( chapter thirty-three ! )
"Hold still, Mistress, or I shall be forced to stab you with this pin."
It is a new day in the Barrett townhouse. The family, excluding Daniel who simply requested time away from Weston College, have traveled all the way to London in honor of the Social Season.
Anna's voice is not unkind, but there is an unmistakable firmness to it as she fastens the final embellishments of Leah's gown. The layers of fine silk shift with the movement, whispering against her skin, the weight of the fabric both unfamiliar and suffocating. White upon white—delicate lace, embroidered tulle, pearls gleaming faintly in the candlelight. It is not an ordinary gown, nor is it an ordinary day.
Leah exhales slowly, forcing herself into stillness. "I should like to avoid being stabbed before I am even presented if it can be helped."
"Then do as you are told," Anna steps back, assessing her work with a critical eye. She is not one to fawn, not one to spill empty flattery, but after a moment, a satisfied nod follows. "There. You are ready."
The claim feels dubious at best. Leah does not feel ready. Not in the slightest.
Fingers twitch at her sides before she clenches them into stillness. The mirror before her offers an image almost unrecognizable. A vision of pristine elegance, the very picture of a young lady poised to make her debut. The white of her gown is softer than stark winter snow, its fabric so fine it seems almost weightless, yet she feels the burden of it keenly. Her hair, often worn loose or in simple plaits, has been arranged into an elaborate coiffure, adorned with delicate pearls and faintly shimmering ribbons.
It is a far cry from the girl she sees every morning, from the one who scowls into the glass as Anna yanks at her tangled waves with unrelenting efficiency. A tremor of unease prickles at her spine.
"Your mother will be most displeased if we keep her waiting any longer," Anna's hands are quick as they smooth a final wrinkle from Leah's sleeve. "I have already endured her ire once today. I would rather not do so again."
Vivienne has made her impatience well known. From the other side of the door, the sharp, clipped sound of her voice carries up the staircase, directing the household into a flurry of motion.
"Make haste!"
Leah swallows against the nerves that rise in her throat. It is not that she is wholly opposed to today's events. There are plenty of young ladies who anticipate their debut with bright-eyed excitement, eager to twirl in grand ballrooms, to bask in admiration, to set their sights upon potential suitors. Leah is not among them, but nor is she completely indifferent.
This is not just another tedious social gathering. It is a presentation before the Queen. Royalty. The highest echelon of society. It would be foolish to pretend she does not care at all, even if she finds the woman rather strange.
Her hands are cool against the embroidered fabric of her skirts as she smooths them absently, drawing in a breath that does little to settle her nerves. Anna, ever observant, watches her carefully.
"You need not worry, Mistress," she says after a beat, softer this time. "You have been raised for this. You will do just fine."
Leah does not reply immediately, though the words settle something within her. Anna is not the sort to offer reassurances for the sake of empty comfort.
With a last, measured breath, she steps toward the door. "Let us not keep my mother waiting, then."
The townhouse, while large, is not nearly as large as Barrett Manor. She's been here countless times over the years and knows it like the back of her hand. The descent down the grand staircase is a careful affair, each step measured, each movement deliberate. The weight of expectation presses down as much as the gown itself, but Leah keeps her chin lifted, her posture flawless.
At the base of the stairs, her mother stands poised in an immaculate gown of deep sapphire, the shade doing nothing to soften the cold scrutiny in her gaze. Vivienne does not speak immediately, but her eyes flick over Leah with the precision of a jeweler appraising a diamond. Beside her, Lucius doesn't offer much more than a nod of acceptance.
It is Daniel who breaks the silence first.
"You look very fine, Leah," he remarks, offering a small, lopsided smile. "Almost unrecognizably so."
There is nothing but mischief in his tone, but the words earn him a sharp look from their mother. Leah barely resists the urge to smirk.
Vivienne, however, is unimpressed. "At least one of you should be capable of conducting yourselves with dignity," she says coolly, barely sparing Daniel a glance before returning her focus to Leah. "Come along. We cannot afford to be late."
Daniel, unbothered, steps forward to offer Leah his arm. "Shall we, sister?"
For all his teasing, there is a steady warmth to his presence, an unspoken reassurance in the way he holds himself. She hesitates for only a moment before accepting, fingers resting lightly against the fabric of his sleeve.
"Try not to make a complete spectacle of yourself," he murmurs, voice just low enough that only she can hear.
Leah exhales a quiet scoff. "I should think you ought to give me more credit."
"That remains to be seen."
Their mother does not wait for them to finish, already sweeping toward the entrance where the waiting carriage gleams in the late morning light. Servants move quickly to open the doors, footmen standing at sharp attention. The air is thick with the scent of spring blossoms, mingling with the faint tang of freshly polished brass.
As Leah steps outside, the sunlight catches on the fine embroidery of her gown, illuminating the delicate details of lace and pearl. The nervous flutter in her stomach does not fade, but she does not let it show.
This is it. The beginning of the Season. The first step into the lion's den.
Daniel, ever perceptive, casts her a sideways glance as they approach the carriage. His usual amusement softens just slightly, his voice quieter when he speaks.
"You will be brilliant, you know," he says.
Leah does not turn to look at him, but the corner of her lips lifts, just barely. "We shall see."
