1870, Philadelphia, USA.
Martha Whitcomb, the wild child of Philadelphia society, is now a grown woman, independent in wealth and in personality. At twenty-three, still unmarried and childless, she is exposed to constant rumors and ridicule, crushed...
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"This is one of the most idiotic things I have ever done." Martha grimaced, shifting again in her carriage seat and squeezing her fingers together so she would not touch the delicate ringlets springing from her intricate coiffure.
Rick chucked, shaking his head. "Out of everything in your anomalous life, you imagine attending a party is the most ill-advised?" he pointed out, and Martha said nothing. He could not possibly understand—he was a man, and men understood very little. "You look very pretty this evening, for what it is worth." Not a damn thing, she shot back silently, pretending not to sit a little straighter at the compliment. "Though I don't believe I have seen you in this color."
"No," she agreed, glancing down at her fine gown. It was impossible to make out in the light of the moon and various street lamps, but it was true that she very rarely wore cerulean. "But you told me that Kitty still favors pink, in which case, wearing red would mean that I am attempting to compete for attention, and my lavender dress was massacred by sadistic moths, so this will have to suffice."
'Suffice'—it was a masterpiece and certainly one of her finest dresses, crafted from yards upon yards of silk chiffon layered in gathered tiers down the front of her skirt. Each tier was separated by pink silk ribbons and pink lace, and cerulean chiffon ruffles lined in more pink ribbon cascaded down the back of her train. Between the dress, the high, stunning coiffure created by Josie's talented hands—and an impressive hairpiece—and her delicate jewels, Martha knew she looked the part of a true princess.
Still, she reached nervous fingers to her hair, stopping herself at the last second from adjusting the gilt gold comb tucked into her coiffure. Instead, she merely ran her fingers along the edge as though to assure herself it was still in place. She loved this comb—it was in the shape of a delicate butterfly, studded with small aquamarines.
"What?" she asked, realizing Rick had spoken and she had not caught a word of it.
"I was saying that I never realized how much thought went into a lady's attire," he said, and he appeared sincere enough, but the comment must have been sarcastic, Martha knew. He had grown up in society—among 'the sons of Virginia's first families', as he had said. He knew damn well that a lady did not simply reach for the first dress available. Still, she played along.
"Yes—one must keep in mind her hostess and take pains not to become the star of the evening," she murmured. "One should strive to be recherché and yet not gaudy. No one wishes to see a lady think herself above all others—it is entirely unbecoming, so you must carefully consider your jewels, which may be excessive and showy in one house but perfectly accepted—expected, even—in another."
Even as she rambled, she realized Rick's game. He knew all of this—or some, at the very least—but if Martha was speaking, then she was not thinking. If she was not thinking, then she would not fret and fidget so.
She smiled. "The pink in this dress plays tribute to Kitty, while the cerulean is so far removed that there is no sense of competition. And, knowing the Kiplings' wealth, I think aquamarine is perfectly suitable—diamonds and sapphires would be excessive in the extreme in this town, but I imagine simple gold would be an insult coming from me, as though I suspect they might be struggling financially and wish to understate my own situation."
