elspeth
New Member
Dearest Gentle Reader...
You do not know me, and rest assured, you never shall, but be forewarned dear reader, I certainly know you. It has reached my humbly attuned ears that I was quite missed this season while all the members of our esteemed ton lazily sojourned in their rustic retreats. After all, my absence left no one to report on the various shames, smears, and scandals that haunt the good gentlemen and lovely ladies of our genteel society. Without this author, how else would a certain Lord Blackmore's indiscretions with his wife's maid, who has since been dismissed from the Blackmore country estate, have come to light? Or news of the hasty engagement and subsequent marriage between Mr. Edward Leeson and Miss Juliet St. George, which has resulted in the birth of a happily healthy baby girl (despite her purportedly dangerous early arrival)? Such stories are essential fodder for the idle high-class mind, and surely would have provided a welcome distraction from the eventual and inevitable tension that erupts when families find themselves trapped in their country estate day after day in the bitter depts of winter. Well, dearest reader, I am certainly just as delighted as you are that the start of a new season dawns before us. Such happy new beginnings are eagerly marked by Lady Tremblay's annual soirée, set to take place tonight. Have no fear - this author shall certainly be in attendance, but first, she must heed a warning to our newly debuted and unwed young ladies: take care to not fall victim to the sweet whispers, wayward touches, or, heaven forbid, kisses, of the Ton's rakes. Such stains can never be washed away from even the most inconspicuous of cloth, nor can they be hidden, particularly when the most perceptive of eyes (my own two included) are quick to spot any sign of a tragically and deliciously sordid faux-pas.
Until next time,
Lady Whistledown
You do not know me, and rest assured, you never shall, but be forewarned dear reader, I certainly know you. It has reached my humbly attuned ears that I was quite missed this season while all the members of our esteemed ton lazily sojourned in their rustic retreats. After all, my absence left no one to report on the various shames, smears, and scandals that haunt the good gentlemen and lovely ladies of our genteel society. Without this author, how else would a certain Lord Blackmore's indiscretions with his wife's maid, who has since been dismissed from the Blackmore country estate, have come to light? Or news of the hasty engagement and subsequent marriage between Mr. Edward Leeson and Miss Juliet St. George, which has resulted in the birth of a happily healthy baby girl (despite her purportedly dangerous early arrival)? Such stories are essential fodder for the idle high-class mind, and surely would have provided a welcome distraction from the eventual and inevitable tension that erupts when families find themselves trapped in their country estate day after day in the bitter depts of winter. Well, dearest reader, I am certainly just as delighted as you are that the start of a new season dawns before us. Such happy new beginnings are eagerly marked by Lady Tremblay's annual soirée, set to take place tonight. Have no fear - this author shall certainly be in attendance, but first, she must heed a warning to our newly debuted and unwed young ladies: take care to not fall victim to the sweet whispers, wayward touches, or, heaven forbid, kisses, of the Ton's rakes. Such stains can never be washed away from even the most inconspicuous of cloth, nor can they be hidden, particularly when the most perceptive of eyes (my own two included) are quick to spot any sign of a tragically and deliciously sordid faux-pas.
Until next time,
Lady Whistledown
The air in the ballroom was hot, the heady scent of the fresh lilacs that dripped from every arch and beam enveloping the partygoers not unlike a secure, if not suffocating, embrace. Madeline could feel minuscule pearls of perspiration forming along her hairline, and she attempted to discreetly brush them away with the back of a gloved hand without endangering the delicate blonde tendrils that framed her face. She could tolerate the heat; her childhood in India had left her no other choice. It had been a matter of languishing on the sitting room settee with her mother for afternoons on end, or growing accustomed to the country’s long, dry, and sun-drenched days in order to run about outside with the other children in the house, and Madeline had quickly learned that the latter was certainly the more preferable choice.
Of course, the warmth of Lady Tremblay’s ballroom was not the only reason why her skin had begun to take on an invisible and uncomfortable itch. Lord Morton had not looked at her once since his arrival at the soirée, and Madeline was growing anxious, although she did not necessarily care to admit it, even to herself. The young baron had appeared interested in her earlier this morning at the presentations. He had offered her a smile - a true smile, not the sly, cunning, arrogant smiles bachelors often directed towards innocent, blushing debutantes such as herself, young girls who had never even been within fives paces of a man who was not a male relative - as she had risen from her curtsy and taken her leave from her place before the queen.
According to the gossip columns, the young Lord Morton would make an adequate husband - although only an interlude of serious and considerate courtship could tell, of course. She could not allow herself to fall victim to the opinions of others rather than her own in her search for a spouse, a spouse that she and she alone would have to live in companionship with for eternity. He was of a middling stature, but possessed a fairly athletic physique that indicated he could ride, which assured Madeline that his physical health was not in question. He had good teeth, surely, strong and healthy-looking; she had noted as such when he had smiled at her. Perhaps his smile itself was a touch crooked, yes, but his lopsided grin was merely a superficial flaw. Most importantly, his eyes, a delightfully charming blue, had been kind, kinder than those of many of his fellow bachelors. Kind eyes could surely promise a gentle and obliging disposition, a quality that would be most appropriate in a good husband, no? Madeline certainly thought so. Of course, she could not test her hypothesis so long as Lord Morton kept ignoring her subtle glances. She bit the corner of her bottom lip (a terrible habit that Abigail, her maid, had urged her to quit) in frustration as her target signed his name on Caroline Crawley’s dance card. The latter’s giggling as Lord Morton flashed her a smile - genuine! - was high and loud enough that even Madeline could hear it over the music of the band.
