A Rouge to the Rescue

Here is the first installment of a short story I am writing.

Duchess and The Wastrel

Lady Ann stepped lightly out of the carriage. She barely touched the coachman’s hand as she alighted and waited for him to collect her wraps and purse. She looked down at the atrocity she wore in distain. Her mother could not have added another puff, tuck, or embroidery without fear the dress would have tear in two.

Ann still had not forgiven her mother for choosing a tight, over padded rouleaux. It not only formed a perfect bell-shape from her skirts, it bound her legs forcing her to mince steps as she tried to navigate the steps.

Anne left the coach and climbed the steps, hoping to give her maiden aunt a fit of hysteria at the thought of her making her first entrance into the ton’s social scene unescorted. Anne stepped lightly and stopped on the last step, repenting her rebellion, and turning to wait for her aunt’s carriage to pull to the step.

She wished it were possible for her to enjoy the night’s beauty. Torches lit the gardens, and made the entrance as bright as day. She could clearly see the bored expressions on the face of the neat row of servants who lined the entrance. She pitied their duty to stand here until the last guest arrived.

Her gaze traveled over the grounds, trying to imagine if her prison would resemble this one. At least there was not long to wait. Her father had bragged just a week hence that he would not finance a fortnight into the ton’s social season before Ann found a suitable match and was decently married.

She fixed her gloves and adjusted her fan, fidgeting as she realized that she stood, exposed to the gaping eyes of servants and guests alike. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of the spectacle she made. The gossip would be ripe by the time she entered the ballroom, everyone wondering who the overstuffed peacock was, and how much she was worth.

Yes, that would be all that mattered. Not her name. Not her likes or dislikes. All these vultures cared for was her title and rank. Beyond that, she did not exist. She was not here to enjoy herself, but to be put onto the auction block, like one of her father’s fine stallions, to be sold to the highest bidder.

“Are you lost?”

Every nerve in her body turned cold. Anne spun toward the direction of the silk, smooth male voice. Her mouth opened, and shut. She tried to answer again, but found she couldn’t utter a word. The gentleman leaned close, an amused grin on his otherwise taunt face.

“No, sir.” Anne managed to gasp out as her fan flew to her face out of habit. His eyes narrowed at the movement and he withdrew a step. “Excuse me, I wait for my aunt.”

“Ah, so you are properly escorted and chaperoned.” His head tilted in a slight, almost unperceivable bow, and he turned.

Anne’s heart pounded against her chest as she watched him stride away. He was tall and lean, more muscular than the pompous, pasty faced men who hung onto her father’s good graces. She could not imagine this man catering to any man’s favor. She smiled at the impertinence of his behavior. She never imagined that men like him were apart of London’s social season. Maybe she would enjoy a few months of bliss before her father packed her off to the home of some weak man with a portentous title and more money than needed to run the country.

She folded her fan and bit her lip trying to stop the smile that played on her lips. His scent hung in the air, more outdoorsy than the pipe smoke that remained after her father left a room, and more – masculine. There was something about him that reminded her of hunting and action. She liked it.