Excerpt from Chapter 1 of Colours of a Lady

 

As she stood at the top of a suitably elaborate staircase overlooking her own ball, Lady Emma Daphne Wren remembered how much she hated such affairs. How easily she deluded herself over the winter! She spun wild cottony dreams of the magic of the Season. By the end of Twelfth Night, she was ready to head back to London. Through the fittings and her dance lessons, she maintained the rosy view of the Season. Visions of charming earls and devastating dukes danced across her mind.

 

Her delusions disappeared when the curling rod first burned her neck. Though her hair twisted itself into tight coils naturally, they were not the fashionable type of curl. The men certainly matched the handsomeness of her daydreams, but they never smiled at her with more than practiced politeness. Emma had gone through the Season once before. She adored the filmy gowns and detested the forced small talk. Not that Emma had much to say beyond small talk to strangers, she just hated it all the same.

 

She had to marry. This circus was a necessary evil to achieve that. This particular ball kicked off the Season. Her mother, Lady Sheridan, hosted it every year. All of the elite families of the ton attended the event. Their daughters hoped to make a good impression on both the bachelor sons and their snooty mothers. Emma, too, hoped for the same. If last year was any indication, no one would seek a union with her family, unless it was through her elder sister.

 

Emma thought again of marriage. To be frank, she knew well to whom she would like to be wed. Her eyes raked over the bucks of the ton who milled about as they paid court to their favourites. Second sons wasting away in debt. Military heroes on leave from the war. Heirs to earldoms eager to sire an heir. Then, she found him, the Catch of the Season.

 

She guiltily focused upon the long-legged male with coal-black curls. He exuded the same perfection he always had. His eyes crinkled as a quick smile crossed his lips. He was too far away for Emma to see the colour, but she knew from memory that they were grey, the shade that reflected the English sky most of the year. She had known this man since she was but a child. A silly, boisterous child with too many thoughts and too high of dreams. He was not for her. The finely shaped ear in which he whispered belonged to her elder sister.

 

“Caroline,” Emma muttered. Her sister of the offensive good looks. The flaxen hair. The ocean-blue eyes. The porcelain skin. She had been created to entrance men. Caroline did it with such an innate grace that Emma had not the heart to hate her. She may find her infuriating and want to cut off her silky hair, but surely all sisters felt that way. What was the use of a sister if one could not hate her on sight one day and be thankful for her a minute later? Not that Emma would ever utter such words to her.

 

If Emma thought of God more than when she was obligated to in church, she would be certain he had laughed the day she was born. A foil to her bright sister. Unruly coils of hair the shade of strong tea and a pair of too big eyes to match. Her olive skin proved prone to darkening with even a sliver of sunshine in the sky. Visitors and distant family felt no shame at all in comparing them to the sun and the moon. Emma thought to compensate with her obstinate yet charming ways.

 

“Emma dear!” Her father's voice boomed up the flight of stairs. The Earl of Sheridan stood at the bottom, brown wisps of curls greying at his temples. A few guests cut off their conversation to peek up the stairs at the missing debutante. Emma ducked back down the hallway. She needed to find the strength to face this onslaught.

 

“Emma!” Another shout. This one feminine and threaded with mirth. Emma turned back towards the staircase and saw a ginger ball of energy bounding up towards her. It was unmistakably Helena Mallory, daughter of the deceased Viscount Mallory. The title now belonged to her brother, Lord Hector Mallory.

 

Helena could never remain tidy for even a single hour. Her lavender skirts already muddied on the hems and wayward tendrils of her copper hair escaped the shoddy silver pins. Emma noted a few new freckles across her nose though her skin retained its fair tone. Not as fair as the alabaster maiden who glided up the stairs after her. Her white-blonde hair was strewn with ivory pearls in a simple knot. Her pale blue eyes focused determinedly straight-ahead, never straying from that invisible target.

 

“Lettice, how regal you look this evening,” Emma said. The girl lifted her head in greeting, gaze trailing over to the bouncy Helena. Her lips drew down at the corners.

 

“The streets are covered in snow. How on earth did you become so muddy?” She inquired.

 

“Of that I am not sure,” Helena replied with a shrug. “Oh do not give me that look, Lettice. I shall die right here on these very steps if you dare chastise me tonight.”

 

Lettice rolled those almond-shaped eyes to the heavens. “Emma, why ever are peering through the bannisters like a naughty child?”

 

“I find myself overcome with the most frightful case of nerves.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I should retire for the night.”

 

“Over my dead body,” retorted Helena. Emma looked to her friend and tilted her head to the side.

 

“You are awfully morbid tonight.”

 

“It is my third season, how could I not be?” She replied.

 

Emma had the supreme luck of a doting father. He thought nothing of allowing her to retire to the country for one year instead of debuting as her friends did, so this was only her second season. She needed to be in her best looks for the marriage market.

 

Two years did not transform her into a swan as she had hoped. Her skin had lightened nearly a shade, but she felt plumper than usual. All hips and thighs that did not look well in the fashionable high-waist gowns. As much as Emma loved the Greeks, she wished their aesthetics were not so popular with the London elite. Perhaps some fleshier Renaissance aesthetics would be better. 

Then at least she would have a chance. As it was now...Emma let out a sigh. This would not do.

 

“Let us descend,” Lettice spoke up. “Your mother keeps looking up here. She may drag you down there herself.”

 

“Oh dear, I cannot have that, can I?” Emma shook out her sage green skirts. She hoped they would fall along her curves in a becoming fashion. Of course, she might as well wish to have lost a stone or two over the winter.

 

Emma pushed her shoulders back and held her head high. Lettice and Helena fell in step behind her as she summoned her learned grace to lead the way downstairs.