“Poor Lord Morton. His toes will certainly be wishing he had never asked Caroline for a dance.” A playful voice brought Madeline out of her reverie, and she turned to face its owner, a tall, willowy brunette girl with a thin but pretty oval face and twinkling dark eyes that moved from Lord Morton to meet Madeline’s own gaze. Rachel Baxter was the third and final daughter of a wealthy second son, and although she held no title, every feature, every look, every action oozed pride and confidence.
Madeline drew a hand up to her lips to hide her smile. “You know as well as I do that Caroline simply cannot seem to manage her nerves when she dances.” Her gaze returned to the dance floor, where Caroline and Lord Morton had settled. The music began to swell once more, indicating a new dance. “It is unfair of us to tease her for something over which she has no control,” she pondered kindly.
Rachel eyed the couple, her thin lips twisted in a grimace. “Yes, all that she can manage is trodding over and over again over her partner’s toes.”
Her words were timely perfectly with an unfortunate (and decidedly painful) stomp on Miss Crawley’s part on her partner’s toes. To his credit, the ever-gentlemanlike Lord Morton only paled slightly, and he smiled encouragingly at the starry-eyed (albeit now tomato-faced) debutante in his arms. Madeline could not control the distinctly unladylike snort that slipped out from her pink lips, and she raised a fist once again to her mouth in order to cover her rude slip, although Rachel’s shaking shoulders made it hard for her to maintain her own sense of decorum. A wave of relief washed over her, and Madeline was thankful for Rachel’s presence beside her. How silly she was, to fret so decidedly over nothing but a smile from a gentleman she hardly knew. In her pursuit of a husband, she could not allow herself to lose her levelheadedness. Such would be a waste, and would surely do her no favours in her hunt. As unromantic as it was, a ‘hunt’ was what the season was: ambitious mamas and young ladies in search of wealthy, eligible gentlemen in want of a wife, and handsome, powerful bachelors on the prowl for young and pretty prey. Her uncle had warned her last summer, the year of her initial debut into society, to never allow herself to be charmed by such predators; should she allow one to separate her from the safety of the heard, or the populated sidelines of the ball, she would surely find herself in a compromising position - if not worse.
Of course, Uncle Samuel could certainly be overprotective, a truth that his niece was all too familiar with after finding herself in his dedicated care for nearly ten years. While he had approved of her debut, he had nevertheless maintained his own reservations about the idea of his beloved Madeline being put up on the marriage mart, so much so that she was convinced he had intimated some of her suitors. In fact, few had returned after their second or third call to Sinclair House, and those who did would twitch nervously as they spoke, and despite Madeline’s best efforts to make them feel comfortable and to be charming and bright, their eyes would inevitably and constantly move to the domineering presence behind her, Lord Sinclair, whose log-like crossed arms, broad shoulders, and unblinking, calculating glare over the Sunday newspaper could send chills down even the most confident of suitors’ spines.
She could feel his ever-watchful eye on her even now, and she found his icy blue eyes in the across the room, her features widening into a reassuring, confident grin. Lord Sinclair’s ruggedly handsome and lined face was stern, even severe, despite the levity that surrounded him, but something in his gaze softened as his eyes met his niece’s.
On her other side, Georgiana Gillingham nudged her, the redhead inclining her chin in the opposite direction. “It appears Mr. Gideon is quite taken by you,” she whispered, and Madeline followed her friend’s line of sight to a man no older than thirty-and-five with black hair and green eyes. Their eyes met and he smiled as he took a sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving hers, as though he was assessing her. She smiled back politely, charmingly, and his right check dimpled in response, a clear sign of approval. A surge of self-assurance flowed through her, but no spark ignited itself in her chest.
“I suppose we shall see,” she replied coyly, a pleased smile gracing her lips. “But before we do, I am quite parched - let us go in search of some refreshment.” With a swish of sage green skirts, she beckoned Rachel and Georgiana to follow her, and the two obeyed.
Of course, the warmth of Lady Tremblay’s ballroom was not the only reason why her skin had begun to take on an invisible and uncomfortable itch. Lord Morton had not looked at her once since his arrival at the soirée, and Madeline was growing anxious, although she did not necessarily care to admit it, even to herself. The young baron had appeared interested in her earlier this morning at the presentations. He had offered her a smile - a true smile, not the sly, cunning, arrogant smiles bachelors often directed towards innocent, blushing debutantes such as herself, young girls who had never even been within fives paces of a man who was not a male relative - as she had risen from her curtsy and taken her leave from her place before the queen.
