Chapter One
The Honorable Ysella Carlyon, youngest sister of Viscount Ormonde, stepped with dainty care out of the carriage that had transported her and her mother, the elegant Dowager Viscountess, to Denby House. The stuccoed façade of the enormous house glittered in the glow of many oil lamps and the steps up to the imposing front doors were lit as brightly as if it were daylight still.
Ysella paused on the wide pavement for a moment, drawing in a steadying breath. This was to be her first large ball after her presentation at court, and her heart was beating in a frantic rhythm of excitement within the tight restriction of her stays. Of course, she couldn’t count the few dances and routs she’d attended up until now, as they had been small by comparison. Or those she’d been to in the country, while she and Mama were residing at Ormonde Abbey, her brother Kit’s country seat. And anyway, she’d been just a girl then. Now, with her presentation behind her, she felt she’d become a young woman at last.
“Come along, Ysella,” Mama, a veteran of two much older daughters she’d brought out and seen safely married off, said with a sigh. “Let us go inside before you catch a chill.”
The possibility of this was real, as the night was cold and Ysella was wearing a gown of the finest silk and chiffon, with no sleeves and only her long silk gloves and a gauzy shawl to keep her warm. She followed her mother up the steps, past the waiting, liveried footmen, and into the enormous hallway of the house.
Not as big as the one at Denby Castle, which Ysella knew well. She’d been there many times over the years, as Denby lay only ten miles from Ormonde Abbey, so she wasn’t about to be overly impressed by the magnificence of the old Duke’s townhouse. Not that he’d be here. Last year he’d suffered another of his turns and was now confined to his room at the castle, with, according to Ysella’s maid Martha who knew everything, not long to live. No. Tonight was to be hosted by his only son and heir, Jasper, Marquess of Flint.
And there he was, waiting near the foot of the stairs to greet his guests. A corpulent man in his early fifties, Jasper might once have been handsome, but the years had not been kind to him and Ysella had no memories of him as anything other than the rather roly-poly gentleman now taking her mother’s hand and kissing it.
“Elestren!” He beamed at Mama. “Lovelier than ever, I declare. And you’ve brought Ysella with you. Delightful.” He turned slightly to the young woman standing by his side. “Allow me to introduce you both to my wife, the new Marchioness of Flint, Charlotte.” His smug glance at his wife betrayed a certain amount of pride. “Lady Ormonde, my dear, and Miss Carlyon, her youngest daughter.”
Ysella regarded Jasper’s new wife with interest, as she’d once had a fleeting fancy to pair him off with her best friend, Morvoren. Luckily for Morvoren, who now happened to be happily married to Ysella’s brother, this hadn’t succeeded. The cut of the new young Marchioness’s gown fought a losing battle to disguise the swell of her stomach. She must be in the same delicate state as Morvoren, although perhaps not so far along. Morvoren’s condition accounted for the fact that only Mama had brought Ysella to London. Kit had remained at Ormonde Abbey with his wife, sending almost daily reports to Mama and Ysella. A nervous father, Mama said only this morning when the latest missive arrived, her smile knowing and indulgent.
Apart from her delicate condition, the Marchioness had nothing of particular moment about her and for a moment Ysella, never averse to speaking her mind, wondered why Jasper had chosen her out of all the available young ladies of the ton. Luckily, she didn’t voice this doubt out loud.
The Marchioness possessed mousy brown hair piled on top of her head in prettily arranged curls, and her gown was of the most beautiful brocade and silk, but nothing could disguise her plain face. However, she did have a look of robust and sturdy health about her. Mama would say, and indeed had said on several occasions, that Jasper had gone for stamina this time, not a fortune such as his late first wife had brought him. Along with six daughters. He must be hoping fervently that his new wife would present him with the son and heir he needed this time.
The Marchioness executed a creditable curtsey for someone so unbalanced by her stomach. “Delighted to meet you, Lady Ormonde. Miss Carlyon.”
Mama spoke a few polite words to the Marchioness, complimenting her on her healthy colour, while Ysella’s eyes roamed the gaudily clad crowd. She managed to remember to bob an elegant curtsey herself, and she and Mama moved on into the ballroom.
Ysella caught her breath. The candles on the many chandeliers suspended from the ornate ceiling spread an almost ethereal light over the gathered company, making the ladies look like glowing fairy sprites in their shimmering gowns. Most of the men had chosen more muted colours for their immaculately cut coats, but amongst the crowd sparkled the scarlet of regimentals, like bright berries on a holly bush in winter. Soldiers back from the continent on furlough, no doubt, or perhaps officers of the local London militia.
Ysella followed Mama around the crowded perimeter of the room, gazing in fascination at the little groups of ladies wielding their fans, their headdresses bobbing. The eyes of these young women strayed sideways in flirtatious glances as they chattered, towards young men gathered in similar groups as though both groups were wary of each other. Just as they’d been at the ball Kit had held at Ormonde, and the one she’d attended with Morvoren last year at Denby Castle. Only everything here was bigger, more splendid, more exciting.
Mama spotted someone she knew and sped up, and Ysella, nervous at being lost within this crush of people she didn’t know, hastened in her wake. Who had Mama seen?
Fil Reid - Author 