Climbing inside the carriage, Leah settles into a spot beside the window and fights the urge to wring her gloved hands. 'Now is no longer the time to break rules. People will be watching me..' she lets out a deep exhale. 'A lady does not fidget.'
The carriage ride goes smoothly, but Leah's hands remain tightly folded in her lap, fingers pressing against the fine silk of her gloves. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone does little to ease the tension humming beneath her skin. Each turn of the wheel brings them closer to the palace, closer to the moment she will step forward and bow before the Queen of England herself.
She had known this day would come, had been told time and again of its importance, yet the weight of it only now settles fully upon her shoulders.
Outside the window, the towering gates of Buckingham Palace come into view, the ironwork intricate, gleaming even beneath the dull London sky. Beyond them, the palace stands in all its grandeur—a sight that, despite all her preparation, leaves her momentarily breathless. The vast, pale stone, the endless rows of gilded windows, the sheer scale of it all—it is unlike anything she has ever seen.
A quiet, involuntary marveling flickers through her. Vivienne, seated opposite her, does not miss it.
"Do not gape, Leah," her mother admonishes, her voice clipped, though not unkind. "One would think you had never set foot beyond our own threshold."
Leah does not bristle, nor does she argue. Instead, she schools her features into careful composure, though the wonder does not entirely fade.
It is one thing to grow up in privilege, to live in luxury—but this is something else entirely. This is not just wealth; this is power, history, and tradition. It looms over them, a silent testament to a lineage that stretches back centuries.
As the carriage slows to a halt, a footman moves swiftly to open the door, offering a gloved hand to assist them down. The hem of her gown sweeps across the steps as she descends, the pristine white a stark contrast against the dark stone beneath her feet.
Lucius is waiting. He extends an arm to her without a word, a steady presence amid the flurry of movement around them. The other guests arrive in waves, carriages pulling up one after another, a sea of white gowns and powdered shoulders, of carefully arranged curls and glittering jewels.
Taking her father's arm, Leah allows herself to be led forward. They do not walk far before they are met with the inevitable separation—ladies to one side, gentlemen to the other.
Lucius releases her hand, offering a brief nod before stepping away to join Daniel among the other men. She lingers just a moment, her gaze flickering toward her brother, who catches her eye and offers a subtle, reassuring smirk.
Vivienne does not allow her to linger further. "Come along," her mother instructs, her hand a light pressure at the small of Leah's back. "We must take our place."
Waiting is by far the worst part of it all. It is nothing more than a never-ending feeling.
There is a stiffness to the air, the sort that can only exist when so many young ladies are attempting to mask their nerves beneath perfect posture and serene expressions.
The air is thick with anticipation. Perfume clings to the room like a fog, sweet and heavy, mingling with the faint scent of waxed floors and freshly pressed silk. The soft murmur of whispered conversation weaves through the space, punctuated by the occasional rustle of fabric as young ladies shift on their feet, adjusting their postures, smoothing unseen wrinkles from pristine white gowns.
Leah stands among them, poised yet tense, her hands lightly folded at her waist. The train of her gown pools behind her in a cascade of delicate fabric, the embroidery catching the candlelight with every subtle movement. Around her, the other debutantes maintain an air of composed serenity, but the way some of them fidget, the way gloved fingers tighten over skirts, betrays their nerves.
She understands the feeling all too well. Her heart beats steady but insistent beneath her corset, each thud a quiet reminder of the moment drawing ever closer. She knows she should not be nervous—knows that she has prepared for this, that she has been trained for this. And yet, as she watches each girl disappear through the grand doors, her composure feels like something carefully balanced, liable to tip at any moment.
Beside her, Vivienne remains unmoved, her expression a picture of practiced ease. If she senses Leah's nerves, she does not comment on them. Instead, she merely waits, chin lifted, the very image of refined nobility.
The next name is called, and another girl steps forward, disappearing through the gilded doors. Leah watches her go, catching only a glimpse of the grand chamber beyond before the doors sweep closed once more. Her breath draws tight in her chest. The waiting is unbearable.
A palace servant steps forward, his presence alone enough to send a ripple of awareness through Leah's spine. Without a word, he extends an arm, gesturing for her and Vivienne to follow.
'Don't mess up.. I practiced for far too long to ruin it now..'
Leah lifts her chin, inhaling softly as she moves, the train of her gown gliding effortlessly behind her. Vivienne follows a step behind, as is customary, her presence a quiet but unwavering force at her back.
The grand doors loom ahead and before she can blink, they open.
The murmur of the crowd hushes as the herald's voice rings through the vast chamber, crisp and clear.
"Miss Leah Barrett presented by her mother, Marchioness Vivienne Barrett."
Leah steps forward. The first thing she notices is that the receiving hall is magnificent.
Gold filigree gleams from every surface, the chandeliers overhead casting a warm, flickering glow across the sea of expectant faces. The air is thick with the weight of tradition, of the ceremony, of the hundreds of eyes now fixed upon her. But Leah does not falter.
Her movements are fluid, and effortless, each step measured, each breath controlled. She glides forward, her gown trailing like mist behind her, the sheer elegance of it designed to command attention. The crowd watches in silence, their hushed curiosity pressing against her like a tangible force.
At the far end of the room, seated atop her gilded throne, is Queen Victoria herself.
