Page 9 of Mischief at Marsden Manor
“We have a bet,” I told her. “I have to pay Christopher five pounds if her gown is black. I suppose we’ll see when we get downstairs.”
At the reminder, Francis clicked his heels together and presented his elbow. Constance took it and they turned towards the stairs. I stuck my hand through Christopher’s arm and followed.
“She does look marvelous in black,” Constance said over her shoulder.
I nodded. “But a bit much for the occasion, don’t you think? Surely she won’t want to look like she’s in deep mourning for the second most joyous occasion of her life?”
Or perhaps the third most joyous. Or fourth. Engagement, wedding, birth of their first child. And surely the day when Uncle Harold kicked the bucket and Crispin ascended to the dukedom (and brought Laetitia with him) would rank high, as well.
“I’m with Kit,” Francis said. “The gown will be black.”
“Five pounds?”
He smiled indulgently. “Why not? More importantly, I think we need to discuss Pippa’s wedding frock and what will come of walking in there wearing it.”
“Nothing will come of me wearing it,” I said. “And it’s not a wedding frock.”
Francis gave it another look over his shoulder. “It might as well be.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s just an ivory frock. Although with the way you’re carrying on, now I wish I had gone with the seafoam green with bronze beads instead.”
“I don’t,” Christopher said. “You look lovely, Pippa. And you’ll make a nice contrast with Laetitia once we get down there.”
“If she’s wearing black.”
“She will be,” Christopher said and shifted his grip to my elbow as we started to descend the stairs.
Marsden Manor wasin possession of an actual ballroom, and that’s where tonight’s gathering took place. When we walked through the open doors, the happy couple was standing in front of the fireplace directly opposite, each of them with a glass of champagne. Laetitia had Crispin in a death grip with her other hand, of course—it was almost as if she were afraid he would try to get away if she didn’t hang onto him—and yes, she was wearing head-to-toe black.
Christopher turned to me, and I nodded, resigned. “I’ll get it to you later.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” He squeezed my hand. “In justice to her, she does carry it off.”
And how. I made a face but didn’t respond. There was nothing I could say, at least not without sounding green-eyed with envy, which I didn’t want to do.
Laetitia Marsden is a year or two older than Crispin, and for that matter than Christopher, Constance, and myself. She’s twenty-four or perhaps twenty-five, and she’s remarkably beautiful. Tall, almost as tall as Crispin in her T-strap heels, and willowy. The current slinky fashions look marvelous on her. Her hair is cut in a sharp Dutch boy bob, most likely with the help of a ruler, and it’s jet black and shiny, framing her face like a cap of satin.
The gown was amazing. A net overdress shimmered with black sequins and blue beads in the shape of peonies. It topped a black underdress of satin or crepe, and the whole thing ended in a row of beaded fringe that danced around Laetitia’s calves every time she shifted her weight. It was beyond sophisticated, probablyhaute couturedirect from Paris, and while I knew I looked good in my ivory silk crepe, I felt like a little girl in a pinafore next to a grown woman.
“Chin up,” Christopher murmured as we made our way across the floor towards them, trailing Constance and Francis. There was something of the feeling of approaching royalty. The people on either side of us, chatting in groups of two and three with glasses of champagne in their hands, drew away from us as we crossed the floor, giving us what felt like furtive looks out of the corners of their eyes.
In some cases, the looks were less than furtive. One young woman—I’m fairly certain she was Lady Violet Cummings, based on the peroxide blond shingled bob—looked Christopher up and down, and leaned towards her companion’s ear with a titter and whisper. The companion—perhaps the Honorable Cecily Fletcher?—took one look at him, and one at me, before shooting an agonized look at her friend, and then looking away.
“Stiff upper lip,” Christopher admonished, brushing past them without a glance.
“I don’t know that I have it in me to congratulate her,” I muttered, giving the two young ladies my back in favor of focusing on Laetitia. “She looks so indecently triumphant, doesn’t she?”
“Then congratulatehim,” Christopher said.
I made a face. “That’s even worse. At least she scored a future duke. All he got was a shrew with an eye to his title and fortune.”
“I think perhaps you’re being a little unfair,” Christopher said gently. “She does seem to want him for himself, too.”
“God only knows why.”
“I imagine she knows him in ways you don’t,” Christopher said just as Constance and Francis came to a stop in front of the happy couple.
I flicked him an annoyed look. “Well, I knowthat, Christopher. It was discussed over dinner last night, remember? Do you really think now is the time to remind me?”
