Page 1 of Twice Upon a Midnight

CHAPTER ONE

Mayfair, London

March 1821

“Y

ou look beautiful, Elenora.”

Seated at her dressing table, Ella Darby darted her eyes to her mother’s reflection in the corner of the mirror and did her best not to frown. She wished she could be as certain of her appearance as Mama. But then, Mamawasthe Duchess of Durham, and confidence seemed to be a requirement for the position.

Mama came up behind her and gave her shoulders a quick squeeze. “Your debut will be the event of the season!”

Whether the emotion she saw shining on her mother’s face was pride, approval, or just plain relief, Ella couldn’t have said. But she knew her mother was happy, and at least one of the Darby ladies should be happy tonight. So she forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Then Ella pulled in a deep breath, the same one of resolve she’d counted on to maintain her silence during the past several weeks of planning for tonight’s grand ball. But this time, the devil inside her made her blurt out—

“Do I really have to go through with this? I don’t need to be introduced.”

Her mother’s expression melted into one of long-suffering patience. “We’re back in London now, and we need to be part of its society, you know that.” The gentle reminder was softened further by her mother’s affectionate fussing with the puffed sleeves of Ella’s satin gown. “Tonight will let people know you’re accepting callers.”

In other words…Ella’s parents thought she needed a husband.

Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t blame them. After all, she’d turned twenty-three last December, and surely, she was the world’s oldest miss to ever have her formal debut. For that—and a lot else besides—she put the blame squarely upon Napoleon’s Corsican shoulders.

As the holder of one of the oldest and most important dukedoms in England, her father had been asked by the Court of St James’s to act as envoy to the Congress of Vienna when the wars with Bonaparte ended six years ago. He’d been happy to…only to be forced into additional service when Boney refused to stay in exile. Was it too much to ask, truly, for the former emperor to stay on Elba where he belonged, rather than reassemble his army and fight at Waterloo, thus requiring her father to settle in Paris to aid in the restoration of the French monarchy and, as a result, throwing Ella’s social life into chaos? Oh, if she were ever to come across Boney, she’d pop him a good one!

Of course, she was being facetious to consider circumstances that way, given the atrocities of the wars. Yet as a result, the Duke of Durham had dutifully gone to the Continent for the duration, with his wife and seventeen-year-old daughter in tow and his son safely ensconced at Eton. Only recently had affairs on the Continent settled down to the point where her father felt he could return to England.

By then, though, Ella had missed her London debut and five full seasons.

She hadn’t minded living in France. She’d enjoyed Paris and had made several close friends from all social classes and walks of life, from the daughter of a French duke to the daughter of the dressmaker who fashioned Mama’s gowns, from bluestockings with whom she could discuss art and literature to bankers and merchants who respected her intelligence. She spoke real French every day, not that butchered drawing room French of English lords and ladies who spoke it only when necessary and only to put on airs. Her years in Paris were a wonderful time she would always be grateful to have had. And would always miss.

But her parentshadminded the lack of what they saw as a proper social circle for their daughter. Now, they were attempting to make up for it with a grand ball meant to turn back time by introducing her to English society, reestablishing themselves within theton, and lining up potential husbands. All in one fell swoop.

Perhaps they were right that she needed to find her way into English society, that tonight’s debut might help her make friends. She wasn’t opposed to that.

When it came to finding a husband, however, Ella had other plans. Oh, she might go through the motions her parents wanted from her, of dancing with young gentleman and taking turns about the ballroom on their arms, but those pleasantries were a long way from actual courtship.

Her life—and her heart—would always be her own.

“Tonight will give you the opportunity to meet all the most eligible bachelors,” her mother continued as she straightened the string of pearls around Ella’s neck. “Something tells me you’ll enjoy it.”

Yes.Ifit didn’t kill her first.

But Ella didn’t dare utter that aloud. She knew how much tonight meant to her parents, and she would never hurt them.

Had she been anyone but the only daughter of the Duke of Durham, she would have been rapidly approaching spinsterhood and happily left to her own devices. But not Ella. Her father’s position and wealth made her the most eligible miss in the kingdom, with the possible exception of the royal princesses. Thankfully, unlike them, Ella wouldn’t have to marry a foreign prince to appease her father, although Papa would be thrilled if she did, given how many foreign dignitaries had been invited to tonight’s ball. No, she simply had to find a husband of whom he approved. Yet that was no mean feat given that Ella preferred bookish gentleman to the baronial and visionaries to viscounts.

To appease her mother, though, she simply had to marry for love… Well, the love of a wealthy duke or marquess in possession of a spotless reputation, old family lineage, and a grand fortune, that is.

“And you’ll be able to make friends with all the young misses, too. Won’t that be lovely?”

Ella bit back a laugh, even as a deep part of her heart wanted nothing more than for her mother to be right. She desperately missed her friends in France, and so far, all her attempts to acquire new ones in London had come to nothing. The more polite young misses she’d met on afternoon calls with her mother had simply been cold to her and failed to pay her any calls in return. The worst ones gossiped about her behind her back and jealously called her “the princess” when they thought she couldn’t hear them. As for stimulating conversation with anyone about Voltaire and Wordsworth—a complete and dismal failure.

Yet those young ladies were all eager to attend her party tonight because the most eligible gentlemen in London would be here, gathered in one place without having to tolerate the hassles of Almack’s vouchers, weak punch, and even weaker personalities.

Those misses didn’t want her friendship. They wanted her castoffs.