The Queen is larger than when Leah last saw her at the curry competition and her presence is immense. Authority radiates from her in quiet waves, her dark eyes sharp beneath the weight of her crown. She does not smile. She does not frown. She merely watches, waiting.
The moment stretches before Leah bows, precise and graceful. Her spine bends with practiced ease, her arms extended in flawless symmetry, her head lowering in perfect reverence. The weight of her gown shifts around her, settling in soft, billowing folds as she holds the position, poised in a tableau of elegance.
Silence follows. A long beat of silence. And then..
"Exquisite."
The single word is spoken with quiet finality, yet it carries through the chamber as if it were a royal decree.
A murmur stirs through the crowd, subtle but unmistakable. Interest sharpens, and speculation flickers. Eyes linger on Leah in a way that feels heavier now, their attention no longer just polite observance, but something keener.
She rises from her bow, expression unshaken, though something tightens at the base of her throat. The Queen's gaze remains upon her, unwavering.
Then, with the faintest incline of her head, Victoria speaks again. "A true jewel."
The murmurs swell.
Leah does not react, at least not outwardly. She remains composed, her face a careful mask of serenity, her breath steady even as the weight of the words settles into her bones.
She knows what this means. Knows what effect such a statement will have. She will be one of the most desirable girls of the season with the Queen's words alone. Her mother's pride is palpable at her back.
Somewhere in the crowd, she knows Daniel is watching, no doubt with that insufferable smirk of his. Lucius, ever unreadable, is likely more reserved, but she knows him well enough to imagine the faint flicker of satisfaction beneath his otherwise neutral exterior.
Leah does not let herself think about it for too long. Instead, she offers one last graceful inclination of her head before stepping aside, allowing the next girl to take her place.
The moment is over, but the mark it leaves upon the afternoon is undeniable. Leah Barrett has already set herself up for a season of success.
Sunlight streams through the lace-draped windows of Leah's bedchamber, illuminating the soft hues of the room with a golden glow. The space carries the lingering scent of roses from the fresh arrangement placed by the vanity that morning, blending with the faint trace of perfume still clinging to Leah's skin. The excitement of the presentation lingers like a whisper in the air, though the day itself has begun to settle into something quieter, more languid.
Near the vanity, Anna works with practiced hands, loosening the final ribbons of Leah's elaborate debutante gown.
Leah stands in the center of the room, arms lifted slightly as Anna works at the delicate fastenings of her debutante gown. The heavy fabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a sea of pristine ivory and shimmering embroidery, leaving behind the faintest imprint of corsetry on her pale flesh. There is a quiet sense of relief in shedding the weight of the elaborate gown, though Leah remains as poised as ever, betraying none of the exhaustion creeping into her limbs.
Anna steps back with practiced efficiency, gathering the discarded gown in her arms before moving toward the wardrobe and searching for a more practical gown for the afternoon—a confection of delicate lace and lilac satin, adorned with subtle gold embroidery. Leah exhales softly, shaking out her shoulders as her chemise and corset remain snug against her frame.
Seated on the cushioned chaise by the window, Gwendolyn is utterly absorbed in the latest issue of the city's most infamous gossip pamphlet. The crisp pages rustle in her hands as she leans forward, her dark brows raising ever so slightly with each scandalous detail she skims. Though she is yet a year too young for her own debut, her fascination with the social season rivals that of any eager debutante.
Leah glances at her cousin through the mirror as Anna fastens a ribbon at her back. "You have been awfully quiet," she muses, tilting her head slightly. "Shall I assume it is due to scandal?"
Gwendolyn's only response is to flick the pamphlet lightly with her fingers, her expression one of feigned disinterest, though the amusement dancing in her eyes betrays her.
"Terribly shocking, as always," she turns another page, her posture languid, though she remains utterly engrossed. "Did you know Lady Harrison's eldest son was caught in an exceedingly compromising position with a certain opera singer?"
Anna, who has just finished smoothing out the sleeves of Leah's gown, stifles a laugh, though she does not dare join the conversation.
Leah raises a brow. "Lord Harrison? The one whose mother has spent the last three years parading him about in search of a bride?"
"The very same," Gwendolyn leans forward slightly, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "Word has it he was discovered in the middle of a performance."
The scandal of it all elicits a quiet scoff as Leah moves toward the vanity, running idle fingers along the carved edges of the frame before settling onto the cushioned stool. "And what has become of the singer?"
Gwendolyn sighs dramatically, waving the pamphlet slightly. "Oh, dismissed from the company, of course. His mother saw to that immediately. But the true delight is that Lord Harrison was meant to be engaged by the end of the season—his prospects are now entirely ruined."
A soft clink sounds as Leah reaches for a delicate pearl comb on the vanity, twirling it absently between her fingers. "His mother shall never recover."
"Oh, she shall," Gwendolyn corrects with a grin. "But he shall not."
The conversation lulls for a moment, the only sound being the continued rustling of pages as Gwendolyn flips through the remainder of the pamphlet. Leah watches her through the mirror, taking in the way her cousin's lips press together in barely concealed delight. The two of them have always shared a love for society's scandals—though Leah prefers to remain a spectator, untouched by the chaos, Gwendolyn delights in dissecting every detail, her mind forever at work unraveling London's most sordid affairs.
