Page 4 of Introducing Miss Joanna (Once a Wallflower 2)

A whisky in his hand, Gareth, Lord Reade, stretched out his legs before the Cartwright’s library fire. “It’s good to be back in London.”

His good friend and colleague, Brandon, strolled over with the crystal decanter to top up Reade’s glass. “Your journey didn’t go well?”

“Much as I anticipated.” He thought of his lonely rambles along the shore, watching the gulls soar over the cold gray waters. “Improvements are continuing at the house.”

“Just how bad did your father leave it?”

“He scarcely noticed the decay for some years. Lost heart, I suppose. I never really knew him. As you know, I found him dead in his chair with several empty brandy bottles beside him. Seeking Lethe, perhaps. He’d been reading Hesiod’s Theogony.”

Brandon sat in the leather armchair opposite. “We don’t always know what demons a man must deal with.”

“He never got over my mother and brother’s death. Bart was his favorite son, and as his heir, he always spent more time with him. Riding about the estate. He took great interest in it in those days.”

“Still, you were his heir. He should have done the same for you.”

“But he never did. That can’t have been a comfortable thing for him to take with him to Hades.”

“No, indeed.”

“I was at fault, too, I suppose. Once I joined the army, I didn’t see much of him. I feel some pity for him now.” Reade shrugged off the melancholy that had settled over him and grinned at his friend. “Let’s choose a more attractive topic of conversation. I spied the most delightful young woman as I entered the city this afternoon.”

“Oh? A shop girl or a prostitute on a street corner?”

“Au contraire. This girl wore gloves and a fetching bonnet. She was traveling in a deplorable vehicle with her family. A fresh-faced angel, Cartwright, with a mouth to make a man dream.”

Brandon chuckled. “Good to see you’re regaining your equilibrium.”

Chapter Two

Jo’s first ball was held the following Saturday, and to distract herself from the butterflies in her stomach, she thought about Mrs. Millet. How had she arranged the invitations so quickly? Wouldn’t they have to be sent weeks prior to the event? The fluttering increased, and she felt slightly sick.

The dressmaker in Piccadilly Mrs. Millet recommended, fitted Jo for several outfits. Madame Moreau ran a large establishment and knew her business, but Jo found her as snooty as their butler and not nearly as endearing as Mrs. Laverty in Marlborough. As no dresses would be ready until the following week, Jo was thankful to have the ba

llgown Mrs. Laverty had made for her.

They’d had little chance to see London. She and Aunt Mary made some hurried purchases in the shops near the dressmaker’s rooms. Jo purchased a blue satin hat with a soft white feather, and a painted fan made of ivory sticks with a silk tassel. She chose a silk shawl as a gift for Mrs. Laverty.

The shop fronts displayed exotic wares. It was noisy and exciting, with bustling pedestrians, the shoppers strolling the pavements while vehicles crammed the roads. She could have stayed for hours looking into shop windows, but Aunt Mary complained of sore feet, so Jo hailed a hackney, and they went home.

On the evening of the ball, Sally helped Jo dress and arranged her hair as best she could. Disappointed, Jo stood before the Cheval mirror to study the effect. The color of the ballgown suited her, but the fussy style didn’t. Even her mother’s pearl necklace failed to improve it.

“It makes me look a bit…lumpy,” Jo said in despair.

“I think it’s pretty, Miss Jo.” Sally was fresh from the country with no more idea of the ways of Society than Jo, but she was eager to learn and friendly, which Jo appreciated.

Jo gave the blonde maid an encouraging smile. “We shall learn together, Sally.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I have no recourse but to wear it.” She gathered up her shawl, reticule, and fan and went down to join her father, determined to enjoy her first ball even if she sat out every dance for the entire evening.

Her father smiled as she entered the parlor. “You look beautiful, Jo.”

Aunt Mary, beside him in purple and black lace, warmly agreed.

Mrs. Millet was there to greet them in the hall of the Rivenstock’s townhouse in Westminster. She introduced them to their host and hostess. Lord Rivenstock, his crimson waistcoat straining over an enormous stomach, rudely viewed Jo from head to toe through his quizzing glass on its black velvet ribbon. His wife merely nodded before turning to welcome the other guests. Jo’s face felt stiff, and her smile wavered.

They entered the ballroom, gaily festooned with lanterns, and decorated with vases of flowers on every table. Jo wondered again why the Rivenstocks had issued them an invitation. Were they paid? Or might they owe Mrs. Millet a favor?

Jo refused to let such concerns spoil her first ball, her attention captured by the smoky ballroom crammed with noisy guests dressed in glorious finery. A footman took them to their chairs, and a handsome young footman approached with a tray of champagne and lemonade. When Jo’s hand hovered over the glass, the footman cleared his throat.

She glanced up at him, then remembered Mrs. Millet’s advice. Young ladies did not drink champagne. The footman angled the tray to bring the lemonade closer. Jo gave him a smile and took it, and was glad of it, for the ballroom, a series of rooms opened to form one long space, was stuffy and overheated. The overly perfumed guests mingled on the edge of the dance floor and barely glanced their way. They might have been part of the wallpaper, which was a bilious green decorated with gold ribbons and bows.

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