hallway.
“Oh! Anastasia!” Lily, her younger sister gushed. “You look beautiful! I wish I could come.”
“Next year,” Anastasia promised, giving her younger sister a crushing hug. Lily was ten and six and, though she could have come out into society already, her parents preferred to wait until the following year. Anastasia, three years her senior, smiled as Lily gazed up into her face. “You’ll make a tremendous come-out into society next year, I promise. Then all of the Ton will be beating their way to our door.” She smiled into her sister’s bright hazel gaze.
“Oh, Anny,” Lily teased. “If that was going to happen, they’d be here already. But for you.”
Anastasia just smiled. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow,” she promised Lily, who clapped her hands.
“Good! I shall importune you throughout the breakfast hour for every minute detail until you find yourself utterly weary of recounting another word.”
Anastasia laughed. “Good. Goodnight, Lily. See you soon.”
“Have a tremendous evening, Anastasia!” Lily called to her. Anastasia was still smiling as she went down the stairs, hearing Lily hurry to the drawing-room where she would practice the pianoforte. Lily was a skilled pianist too, and she had a sweet voice.
Anastasia felt her stomach twist as she saw her parents waiting near the front door. Mama was dressed in a blue gown, her graying honey-brown hair arranged in tight ringlets and covered with a brief cap that looked more like a wide hairband—an indicator of her married status. Her eyes widened as she saw Anastasia, her long, thin face that was something of a mix between Anastasia’s and Lily’s, lit with a grin.
“Daughter! You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Mama,” Anastasia murmured, feeling genuine warmth as she gazed at her beloved mother. Her gaze went sideways to Papa and the uncomfortable clenching of her stomach returned again. Her fists, likewise, clenched in a response that was mostly fear.
“You will have to be on your most sparkling behaviour,” her father told her resolutely as Anastasia looked down at her toes. “This is not your first Season, you know.” His words could have been kind, but they were like a wintry wind, chilling her, stealing her warmth.
“Hubert!” Mama hissed with a shocked tone. Papa ignored her words.
“I have great plans for you, daughter,” he told Anastasia firmly. “But you have to try harder.”
“Yes, Papa,” Anastasia muttered. She felt tears in her eyes as she walked to the door. Her father always made her feel worthless, as though she could do nothing right. She felt her mother rest her hand briefly and lovingly on her shoulder and she took a steadying breath.
She turned and smiled at her mother, trying to reassure the older woman that she was all right. Then they all alighted into the coach.
“I will go to the Club tomorrow,” Papa informed Mama as the coach drew off. “I have business associates to meet with.”
“Of course,” Mama murmured without looking at him. Anastasia glanced caringly at her mother. Over the years, she seemed to have come to a place of neither fearing nor disliking Papa, despite his unpleasantness and rudeness. Mama seemed largely to ignore it, but Anastasia knew that, despite her brave facade, every dismissive word still hurt. She reached out and took Mama’s hand, holding it firmly in her own.
Mama smiled and the coach rolled on down the street, heading for Westminster and for Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
They stopped outside the Assembly Rooms half an hour later—as always, on the night of a ball, the traffic was congested in the area with coaches being forced to stop while others tried to turn in the street after divesting themselves of their noble occupants. Anastasia jumped down from the coach, her skirts rustling as she landed, ankles jarring on the hard stone-dressedsurface.
“Pray let us enter,” Mama murmured, gathering her shawl closely about her shoulders. “The air is rather brisk this evening.”
Anastasia nodded and she walked with Mama, hand-in-hand, as they went up the stairs and into the building. The front doors were wide, flanked with pillars and topped with a stone entablature. They went in and Anastasia blinked in surprise at how warm the hall felt compared to the chill outside. A footman stood waiting to take cloaks and coats, but Anastasia had only her thin shawl and she drifted past, heading towards the ballroom.
“It’s filling up already,” Mama murmured as they stood on the threshold. Papa was behind them, with their tickets. Whether one had an invitation, or a voucher, to attend Almack’s or not, one needed also to purchase tickets—neither was enough on its own. Anastasia watched as Papa demonstratively showed the tickets and they all went into the ballroom together.
The voice of a footman announced their arrival, but Anastasia barely heard him—her head was tilted back, and she was gazing up at the chandeliers. At least six or seven of them hung overhead, the crystals winking in the light of perhaps a hundred candles. She gazed up, mesmerized by the beauty.
“Anastasia!” Camilla called her. Anastasia looked down, beaming.
“Camilla! So good to see you.” She grinned at her friend. Like herself, Camilla wore white, but her dress was decoratedwith lace, as she had said, a filmy over-skirt of gauze covering the white silk. Her red hair was drawn back in a tight chignon, decorated with some tiny white flowers made of lace.
“And grand to see you, too,” Camilla said with a smile. “Are you losing yourself in staring at the candles?”
“They’re beautiful,” Anastasia retorted.
Camilla chuckled. “You have a keen eye for such details. Come, let us make our way to the refreshment table. The lemonade, though notoriously dreadful, is a welcome respite in this oppressive heat.”
Anastasia laughed. She followed Camilla to the refreshments table. When she reached it, Papa was there already. She blinked, gazing up at him in surprise.
