The Dreadful Debutante Read Online Free PDF

Farouche, yes definitely farouche.
     
    But Mira clung grimly onto the idea of moral courage and for once told the lady’s maid that she shared with Drusilla to allow plenty of time to prepare her for the ball. Then came the first battle. The lady’s maid, Betty, complained that it would be too difficult to arrange fresh flowers in Mira’s hair and that she should wear a turban, a Juliet cap, or feathers. To Mrs. Markham’s amazement Mira promptly demanded the services of a top hairdresser, saying that if she was to salvage her reputation, then she ought to appear at her best.
     
    Drusilla waited for Mr. Markham to tell this unruly daughter to behave herself, but to her mortification Mr. Markham said in an amused voice, “Then order one, Mira, and let us all have some peace.”
     
    Mira grandly summoned Monsieur Duval, the court hairdresser, unaware that if that temperamental artist had not had his services canceled by the Duchess of Rowcester at the last minute, then he would not have been able to attend.
     
    And so Mira had a wreath of ivy and camellias, the latest hothouse flower, decorating her head. Her gown of white muslin had a green sprig, and her evening gloves were a soft green kid. The high waist of the gown was bound by a broad green silk sash. There was something almost fairylike about Mira, thought Mr. Markham in surprise. Drusilla glared at her sister, trying to tell herself that Mira looked like a guy but not quite succeeding. Her own headdress of tall feathers gave her a stately air, or so she told herself, although she was already beginning to find it cumbersome. The feathers were admittedly light, but it was the heavy gold fillet to which they were attached that made her head ache a little.
     
    Another grand house, another grand staircase, another ballroom full of staring eyes. This must be what hell is like, thought Mira, eyes and eyes and more eyes, all calculating and disapproving.
     
    She was standing with her mother and Drusilla at the edge of the floor when the marquess came up to them. He smiled at Mira and said, “The honor of this dance?”
     
    Before Mira could speak, Drusilla said, “Most certainly, my lord,” and put her hand on his arm.
     
    “Miss Markham,” he said gently. “A mistake. My invitation was meant for your sister.”
     
    Drusilla blushed painfully and retreated to her mother’s side. Beside them, listening avidly to every word, was a Mrs. Gardener, one of London’s greatest gossips. Mira tripped off lightly with the marquess, and soon they were dancing a waltz, Mira demonstrating to society and to her jaundiced sister that she was an exquisite dancer. But at one moment her steps faltered, and the marquess pressed her hand tightly. “No, don’t tell me,” he said. “I can guess: Lord Charles is arrived, so now you must dance your best, not trip over my feet. And, no, you must not look at him even once!”
     
    Lord Charles went straight up to Drusilla and bowed before her. “Will I be lucky to secure the next dance?”
     
    “What? Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Drusilla, her eyes fastened on the dancing Mira.
     
    Lord Charles turned away from her and put up his quizzing glass to see what was claiming her attention. He saw Mira dancing with an exceptionally handsome man, whom she seemed to be keeping well amused.
     
    “Who is Mira’s partner?” he asked.
     
    “The Marquess of Grantley,” said Drusilla sulkily.
     
    “Indeed! He is said to be the catch of the Season.”
     
    “I don’t see why. He is quite old,” said Drusilla sulkily. And Lord Charles, who judged the marquess to be not much older than he was himself, looked at her in surprise.
     
    “It is a good thing he has chosen to dance with her before anyone else,” said Charles, unwittingly putting another log on Drusilla’s already smoldering anger, “because he will give her some much-needed social cachet.”
     
    The waltz finished, Mira was promenading round the ballroom with the