The Season (Season Series #1)

Chapter 4: The Inaugural Ball

"Let's get out of the way," Rosanna said, snapping both Emily and me from our reverie of staring into the ball. I could tell from the wistful look in Emily's eyes that she wished she was the one descending the stairs with a satin gloved hand clutching the railing and a radiant smile plastered on her face. Instead, we descended the front stairs together, garnering little interest from the last few straggling arrivals.

"Champagne?" a servant offered us. My hand was halfway around the glass before Rosanna cleared her throat.

"Not until we've done our duties for the night," she said sternly, "I won't have you spilling something on that dress and leaving us shorthanded,"

I looked down in distaste at the dress they'd somehow tied onto my straight as an arrow frame. My own gown had been deemed too close in colour to Ella's, so Rosanna had insisted on the vile, frilly thing the seamstress had provided. Unfortunately it had very much been made for a more womanly figure and the bust nearly gaped open when I'd tried it on. Thanks to the seamstress' apprentice who had expertly tied the corset strings, inserted a number of tailoring pins, and at least a dozen lace-trimmed handkerchiefs to fill the gap between my chest and the dress, it now fit as appropriately as one could hope for someone who'd arrived with little more than a set of grey linen uniform dresses. Sadly, it was a terrible shade of pale pink that clashed with my auburn hair, which was why I'd swept it all back into a bun with a pair of borrowed jeweled combs. It was a demure, almost matronly look, especially compared to Emily's magnificent lilac dress and cascading blonde curls, but she and Rosanna seemed determined to keep me a wallflower tonight.

We took up positions on the outskirts of the dance floor, my feet jiggling under my dress as the band wound up for the first dance. Emily and Rosanna exchanged a few excited titters as a handsomely dressed man bowed over Ella's hand, asking her for the first dance. I blew out my cheeks, looking around for something more interesting than a gaggle of waltzing nobles. My gaze roved around the room, admiring the lavish spread of food and drink and the slow, deliberate movements with which the aristocrats moved around the room. No one hurried and everyone seemed to be engaged in the most interesting of conversations, at least superficially. As I admired the heavy tapestries lining the walls, following the progression of the story of Proserpina's abduction to the underworld, my eyes landed on the empty thrones up on the dais.

"Where are the royal family?" I asked, leaning over to Rosanna. Her eyes never left Ella, her hands clasped reverently in front of her as my cousin waltzed by, her darkly handsome partner coaxing forth her sparkling laugh.

"They are introduced after the first dance," she replied, "Which is excellent news for us, since Dorian Fletcher asked Ella for her first dance!"

"I see..." I replied, utterly confused. Rosanna shot me a look then sighed.

"You have so much to learn," she moaned, "Dorian Fletcher is one of the richest, most eligible bachelors in Highcastle, barring the prince of course. That Ella managed to land him as her first dance bodes extremely well for the prince asking her for his own first dance!"

"All he did was ask her to dance," I frowned, "Is it really that important?"

Rosanna shot me an irritated look.

"Clearly he thought her the most beautiful of the debutantes," she sniffed, "Men always ask the most beautiful women to dance,"

I rolled my eyes. With two brothers, I knew that was far from the truth. A dizzying whirl of colors sailed past us as the waltz crescendoed and came to an end. Ella swept a curtsey to her partner, an expertly practiced smile on her face.

No sooner had the dancers straightened than the coronets blared, calling everyone to attention. At the opposite end of the ball room, the announcer introduced the royal family as the door behind their thrones was opened. The king and queen emerged, arm in arm before they separated to sit on their own thrones. The younger prince and princess were announced next, Thomas and Anne, also emerging arm in arm.

Thomas was around my age, nearly a year younger than the crown prince, and he looked around the room with mischief in his eyes. His sister, another year younger than he, cast wise eyes over the brightly dressed ballroom, as if ranking each of her eldest brother's potential belles. They assumed their places to the side of the queen and there was an audible hush in the ballroom when the debutantes as one sucked in their already corseted waists and universally affected fetching poses.

"And introducing his Royal Highness, Prince Andrew,"

The prince strode through the doors, pausing at the top of the stairs leading down to the ballroom. Titters broke out as several of the debutantes exchanged gleeful smiles, shooting seductive looks the prince's way. He was devastatingly handsome in his crimson royal uniform jacket, a bright blue sash cutting across his broad shoulders. He bowed to each of his parents before descending the stairs, his eyes running over each of the debutantes. The dance floor had been cleared of all but them and Andrew made his way through them, each lady dropping into a curtsey as he passed.