Page 8 of Disguised Desires of a Scarred Duke
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The next morning, the new Earl of St Coeur paid a surprise visit to his charges at the Whitfield townhouse. Cousin Harrison came through the door at teatime with his arms full of large gifts in pretty packages.
“I’ve decided to host a masquerade ball! Come, Ladies. Look at these fine dresses I brought for you!”
Lord Whitfield displayed his gifts in the drawing room as Eleanor’s stepmother ground her teeth together and sneered from her damask chaise.
Ignoring Margaret’s reaction, the sisters leapt from their seats and descended with glee on the fluffy piles of fabric inside the beautiful white boxes tied with dusty pink ribbons.
“My Lord, we’re about to sit down to tea,” Margaret said in her classic, condescending tone.
“Yes, brilliant. I’ll join you. But, Lady Whitfield, I brought something special for you, too.”
Margaret huffed out a breath and stayed planted in her seat. When Harrison presented her with a package all her own, her lips quivered with what must surely have been happy anticipation.
Eleanor watched her stepmother’s face light up as she lifted the box lid. Inside was a magnificent gown with a pale blue bodice and a luminous long, white skirt. A vertical strip of delicate embroidery decorated the centre of the skirt with tiny bluebell flowers, Margaret’s favourite.
In addition to his thoughtfulness, Cousin Harrison clearly knew that the Whitfield signature colour was pale blue. That was certainly why Eleanor and Regina’s dresses were also a mix of powder blue and the purest white. Their gowns had lacy sleeves, ornate trim, and pristine embellishments. Plus, there were masquerade masks to match each one.
Lady Whitfield stared at her ball gown for several minutes in awe. The moment was very special to them all until Margaret snapped out of her joyful trance and spoke again.
“It’s the wrong style. I can’t be seen in colours and necklines like these, Harrison. I’m a woman in mourning. Please return it.”
Eleanor watched Cousin Harrison’s smile fall into a frown. Then she sent a pleading look to Regina, the only one in their family who could change her mother’s mind.
“Mama, it’s been over a year since Father died. You have served his memory with honour and the utmost respect for tradition. Isn’t it time for you to enjoy some frivolity now?”
Eleanor turned her gaze back to Margaret, whose eyes had become watery with tears. Her stepmother sniffled and hugged the dress in her arms like she was cradling their dying father again. Then, she carefully placed the dress back in the box and closed the lid.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I will mourn your father for the rest of my days.”
For the first time since she was a young child, Eleanor had a strong urge to give her stepmother a sincere hug. Through all their disagreements and Margaret’s strict mothering, she often forgot that Lady Whitfield had dearly loved her husband. She missed Lord Whitfield as much as Eleanor and Regina did. They would always have at least that one thing, that terrible loss, in common.
Morning tea was soon served in the drawing room, where Eleanor felt a renewed sense of togetherness. As her father’s relative, Cousin Harrison was just as much hers as he was Regina’s. Maybe that was why Margaret had trouble accepting Harrison as the new earl. He was related to the sisters but not to her.
It might also be why Lady Whitfield didn’t trust him to always be there for her. Perhaps she felt as much of an outsider around him as Eleanor sometimes felt around Margaret and Regina.
“When is the masquerade ball, Lord Whitfield?” Regina asked between dainty bites of brioche. She was seated on a soft, ethereal blue sofa with beautifully carved wooden arms and legs. It had the same intricate carvings as the carved roses that cascaded up the exquisite handrail of the main staircase.
How her stepmother ever thought of this beautifully adorned townhouse as “simple” was beyond Eleanor’s comprehension. Though it paled against the grandness of the St Coeur country estate, the townhouse was a special place to be.
“Regina, please call me Cousin or Harrison. We have no need for the formality of titles here in our family home.”
Eleanor heard her stepmother softly grunt with disapproval. Sticking to traditions, especially the formal ones, was Margaret’s biggest passion.
“Yes, Cousin. Thank you,” Regina replied.
“The ball is in only a few days!” Harrison said with excitement. “Which is why I knew my London ladies needed new gowns so quickly.”
Like Lady Whitfield, Cousin Harrison had recently lost his beloved spouse a few years ago. His wife, Lydia, had died in a terrible accident while at their country estate. She’d been thrown from a horse and landed on the sharp blade of a plow that hadn’t yet been stored in the barn.
Eleanor thought Margaret had surprisingly little pity for what Harrison went through then, especially now that her own spouse was gone.
But Margaret was Margaret. That’s as much explanation as Eleanor could ever come up with for her stepmother’s disposition.
“Your London ladies need funds more than ball gowns, Lord Whitfield. But I suppose you don’t remember the true needs of a lady anymore,” Margaret said without looking up from her teacup. The blunt cruelty of her words drew gasps from her daughters.
Cousin Harrison set his teacup back in its saucer with a light clink. Eleanor waited for his reaction, with her heart beating fast. But Harrison was never a man of angry outbursts.