Anna, having completed her task, steps back with a small nod of satisfaction before gathering the discarded debutante gown into her arms. "Shall I have this stored away, Mistress?"
Leah gives a faint nod, her attention still half on her cousin. "Yes, thank you, Anna."
With a quick curtsy, the maid departs, leaving the two girls to their idle gossip.
Gwendolyn turns another page, her gaze flicking over the text with obvious interest. "Ah," she says, her voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of someone who has found something particularly delicious. "The Shaw twins made their debut today as well, though it seems only one of them made an impression."
Leah does not need to ask which one. "Ophelia?"
"Naturally," Gwendolyn confirms, amusement clear in her tone. "Arabella was apparently so overcome with nerves that she forgot to bow properly before the Queen. An utter disaster."
The corner of Leah's lips twitches, though she maintains her composure. "She has always been a fragile thing."
"Too fragile for the season," Gwendolyn declares, setting the pamphlet aside at last. "And what use is a lady who cannot withstand a mere presentation? She shall never survive the endless scrutiny of the ton."
Leah hums in agreement, fingers still idly tracing the pearl comb in her hand. "Perhaps she shall be fortunate enough to marry quickly before the vultures tear her apart."
"Doubtful." Gwendolyn leans back against the chaise, stretching her legs slightly. "Not when her sister is poised to overshadow her at every turn."
The unspoken truth lingers between them: this season is not merely about gowns and dances. It is a battlefield and only the strongest shall emerge victorious. Girls like Ophelia Shaw, whose beauty and composure demand attention, shall thrive. Girls like Arabella, who shrink beneath the weight of expectation, shall be forgotten before the season is through.
And then, of course, there are those like Leah.
She has known for years that her fate would be different. She is not simply another debutante in search of a match—she is the prize of the season, the girl whom every gentleman shall covet, the one whose name shall linger on every whispered tongue.
The Queen's words have ensured it.
Gwendolyn shifts beside her, tilting her head in consideration. "You do realize what all of this means, do you not?"
Leah meets her gaze, unbothered. "I have always known."
A slow smile spreads across Gwendolyn's lips. "Then you had best be ready, cousin. This season shall belong to you."
Silence befalls the pair for a brief moment before a sentence is spoken.
"Your dresses are here!"
The moment Vivienne's voice carries through the corridor, announcing the arrival of Leah's gowns, the air shifts with a palpable thrill. Gwendolyn doesn't manage to set down the pamphlet before Leah takes her hand, and together they rush from the room, their skirts brushing against the polished wood floors as they make their way toward the grand receiving hall. The scent of fresh fabric and delicate embroidery threads lingers in the air, mingling with the faint perfume of roses from a nearby vase.
A row of dress boxes, stacked neatly atop one another, awaits them. Servants are already carefully unpacking the garments, shaking out the silks and satins, ensuring every ruffle, bow, and stitch remains in its intended perfection. Leah stops just before them, her blue eyes bright with satisfaction as she reaches out to graze her fingers along the delicate embroidery of a pale pink gown adorned with silver filigree. The craftsmanship is exquisite, just as she had envisioned.
"These are marvelous," she murmurs, tilting her head in admiration. A soft smile tugs at her lips as she lifts a sleeve of lace between her fingers, letting the fabric drape elegantly. "I daresay they are finer than last season's fashions."
Gwendolyn, only half paying attention, casts a glance over the selection before returning to the pamphlet in her hands, eyes flitting across the printed words with unrestrained curiosity. The rustling of paper is near constant as she turns another page.
"You had best not be reading those empty scandals again," Florence's voice rings out from the doorway, carrying that familiar note of disapproval. She enters the room with measured grace, hazel eyes flicking toward her daughter with a knowing look.
Without missing a beat, Gwendolyn waves the pamphlet slightly in the air, her expression one of defiant amusement. "They are not empty, Madre. And this particular writer does not merely imply—they name their subjects in full."
That, of course, is enough to catch both Florence's and Vivienne's interest. The latter, having just dismissed a maid who had begun laying out gloves and accessories, steps forward with a flicker of intrigue. "Let me see that," she instructs, extending a hand.
A triumphant gleam crosses Gwendolyn's face as she hands over the pamphlet, leaning back slightly as her mother and aunt now turn their attention to the printed gossip. Meanwhile, Leah remains where she is, her focus still lingering on the dresses rather than the scandalous pages. If she listens, it is only with half an ear. She already knows what is written within, after all.
At her feet, a flash of orange streaks across the room as Sam, her ever-unbothered cat, winds himself around the hem of her gown before settling in the folds of discarded tissue paper. He makes himself comfortable immediately. He is the true owner of the house.
A delighted gasp escapes Vivienne as her gaze skims over a particular section of the text. She lifts her chin, eyes alight with satisfaction, and turns slightly toward Florence. "Oh, now this," she exclaims, "this is rather exceptional"
Florence leans in, her own interest piqued. "What is it?"
Without hesitation, Vivienne reads aloud, her tone carrying that unmistakable air of pride, "Amongst the young ladies presented this season, none have shone quite so brilliantly as Miss Leah Barrett. A rare gem, possessing both beauty and the poise of one far beyond her years, she has captivated all in attendance. One may be so bold as to declare her the most illustrious debutante of the year, a vision of grace and refinement, an undeniable star in the constellation of society."
