Page 5 of Regency in Color

Chapter Three

People.

So very many of them.

Too many of them.

Miss Julianna Abigail Drake strangled her fan between her clenched fists until the polished steel guard sticks bit into her palms through her gloves. She should have it held open in her left hand, using a delicate wrist motion to wave it gently, allowing the mother-of-pearl to catch the candlelight and sparkle like jewels.

An open fan in a lady’s left hand signified she desired a man to come and converse with her. At least that was so according to the rules of subtle flirting her aunt, Lady Roxburrow, had drilled into her every day since her uncle, Viscount Roxburrow, had declared Julianna must either come out this season or be cut off.

In no uncertain terms, he had made it very clear his charity toward his younger brother's only child had reached its end. Julianna needed to either find a husband or . . . Well, she much preferred not to think of the alternative.

Which was why she now stood at the edge of the dance floor at Lady Devonford’s ball, wishing she were back in her room in front of an easel with paint splattered over her hands and arms up to her elbows. Or that she was anywhere else, for that matter.

But wishing and hoping never changed anything.

She released her grip on her fan and forced her stiff arms to her sides. Currents of nervous energy relentlessly flowed through her limbs, making her want to move, walk, run, or do something—anything—other than stand about waiting for a man to look past the sea of beautiful debutantes and notice her. She smoothed a hand over the skirt of her dress, touched her pinned, thick midnight curls, and then the silk at her throat.

Lady Roxburrow leaned in until her lips nearly touched Julianna’s ear and hissed, “Touch your fichu one more time, and I swear I will yank it from around your neck. No man wants a woman who fidgets so much.”

“Yes, Aunt,” she replied softly, removing her hand from the kerchief wrapped around her shoulders and tucked into the front of her bodice.

Over the years, Juliana had learned it was best to keep her responses short whenever whispering was necessary. Because of her hearing impairment, she struggled to gauge her volume. Especially when she wanted only her conversation partner to hear—and not the over-eager aristocrats who would happily ruin her to elevate themselves.

“I’m horrified that the viscount even allowed you to wear it,” Lady Roxburrow continued. “It’s covering your entire neck and cleavage. We women are afforded few tools of the physical variety with which to capture a man’s attention, and you are hiding your most valuable one.”

If she weren’t on the edge of crumbling under the stress of being at this ball, Juliana might have laughed at the vehement offense in her aunt’s voice. As if Juliana’s choice to wear a fichu was an affront to the lady herself.

Why did it matter if she chose to show a little less skin than what was considered fashionable? The more skin she showed, the more self-conscious she became. The more self-conscious she became, the more awkward and clumsy she became.

Juliana resumed her vise-grip on her fan, silently praying for an escape from her aunt’s presence. To her great relief, the answer came shortly thereafter in the form of Lady Eleanor Phillips. She’d had the pleasure of meeting the lovely young woman at whichever ball she’d been forced to attend several nights ago.

“Good evening, Miss Drake and Lady Roxburrow,” Eleanor said, dipping into an elegant curtsy Juliana could only dream of executing someday. “I hope the two of you are well this evening.”

“I am, thank you,” Lady Roxburrow replied first.

Juliana shifted her position to read Eleanor’s lips better. A trick her father had taught her, in case she ever missed hearing a portion of a conversation. It had saved her many times from embarrassing herself in noisy, crowded places such as this.

“I am very well, Lady Eleanor.” Juliana attempted a curtsy with considerably less success. “Thank you for inquiring. I hope you are, as well.”

Eleanor placed a feather-light hand to Juliana’s forearm and smiled. Perfectly gracious. Perfectly . . . perfect.

“As I told you before, it’s Eleanor, please.”

“Very well. Eleanor.”

“Excellent.” She turned her smile on Lady Roxburrow. “With your permission, I would love to take a stroll about the room with Juliana.”

“Yes. Goodness, please do,” Lady Roxburrow blurted, hardly able to contain her excitement.

Juliana didn’t doubt that her aunt probably wished some of Eleanor’s charm would rub off on her. Or at the very least, elevate her prestige by association.

“Thank you. We shall be back shortly.” Eleanor looped her arm through Juliana’s.

“No, no. Take your time.”

Eleanor dipped her chin in farewell, then led Juliana away from her aunt. A kindness she would be forever grateful for.