Page 2 of One Night to Remember
To most men, Felicity’s dowry alone was reason to wed her. The key was finding a man who didn’tneedit. Someone whose own fortune was vast enough that Felicity’s dowry would be a sweet, if unnecessary, gesture.
Lord Raymore fit the bill perfectly.
He was not a duke, but a marquess—and two decades older—but even Cole could find no other flaws. Raymore was dizzyingly wealthy. Three of his six properties were entailed to the title, meaning no one could ever take their home away. Neither Felicity nor her children need ever fear a future living on the streets. But grand possessions weren’t enough.
What was the point of marrying privilege and power if she couldn’t use any of it to help the people who needed it most?
“When I’m married,” Miss Corning said with a sigh, “I’ll never have to lift a finger again. My husband will take care of everything.”
He certainly would if she let him.
Felicity had coaxed Cole into placing “permission for wife to contribute to charitable causes as she sees fit” in her betrothal contract, but neither of them had been able to persuade any of her suitors over the years to sign such a statement.
Men control money, some insisted.Every penny of it.Others were happy to give her a bottomless purse, with the stipulation that her husband’s money was only to be spent on accoutrements that improved the family image: jewels, elaborate gowns. Under no circumstances was she to waste their assets on other people.
“Do you have your eye on anyone in particular?” Felicity asked.
“My eye is on every man with a title,” Miss Corning replied with a little laugh. “Just like everyone else.”
Felicity wasn’t “everyone else.” Neither was Lord Raymore.
Not only was the older gentleman on the House of Lords’ committee to reform child labor, he and Cole were theonlypeers on that committee. Raymore was the one bachelor in this ballroom who would be delighted to wed a bride who shared his passion to improve the lives of the less fortunate.
And in less than an hour, Felicity’s hand was promised to the marquess in a waltz.
It was a good sign, but a would-be bride required more than signs. Lord Raymore danced with Felicity regularly enough to raise eyebrows, but never sought her company outside of a ballroom. If she intended to change that, she needed to look and act the part of a future marchioness.
“Your dress is beautiful,” Miss Corning said shyly. “I love the tiny rosebuds on your demi-train.”
“Thank you,” Felicity answered with pride. The selection hadn’t been easy.
She’d spent countless hours poring over fashion plates to find exactly the right styles to communicate the impression she was hoping to make.
More mature than blushing, fresh-from-the-schoolroom girls, but young enough to still be a fine catch for any discerning gentleman. Intelligent enough to run any household, yet not so managing or bossy as to be tiresome. Elegant, not gaudy. Attractive, not bawdy.
Duchess, notdesperate.
It was a very fine line. Then again, controlling her outward appearance had been the sole tool in Felicity’s arsenal for most of her life. She had always had to pretend to be someone else in order to be seen, or to get what she needed. It no longer felt like giving up part of herself.
She straightened her bodice. The right clothes made her feel safe. They let her be—or at least appear to be—whatever she chose. Before her brother had inherited a title, the boys’ clothes she donned determined whether she would be accepted. Whether she would eat. Whether she could stay with her brother.
Now that Cole was a duke… nothing had changed. Her ability to mimic the right look would determine the rest of her life.
She understood exactly why a debutante like Miss Corning felt like she might vomit. Lord Raymorehadto work. He was the only hope she had left.
Felicity squared her shoulders in determination. This was the night she’d be on her way to her own happy ending.
Miss Corning’s shoulders slumped as she stared into the looking-glass. “My hair is hopeless.”
“This will help.” Using pins from the provided dish, Felicity rearranged Miss Corning’s flyaway locks into a style she’d seen inLa Belle Assemblée. She and her lady’s maid had practiced this look a hundred times. Just one more pin, and… “There.”
Miss Corning let out a shaky breath. “It looks beautiful. Thank you so much. I suppose I’m now as primped as I’ll ever be.”
“You look stunning,” Felicity assured her. “Are you enjoying the ball?”
“It feels like every minuet is my one and only chance with each gentleman.” Miss Corning blushed. “It must be lovely to be the sister of a duke, and not have to worry about such things.”
Felicity hadn’t always been the sister of a duke, and she had never stopped worrying about thing.