The reaction is immediate. Florence's expression softens into something akin to satisfaction, while Gwendolyn, who had clearly skimmed past this part earlier in favor of more outrageous gossip, grins with unabashed delight. "You see?" she says smugly, tapping a finger against her chin. "Not all empty words."
Vivienne practically glows, holding the pamphlet aloft as though it were some official decree. "The most illustrious," she repeats, clearly savoring the phrase. "A vision of grace—oh, Leah, did you hear?"
From her place by the gowns, Leah exhales a quiet breath, smoothing out the bodice of an especially delicate powder blue dress. "I did," she replies, glancing toward them at last. "It is quite a lovely compliment."
Vivienne's brows draw together slightly at her daughter's mild response. "A lovely compliment?" she echoes, incredulous. "It is far more than that. This sets the tone for your entire season! If society deems you the foremost debutante, you shall have every eligible gentleman vying for your attention. Betrothed or not, this is what other young ladies dream of!"
Florence nods approvingly, her usual measured composure softening into genuine pleasure. "Such praise is not easily earned, nor is it freely given. This writer must be someone with a keen eye. Perhaps even someone with influence."
Across the room, Gwendolyn tilts her head in thought. "I do wonder who it is," she muses. "To write with such authority, and with such precise judgment, they must be someone well-versed in the workings of society."
"A mystery for another day," Vivienne declares, setting the pamphlet down atop a nearby table before returning her attention to Leah. "Regardless of who penned it, what matters is that it has been written. You must understand what this means for you."
Leah does understand. She is not oblivious to the weight of such words. To be named the most illustrious debutante is no small thing. It is an expectation, a title she must now uphold, a crown placed upon her head before she has even stepped fully into the season. And yet, while she appreciates the flattery, she cannot muster the same overwhelming enthusiasm that now radiates from her mother and aunt.
Fame, after all, is a fickle thing. Praise today can just as easily turn to scrutiny tomorrow.
She glances down, idly scratching behind Sam's ear as he lets out a contented purr. "It is only one opinion," she remarks at last, voice composed, measured. "Though a kind one, to be sure."
Florence shakes her head with a knowing smile. "Modesty is all well and good, my dear, but do not be foolish enough to dismiss what has been said."
"Oh, I would never dismiss it," Leah assures her, amusement flickering in her eyes. "I simply see no need to exalt it, either."
Gwendolyn snickers, dropping onto a nearby chaise with effortless ease. "You are terribly difficult to impress."
"Hardly," Leah corrects, lifting her gaze once more. "I simply prefer silk over ink. And fortunately, I have an abundance of both."
The laughter that follows is light and easy, and as the conversation shifts once more to the merits of lace versus brocade, the pamphlet lies forgotten upon the table. For now, at least, gossip can wait. The season, however, will not.
When the Barrett's arrive at the first ball of the season, Leah has a hard time calming her nerves. Some of her anxiety prior to being presented before the Queen remains in her bones with the addition of knowing how much attention she might receive once she walks inside.
She can vividly remember her time at Viscount Druitt's ball not even a year ago and she can almost feel how tired she was after a singular night. Now, she has months of this lined up.
Walking inside the manor, the grand ballroom is a masterpiece of gilded opulence, with candlelit chandeliers casting a warm glow over a sea of silk, satin, and powdered faces. Conversations hum beneath the music, a carefully controlled cacophony of whispered intrigues and forced laughter. The air is thick with the scent of perfume and candle wax, and Leah steps through the entrance with measured grace, her presence instantly commanding attention.
Dressed in a gown of pale silver-white, its fabric shimmering with every movement, she is a vision among the young ladies vying for admiration. The cool tones highlight the pallor of her complexion, lending her an ethereal quality, as though she belongs not to the frivolities of the season but to something altogether more elusive. Jewels glisten at her throat, in her ears, even woven into her dark hair, a delicate tiara perched atop her head as though it were placed there by inevitability itself.
Vivienne leans in slightly, voice low but firm as she offers quiet counsel. "Poise, Leah. Grace. You are already the focus of every eye; do not give them cause to believe you undeserving."
Lucius, standing at his daughter's other side, surveys the room with an expression of wry amusement. "I see at least three gentlemen whose fortunes are held together by the faintest thread. Shall I frighten them off now or allow them to embarrass themselves first?"
Leah resists the urge to sigh, knowing better than to show even the slightest sign of boredom. She had expected this, after all—the stares, the whispers, the endless scrutiny. Her engagement to Ciel renders the entire exercise unnecessary, but her mother's ambitions will not allow her to simply exist in the periphery of the season. She must be admired, envied, lauded. A triumph. 'How tiresome..'
A footman approaches, offering a delicate dance card, and Leah accepts it with a nod. Before she can so much as glance at it, a young gentleman—one of the braver ones—steps forward and bows deeply. His expression is one of careful charm, though the slight sheen of sweat at his brow betrays his nerves.
"My lady, may I have the honor of—"
"No," Lucius interjects smoothly, taking a deliberate step closer. The man's confidence falters, and Lucius offers a placid smile that does little to soften the steel in his eyes. "You have debts, do you not? More than a few, if I am not mistaken."
The unfortunate suitor's mouth opens and closes. A flush rises to his cheeks, and with a stiff bow, he retreats.
