A Cross's Scandal

1. The Ball

The drawing room of Cross House smelled faintly of crushed lavender, starch, and the heavy, metallic tang of hot curling irons.

"Step away, Evangeline, you are entirely blocking the candlelight," Lady Cross snapped, her fingers flying as she adjusted the delicate lace tucker at her younger daughter's bodice. She did not look up to see the slight flinch that crossed Evangeline's face. "Liviana, my angel, do hold still. If the rouge is smudged, you shall look like a milkmaid after a country dance, and we cannot have the Marquess thinking you lack town polish."

"Mama, you pinch," Liviana complained, though her pout was entirely practiced, designed to coax further adoration. She caught her own reflection in the pier glass and smiled-a sharp, triumphant little expression.

Liviana was dressed to the nines in a gown of vibrant ruby-red silk, its skirts tiered with extravagant frills that seemed to whisper with every slight movement. Around her throat sat the family pearls, three perfect, gleaming strands that had belonged to their late grandmother. They were supposed to descend to the eldest daughter. Evangeline's gloved hand rose instinctively to her own bare collarbone, touching only the cold skin above her modest, square-cut neckline.

"There," Lady Cross breathed, patting Liviana's cheek with a velvet puff. "The very picture of a future Marchioness. Lord Ashby will be entirely enslaved tonight. The Dowager Countess herself told me her son has a particular fondness for a woman who can command a room."

Finally, Lady Cross turned her sharp, assessing gaze toward Evangeline. The warmth evaporated from her eyes, replaced by the cool, familiar disappointment that Evangeline had lived under for all of her twenty-one years.

"You chose another terrible color, I see," Lady Cross remarked eyeing her blush pink gown, her tone flat. "It makes you look dreadfully washed out, Evangeline. Like a phantom wandering the corridors. And where are your flounces? You look as plain as a schoolroom governess."

"The silk is quite fine, Mama," Evangeline replied softly, her voice carrying the quiet, measured cadence her grandfather had always praised. "And as I have only had the one Season following Grandpapa's passing, I deemed it proper to remain modest."

At the mention of the late Earl of Danby, Lady Cross's mouth tightened. Eva, her grandfather would have called her, his voice a gravelly, comforting anchor in this very room.

Never let them dress you in false colors, little Eva. A true diamond requires no foil.

But Grandpapa was dead, buried beneath the damp earth of Yorkshire, and Evangeline was left in a London that valued gloss over substance.

"Do not use your grandfather as an excuse for your lack of style," her mother chided, pulling her lace mitts over her elbows. "Listen to me, Evangeline. Tonight is of the utmost consequence. Lord Ashby is on the verge of declaring himself to your sister. When we arrive at Lady Waldegrave's ball, you are to keep to the shadows. Do not clutter the floor near the Ashby box. Stand by the chaperones, take tea quietly, and for heaven's sake, do not attempt to draw attention to yourself. Let your sister shine. Her success is the family's salvation."

The bias was a familiar blade, blunt from years of use, but it still managed to bruise.

The plain, older, unloved child, Evangeline thought, the words a silent, rhythmic chant against her ribs. She swallowed the knot in her throat and smoothed her plain pink skirts.

"Of course, Mama," Evangeline said, her countenance settling into a mask of perfect, aristocratic serene indifference. "I shall not disoblige you."

Liviana gave a small, mocking sniff, checking the tilt of her feather fan. "Do not be entirely a wallflower, sister. It makes the family look desperate if you are seen entirely without a partner. Though, I suppose Mr. Higgins, the curate, might be induced to ask for a country dance if he is feeling charitable."