The Season (Season Series #1)

Chapter 16: A Pair of Tickets

"Oh you couldn't possibly!" Mary Marquette tittered, daintily nibbling at her toast as Penelope Roxton went on about forsaking her gloves for the ballet outing that night.

"They're dreadfully hot and itchy," Penelope shrugged, igniting more titters all down the table. I wanted to bang my head against my already scraped-clean plate, my eyes shooting up towards the head table every few minutes. Andrew hadn't shown up for breakfast and neither had his father, which I hoped didn't mean our gallery viewing was postponed. Next to me, Rosanna was demurely stirring her porridge, heaping more and more sugar into it as Emily looked on with thinly veiled disapproval.

"You know that so much sweetener is terrible for the figure," Emily finally whispered, after sniffing one too many times. My foot tapped impatiently under the table as I tried to ignore my fellow ladies in waiting, still hoping for some miraculous plan to spring into my head.

Try as I might the night before, I read and re-read the story of Echo and Narcissus before giving up on reading in order to rack my brain for a plan. Or two plans, as it were. The first was simple: Andrew had promised to show me the gallery in the morning light if I could manage to sneak away, which I could explain by yet another seamstress appointment. The second, however, was going to prove a great deal more difficult.

I'd buried my mother's letter into my corset, pressed up against my skin and away from Emily's prying eyes. I'd slept fitfully, dreams of boring houses and boring husbands scaring me awake every hour. A sense of dread had settled over me that morning as I looked over the other women at court and wondered how I, Libby Marks-Whelan, the gangly, impish cousin to a debutante was supposed to compete with the likes of them for the attentions of any of the gentlemen on my mother's list. More importantly, I wondered if I would be able to pretend well enough to make it seem like I cared when it came down to actually flirting with someone. The threat of poverty had been a monstrous one the night before, but as I tossed and turned I wondered whether riches would be worth the sacrifice of the rest of my life.

"I have an appointment with the seamstress," I blurted out, as we all rose to leave. Ella shot me a pointed look across the table.

"Is that so?" she asked, her blue eyes never leaving mine. I nodded, hoping the flush of the lie wasn't creeping into my neck. She cocked an eyebrow, but dismissed me while the rest of them made their way up to the queen's salon. I dawdled at the table before heading towards the seamstress' quarters, doubling back once I was sure the coast was clear to sneak over towards the gallery.

The halls were eerily silent without the din of the debutantes and my footsteps echoed as I pushed open the door, peeking inside. But instead of a head of dark hair, the man whose back was turned to me had a head of dark blond hair instead.

"James?" I said, frowning as Lord Amberly turned towards me.

"Andrew's been called away to a meeting," he said stiffly, "But he wanted to be sure you enjoyed the gallery as he'd promised,"

I stood there, frowning at him, with a markedly diminished desire to look at paintings.

"Is something the matter?" I asked, well aware that James was refusing to meet my eyes.

"In a way, yes," he said finally, shooting me a glance as he reached into his jacket for an envelope. I involuntarily shuddered, recalling the contents of the last envelope I'd been handed.

"Andrew had wanted me to ask you to accompany me to the ballet tonight," James said, sliding a pair of red gilded tickets out of the envelope, "But I fear I cannot fulfill his wishes. I took the liberty of acquiring a pair of tickets that you may use however you like, perhaps by asking one of your brothers to join you,"