Leah allows a small, amused exhale through her nose. "Must you scare off every man who approaches?"
"Only the ones who deserve it," Lucius replies.
Still, there are many who do not—young men of appropriate rank and wealth, eager to be associated with the Barrett name. As soon as Leah makes a round around the ballroom, the inevitable begins. She has barely taken three steps before another gentleman approaches, a carefully measured smile on his face as he executes a bow so precise it might have been practiced in a looking glass.
"My Lady," he begins, voice smooth, the edges softened by nerves. "Might I have the honor of a dance?"
Leah regards him coolly, taking in the neatly arranged blond hair, the pristine cut of his coat, the gloved hands clasped behind his back. He is young, perhaps two or three years older than her, and carries himself with the sort of trained elegance that suggests he has spent his entire life preparing for moments such as these.
Before she can reply, Lucius—who has been lingering at her shoulder like a particularly well-dressed specter—clears his throat. "Sir William Alden, is it not?"
The young man's posture stiffens slightly. "Yes, My Lord."
Lucius hums, a low, unimpressed sound. "Your father has been in some trouble regarding his investments if I recall correctly."
Alden's throat bobs in a quick swallow. "That is—well, that is to say, the situation is not nearly as dire as the papers claim."
Lucius merely smiles, something cold flickering in his eyes. "I should hope not. It would be quite the scandal if you were to make a match only to see your family's fortune disappear, would it not?"
The implication is clear. Alden, realizing he will receive no support from the Marquess, turns his attention back to Leah. "My Lady?"
For a brief moment, she considers allowing Lucius to send him away like the others. But then, she sees the tension at the young man's jaw, the determination in his expression—he will not cower. That, at least, she can admire.
With a demure smile, she extends her wrist to show her dance card. "You may have the next."
His shoulders ease slightly, relief flickering across his features as he takes the delicate quill provided by a footman and scrawls his name upon the parchment. "You are most gracious, Lady Leah."
A waltz begins to play, the lilting melody swelling as couples gather onto the floor. Alden offers his arm, and Leah takes it, allowing herself to be led into position.
The moment his hand settles lightly at her waist and her own rests atop his shoulder, she feels the subtle shift in his demeanor—he is not just relieved; he is determined to impress.
"You are quite the vision tonight," he says as they begin to move, their steps gliding across the polished floor in perfect synchrony. "The silver accents suit you."
"I should hope so," Leah replies lightly, her gaze unwavering as she meets his. "Else I have suffered through the fitting for nothing."
Alden laughs, though it is somewhat strained. "And what a tragedy that would be."
She allows a small smile, though her attention drifts slightly, taking in the watching eyes, the subtle shifts in expression from those at the edge of the dance floor. This is what they came to see—the Barrett girl, poised and untouchable, moving through the season as effortlessly as one might glide across a frozen lake.
Alden, for all his nerves, is a good dancer. His movements are precise, deliberate, and he does not grip her too tightly nor allow his steps to falter. He is careful, but not rigid—an acceptable partner, if nothing else.
"Tell me," he ventures, tone carefully measured, "do you find this season to your liking?"
Leah exhales softly, just shy of a sigh. "It is much as I expected."
"A diplomatic answer."
"The truth is often less interesting than people would prefer."
His lips quirk at that, and for a moment, he studies her as though trying to decipher something beyond the carefully curated exterior. Then, as though choosing his words with great care, he says, "I must admit, I was surprised to see you participating so actively. Given your engagement, I would have assumed you would be free of such obligations."
Leah's grip on his shoulder tightens slightly, though not enough to be noticed by an outside observer. "Yet, here I am."
He hesitates, searching her expression before venturing, "You do not seem particularly thrilled by it."
She tilts her head ever so slightly, considering him. Most would not be so bold as to comment upon such a thing. Perhaps he is trying to test her reaction, to see if she will flinch at the reminder of her betrothal. She does not.
"I am precisely where I ought to be, Sir Alden," she says, voice smooth as silk. "Nothing more, nothing less."
He smiles, though it is touched with something wry. "You are a difficult woman to decipher, My Lady."
Leah merely lifts a brow. "Then perhaps you are simply not as observant as you believe yourself to be."
The waltz draws to a close, the music swelling in its final notes before fading into applause. Alden steps back, releasing her with a bow. She curtsies in turn, and as they part, he lingers just a moment longer than necessary.
"I do hope you will save another dance for me this season," he says, voice low enough that it is nearly swallowed by the surrounding chatter.
Leah does not promise anything. Instead, she simply offers a polite, unreadable smile before turning away, allowing the next gentleman in line to approach.
Another dance, another partner, another string of careful pleasantries. The entire event is as exhausting as it is predictable. One gentleman after another steps forward, murmuring some variation of the same practiced flattery, bowing over her hand, scrawling their names onto her dance card with eager precision. Each set is a performance, each step an unspoken negotiation.
The waltzes are tolerable, the quadrilles tedious. Some partners are charming, others entirely forgettable. A few stumble over their words, clearly unnerved by her presence, while others exude an overconfidence that grates against her patience. Lucius remains ever watchful from the periphery, scaring off the most unsuitable suitors before they even reach her, his mere presence ensuring that no man of insufficient breeding or fortune dares linger too long.
