Page 6 of Loving Mister Stratford
He didn’t hear his brother saying he’d show himself out and the door clicking shut behind him.
Odette was red-faced and exhausted by the time she was finally deemed ready for the ball. Her mother had forced her to change gowns several times and her hair had been redone twice, all making her feel perfectly inadequate. She’d always suspected that she wasn’t quite good enough in her mother’s eyes because this was, after all, a very familiar pattern for her.
She didn’t have the same fragile, willowy figure that was so en vogue.
Her hair never seemed to look as her mother wanted it to and her grace left something to be desired.
She knew her mother cared for her…she just wasn’t very adept at showing it. She’d always tended to give Odette gifts in lieu of hugs or saying “I love you,” which had been all she’d wanted as a little girl.
Now that Odette was of an age to attract a marriage, her mother had switched from controlling her from a distance to a more hands-on approach, all while with the intention of helping her to make the best match possible. Despite Odette’s dubious parentage, lack of breeding, and her mother’s reputation (of which she had no disillusions), the actress had some high hopes for her, indeed. She fostered those hopes in Odette’s education, her sponsorship generously provided by a prominent countess with ties to the throne, itself (the origins of said sponsorship were not something Odette had ever been brave enough to question), and the (adequately) pretty facade presented when she was swathed in gems and expensive fabrics.
That evening, her mother had truly gone over the top with her demands, seeming to take this ball for the Prince Regent’s birthday particularly seriously, which only served to make Odette even more uncomfortable and nervous than usual. It was all rather absurd to be so shaky when it was her mother who was supposed to perform an aria in front of hundreds of guests to celebrate. A woman of many talents, her mother…
After literal hours, the two of them were finally deemed ready, her mother satisfied enough to qualify Odette as“presentable,” they left for the party.
It turned out to be the most stunning, opulent event Odette ever could have imagined, and then some. She’d previously been either away at school or too young to attend in the past, so her first encounter with the type of soiree put on by the Prince Regent was memorable, indeed.
The party was attended by the greatest peers of the realm, politicians, and even some visiting royalty. The flurry of embroidered, glittering, and be-plumed gowns was stunning; the men were all sharp in their immaculate evening kits. Even though Odette had silently thought herself gaudy and over-dressed back at home, she felt dowdy amongst the most beautiful people in London. Where exactly did she, the illegitimate daughter of a French actress, fit in? More importantly, why was she being forced to do so?
There was to be dancing and dinner, followed by a grand cake crafted by the royal baker. The confection was rumored to take up two entire tables with its towers, tiers, bridges, and delicate spun sugar creations. Erected on the far side of the ballroom was a raised dais swathed in royal purple velvet drapes and a gold emblem with the Prince’s seal. He hadn’t arrived yet and, no doubt, he wouldn’t until the crush of guests ended and all eyes would be on him as a glorious spectacle.
Upon arrival, Odette’s mother was quickly drawn into a large adoring crowd, as usual, leaving her unnoticed and off to the side. She was accustomed to being viewed as a hanger-on or a hired companion to the bewitching Stella Auclair. There was a certain freedom in this anonymity that would not have normally been afforded to her had she had her mother’s full attention—or been viewed as a more respectable lady.
Odette snatched her opportunity and slipped away to retrieve a crystal cup of punch for herself. The heat of the room was already stifling and there was still at least another hour of guests filtering into the space.
Taking respite in her brief freedom, Odette sipped her punch and meandered slowly, performing a languid survey of the enormous glittering room with its high, painted ceilings and gilt trim as she stayed on its perimeter. She finally paused at the base of a soaring Corinthian column, tilting her head back to take in its impressive height and berth, the intricate carving soaring above her head.
As she lifted her cup to her lips again, however, a man bumped into her shoulder, hardly bothering to spare a glance in her direction as he murmured a hollow, automatic apology. The drink sloshed over the lip of the crystal cup all over the hem of her skirts…and down the leg of a nearby gentleman.
“Oh my goodness! I’m so, terribly, horribly sorry!” she stuttered frantically, frozen from mortification.
A large hand with elegant gloved fingers held out a crisp white handkerchief to her, but its owner said nothing. It was then that she finally looked up to see the handsome, angular face of the man to whom she’d spoken at the theater the other evening. Mr. Stratford. As handsome as she’d found him during their original meeting, he was stunning in the bright golden light of the ballroom, dressed in his immaculate formalwear. Hoping she didn’t seem too much like a gaping trout, she accepted his proffered handkerchief to wipe the punch from her dove-gray glove.
“We do seem to meet under interesting circumstances, don’t we, Miss Leroy?” There was an unexpected hint of lightness to his tone and he seemed rather unconcerned with the mess she’d made, the undoubted stickiness he must have been experiencing as the punch soaked through and ruined the fine fabric of his breeches.
An eagle-eyed servant arrived to clean the spill and Mr. Stratford took her elbow to gently guide her a few feet away.
“Mr. Stratford,” Odette began, hoping her heated cheeks weren’t too glaringly obvious;“Please accept my sincerest apologies for spilling on you—and the evening has only just begun.”
He waved away her words.“It is only clothing. And no one will be all that surprised to see me arrive in stained clothing. At least it’s not ink.”
She couldn’t stop her smile. He was charming without trying, judging from the seriousness of his expression.
“Might I inquire as to what you were doing hiding in a corner?” he inquired with a touch of what seemed to be concern.
“I could ask you the same,” she retorted.
“Much like the theater, I’m not entirely comfortable at these large social functions. I do it more for my family. I doubt that anyone would notice my absence, but my mother insists. In the name of keeping the peace, I dress as she tells me to and I arrive when and where she says I must. It was much easier to cry off when I was at University.”
“I can sympathize with that,” she admitted, though not quite ready to admit to the shocking degree that their lives seemed to run parallel.“And what is it that you would be doing if you hadn’t been forced to attend this ball tonight?”
His eyes seemed fixed upon her futile attempts to scrub the punch from her gloves.“I’d likely be working all evening on my research. I’m co-authoring a paper with a colleague—the mathematician, Sir Nigel Wright. The deadline for our work is approaching and every one of these interruptions is putting me further and further back.”
Odette nodded as if she could understand the pressing need to attend to an occupation outside of societal and familial obligations. Of course, she would havelikedto have had something with which to occupy herself, but her mother was far more concerned with ensuring Odette’s future than allowing her to discover a hobby or passion.
From their few interactions, she believed Mr. Stratford to be supremely intellectual, favoring knowledge over these preening peacocks of thetonwith their rituals and their complex pecking order. Even better, he seemed unafraid of admitting it. She could appreciate that; even more, she could respect it.
Odette’s hands stilled as the seconds ticked by and he still did not (politely) ask the same question of her. Rather than allow the silence to continue, she casually responded as if he had asked her anyway.“I am currently re-readingPride and Prejudiceby Miss Austen, but I’ve lately taken to poetry and the odd piece of political satire as a way to inject variety between popular novels. I’d likely be spending my evening reading if I were not here.”