According to the gossip columns, the young Lord Morton would make an adequate husband - although only an interlude of serious and considerate courtship could tell, of course. She could not allow herself to fall victim to the opinions of others rather than her own in her search for a spouse, a spouse that she and she alone would have to live in companionship with for eternity. He was of a middling stature, but possessed a fairly athletic physique that indicated he could ride, which assured Madeline that his physical health was not in question. He had good teeth, surely, strong and healthy-looking; she had noted as such when he had smiled at her. Perhaps his smile itself was a touch crooked, yes, but his lopsided grin was merely a superficial flaw. Most importantly, his eyes, a delightfully charming blue, had been kind, kinder than those of many of his fellow bachelors. Kind eyes could surely promise a gentle and obliging disposition, a quality that would be most appropriate in a good husband, no? Madeline certainly thought so. Of course, she could not test her hypothesis so long as Lord Morton kept ignoring her subtle glances. She bit the corner of her bottom lip (a terrible habit that Abigail, her maid, had urged her to quit) in frustration as her target signed his name on Caroline Crawley’s dance card. The latter’s giggling as Lord Morton flashed her a smile - genuine! - was high and loud enough that even Madeline could hear it over the music of the band.
“Poor Lord Morton. His toes will certainly be wishing he had never asked Caroline for a dance.” A playful voice brought Madeline out of her reverie, and she turned to face its owner, a tall, willowy brunette girl with a thin but pretty oval face and twinkling dark eyes that moved from Lord Morton to meet Madeline’s own gaze. Rachel Baxter was the third and final daughter of a wealthy second son, and although she held no title, every feature, every look, every action oozed pride and confidence.
Madeline drew a hand up to her lips to hide her smile. “You know as well as I do that Caroline simply cannot seem to manage her nerves when she dances.” Her gaze returned to the dance floor, where Caroline and Lord Morton had settled. The music began to swell once more, indicating a new dance. “It is unfair of us to tease her for something over which she has no control,” she pondered kindly.
Rachel eyed the couple, her thin lips twisted in a grimace. “Yes, all that she can manage is trodding over and over again over her partner’s toes.”
Her words were timely perfectly with an unfortunate (and decidedly painful) stomp on Miss Crawley’s part on her partner’s toes. To his credit, the ever-gentlemanlike Lord Morton only paled slightly, and he smiled encouragingly at the starry-eyed (albeit now tomato-faced) debutante in his arms. Madeline could not control the distinctly unladylike snort that slipped out from her pink lips, and she raised a fist once again to her mouth in order to cover her rude slip, although Rachel’s shaking shoulders made it hard for her to maintain her own sense of decorum. A wave of relief washed over her, and Madeline was thankful for Rachel’s presence beside her. How silly she was, to fret so decidedly over nothing but a smile from a gentleman she hardly knew. In her pursuit of a husband, she could not allow herself to lose her levelheadedness. Such would be a waste, and would surely do her no favours in her hunt. As unromantic as it was, a ‘hunt’ was what the season was: ambitious mamas and young ladies in search of wealthy, eligible gentlemen in want of a wife, and handsome, powerful bachelors on the prowl for young and pretty prey. Her uncle had warned her last summer, the year of her initial debut into society, to never allow herself to be charmed by such predators; should she allow one to separate her from the safety of the heard, or the populated sidelines of the ball, she would surely find herself in a compromising position - if not worse.
Of course, Uncle Samuel could certainly be overprotective, a truth that his niece was all too familiar with after finding herself in his dedicated care for nearly ten years. While he had approved of her debut, he had nevertheless maintained his own reservations about the idea of his beloved Madeline being put up on the marriage mart, so much so that she was convinced he had intimated some of her suitors. In fact, few had returned after their second or third call to Sinclair House, and those who did would twitch nervously as they spoke, and despite Madeline’s best efforts to make them feel comfortable and to be charming and bright, their eyes would inevitably and constantly move to the domineering presence behind her, Lord Sinclair, whose log-like crossed arms, broad shoulders, and unblinking, calculating glare over the Sunday newspaper could send chills down even the most confident of suitors’ spines.
She could feel his ever-watchful eye on her even now, and she found his icy blue eyes in the across the room, her features widening into a reassuring, confident grin. Lord Sinclair’s ruggedly handsome and lined face was stern, even severe, despite the levity that surrounded him, but something in his gaze softened as his eyes met his niece’s.
On her other side, Georgiana Gillingham nudged her, the redhead inclining her chin in the opposite direction. “It appears Mr. Gideon is quite taken by you,” she whispered, and Madeline followed her friend’s line of sight to a man no older than thirty-and-five with black hair and green eyes. Their eyes met and he smiled as he took a sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving hers, as though he was assessing her. She smiled back politely, charmingly, and his right check dimpled in response, a clear sign of approval. A surge of self-assurance flowed through her, but no spark ignited itself in her chest.
“I suppose we shall see,” she replied coyly, a pleased smile gracing her lips. “But before we do, I am quite parched - let us go in search of some refreshment.” With a swish of sage green skirts, she beckoned Rachel and Georgiana to follow her, and the two obeyed.
miss howard
madeline.
♡coded by uxie♡
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