As the final notes of yet another dance fade into applause, Leah curtsies, her partner bows, and before another eager gentleman can claim the next, she makes her escape toward the refreshment table.
Cool marble presses against her gloved fingers as she reaches for a glass of lemonade, the delicate stem chilled beneath the silk. The air near the refreshments is marginally less stifling and she allows herself a measured breath, steadying the nerves that coil, slow and subtle, beneath her ribs. It is one thing to be admired from afar, another entirely to be the object of such deliberate scrutiny, where every movement, every word, is dissected by the watchful eyes of the ton.
A presence shifts beside her. Not the fluttering sort, hesitant and overeager, but one assured in its own space. A moment later, a voice. Smooth, measured, and tinged with amusement.
"I confess, I half-expected to find you still on the floor, Lady Leah."
Turning her head, she finds herself met with the striking gaze of Henry Moore, Duke of Aylesworth.
The Moore family is old, their title among the most respected in England, and the duke himself—newly inherited, young yet composed—is perhaps the most eligible bachelor of the season. His hair is dark, sleek, and well-groomed, his features finely carved, almost severe were it not for the touch of amusement that lingers at the corners of his mouth. He is tall, impeccably dressed, and carries himself with the effortless ease of one who has never had reason to doubt his own importance.
Leah sets down her glass. "A lady is permitted respite, is she not?"
"Certainly. Though I suspect your admirers are quite devastated by your absence."
Something about him is different from the others. There is interest in his gaze, yes, but none of the eager desperation she has endured all evening. Where most men either flounder or fawn, the duke seems entirely at ease.
She inclines her head, a polite smile gracing her lips. "If that is so, they shall recover soon enough."
His eyes glint, the amusement sharpening. "How cruel."
Leah tilts her head ever so slightly, regarding him. "Is it cruelty, Your Grace, or merely indifference?"
A chuckle escapes him. "Ah, but indifference can be its own form of cruelty."
A reply hovers on her tongue, but before she can give it voice, he gestures toward her half-full dance card, still wrapped around her delicate wrist.
"Am I to assume you have no room left?"
The unspoken request lingers between them. Leah hesitates, not out of reluctance but consideration. A dance with a duke is not so easily ignored. It will be noticed, remarked upon, and speculated over. If she allows it, she extends an invitation not only to him but to the whispers that will undoubtedly follow. Her fingers tighten slightly.
Henry watches her, expression unreadable. He is not pleading, not pressing, only waiting and so, she extends her wrist. With a knowing flicker of a smile, he takes the offered quill from the waiting footman and signs his name.
When the music swells again, the murmurs ripple in its wake. Henry leads her onto the floor, moving with the kind of unhurried grace that suggests he is perfectly aware of how many eyes are upon them.
Leah has never danced with a duke before, but a title alone does not impress her. However, there is something deliberate about the way Henry holds himself—confident, yes, but not boastful. He does not attempt to command her attention as so many others have. Instead, he offers his hand, waiting for her to take it as though they are equals, and when she does, his grip is firm but not possessive.
The first steps are taken in silence, the rhythm of the dance settling between them.
"Tell me, Lady Leah," he finally says, "are you enjoying your season?"
Her lips curve, though it is not quite a smile. "You ask as though I am in need of enjoyment."
He raises a brow. "Is that not the purpose of these gatherings?"
"I was under the impression their purpose was something else entirely."
He exhales a quiet laugh. "A fair point." A pause, then, more carefully, "And yet, you seem less.. determined than most."
The comment is not unkind, merely observant. Leah meets his gaze evenly. "Perhaps that is because I have no reason to be."
Something shifts in his expression, a flicker of understanding. He does not ask what she means, nor does he feign ignorance.
"Lord Phantomhive is a fortunate man," he says instead.
The statement, so plainly spoken, causes the nerves she has managed to suppress all evening to stir once more. It is one thing to acknowledge her engagement as fact, another to be reminded of how it is perceived by others. That even a duke, one of the highest ranks in the peerage, sees it as a certainty.
He does not look away, watching her carefully, gauging her response.
Leah lifts her chin ever so slightly. "Yes. He is."
For a moment, there is silence. Then, a smile. Not mocking, not resigned, but something else entirely. Something like recognition.
"I imagine he would say the same of you," he murmurs.
The music slows and the dance draws to a close. Henry steps back, offering her a final bow. Leah curtsies in return, the movement practiced, poised.
When she lifts her gaze once more, he is still watching her. Not expectantly, not with any lingering hope, but with the sort of quiet amusement that suggests he has reached some conclusion of his own.
"Until we meet again, Lady Leah."
Then, with the same unhurried grace, he turns and disappears into the crowd. Leah has no concept of being able to disappear and as soon as she steps off the dance floor, Vivienne descends upon her like a hawk, eyes gleaming with a rare, unguarded delight. The usual practiced decorum she wears in public is momentarily abandoned in favor of something dangerously close to enthusiasm.
"My dear, do you have any idea what you have just done?" her voice, though carefully controlled, trembles with restrained excitement. She clasps Leah's gloved hands, giving them the faintest squeeze before releasing them just as quickly, as if catching herself indulging too openly.
Leah knows precisely what she has done. But she does not answer at once, instead reaching for her glass of punch from the refreshment table, allowing the deliberate pause to stretch just long enough to temper her mother's mood. "I danced, Mother," she says at last, taking a sip. "As I have been doing all evening."
Vivienne huffs, exasperated but unwilling to let her good mood be dimmed. "Do not be coy with me, Leah. Henry Moore is no mere partner. A duke, young and unwed.. and he sought you," she lowers her voice just slightly, though the light in her eyes does not dim. "The entire room was watching."
Of course they were. Leah has spent years growing accustomed to the weight of public scrutiny, but even she had felt the shift in the air the moment Moore signed her dance card. It was one thing to be admired, another to be chosen, even if only for a single dance.
Still, she is careful not to give too much away. "It was only a dance," she murmurs, casting a glance around the ballroom. The hum of conversation continues as usual, though here and there, she catches lingering stares, the unmistakable flicker of whispered speculation.
"Nothing is ever only a dance," Vivienne counters, her voice lilting with restrained giddiness. "Not when it is with him."
Leah suppresses a sigh. She has no interest in entertaining this particular line of discussion any longer. Fortunately, she is spared from further comment when a familiar voice chimes in, bright and unmistakable.
"Oh, Leah! What a marvelous sight that was!"
Elizabeth Midford all but flutters toward them, her golden curls bouncing with each hurried step. She is dressed in delicate white silk, the gown adorned with fine lace and pearls, and she looks as though she has stepped straight out of a painting. Her smile is radiant, her eyes practically sparkling with excitement.
"You danced beautifully," she gushes, clasping Leah's hands in hers without hesitation. "And with the Duke of Aylesworth! Everyone was speaking of it! Why, even my mother commented on how well you paired together."
Leah has little doubt of that. Elizabeth has, surprisingly, always been particularly attuned to the social maneuverings of the ton. If she has taken notice, then the whispers will only continue to grow.
"Did she?" Leah replies, feigning mild interest. "I hope she was not too taken with it."
Elizabeth giggles. "Oh, only as much as any mother would be." She leans in slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But truly, Leah what did he say to you? He must have shown some interest, surely?"
Leah hesitates, but before she can craft a reply, another voice joins the fray—lower, with a drier edge.
"I expect he told her she was the most enchanting creature in all of England and that he simply must claim another dance before the night is through."
Henrietta Sánchez has arrived, her expression wry, though not unkind. She is noticeably shorter than the others, her dark eyes carrying an air of quiet amusement as she surveys Leah with a knowing look. Unlike Elizabeth, she does not grasp Leah's hands or gush over the moment. Instead, she stands with arms loosely folded, weight shifted ever so slightly to one side.
Leah exhales, giving Henrietta a half-lidded stare. "I should think you know me well enough by now to realize I would not entertain such nonsense."
Henrietta hums. "Perhaps. But I also know that you quite like this nonsense when it amuses you."
Vivienne, who has allowed the girls their moment, steps in again, her tone still bright but carefully measured now that an audience has formed. "Whatever was said, it is a fine match to be seen, if nothing else," her eyes flick toward Henrietta, then back to Leah. "Though, of course, I would not wish to presume."
Leah hears the subtle implication beneath her words. No, she would not wish to presume, but she would be more than pleased should such a thing come to pass.
She keeps her expression unreadable, offering only a polite, "Of course not."
Henrietta arches a brow, Elizabeth tilts her head, and Vivienne, satisfied for now, straightens.
"Well," Vivienne says, smoothing a hand over her gown, "I expect you will have plenty more offers before the night is through," her gaze flickers across the room before landing once more on Leah. "You would do well not to turn away too many."
Leah does not answer. She merely lifts her glass once more, allowing the cool sweetness of the lemonade to settle on her tongue before swallowing. The night is far from over.
With the night beginning to wane, the grand chandeliers cast a softer glow as the festivities slow to a more languid pace. Conversations drift into murmurs, laughter fades into the occasional delicate chuckle, and the last few dances are taken with a kind of quiet finality. Servants move discreetly through the room, replenishing refreshments for those who linger, though the energy of the evening has undoubtedly shifted toward its conclusion.
Leah remains near the refreshment table, her gloves smoothed and pristine despite the hours she has spent in them. Her dance card is full, her presence acknowledged, and the weight of the evening's events lingers around her like the scent of expensive perfume.
Vivienne has been unusually pleasant since the encounter with the Duke, her mood buoyed by the social success of the night. Lucius, too, is in fine spirits, though more reserved in his satisfaction. He has spent much of the evening in the company of other gentlemen, discussing matters of business and politics between cigars and brandy. Leah suspects that even he has heard the murmurs of her dance with Henry Moore.
As the Barretts prepare to take their leave, their carriage already waiting beyond the grand entrance, Vivienne makes her final rounds of farewells, her charm as polished as ever. Leah offers a curtsy to Lady Worthington, a polite nod to an elderly viscountess whose name she does not recall, and a few final pleasantries to passing acquaintances.
Finally, as they step toward the towering doors of the ballroom, Vivienne places a hand on Leah's arm, her grip light but deliberate.
"You have done well tonight," she says, her voice lilting with a rare note of approval. And then, with a small, knowing smile, she adds, "I suspect we shall be receiving calls soon enough."
Exhaling softly, Leah keeps her expression unreadable as she descends the steps toward their waiting carriage.
"Then I shall have to be very careful about answering."