Gilt-framed portraits of long-dead royals stared down from towering walls of the presentation chamber at St. James's Palace. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors so polished they reflected the nervous faces of the debutantes waiting in line.
Penelope's gown weighed approximately as much as a small child.
White silk embroidered with seed pearls, a train that required two attendants to manage, and a headpiece adorned with ostrich feathers that kept threatening to topple sideways. Her corset had been laced even tighter than usual, apparently one did not meet the Queen while breathing normally.
"You will do just fine," her mother whispered, adjusting one of Penelope's curls. "Do not fear, darling. Simply curtsy as we practiced, keep your eyes lowered, and speak only if Her Majesty addresses you directly."
"What if I trip?" Penelope asked, eyeing the length of fabric trailing behind her.
"You won't trip," Imogen said firmly. "You're a Carrington. We don't trip."
"Edmund tripped at his presentation to the Prince Regent."
"Edmund had consumed half a bottle of brandy beforehand. You have not." Her mother's expression softened. "Breathe, little one. This is merely a formality. The Queen will smile, you will curtsy, and then it will be over."
The great doors ahead swung open.
"Lady Penelope Carrington, daughter of His Grace, the Duke of Winterhaven," the herald announced in a voice that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
Penelope's legs moved of their own accord, carrying her forward across an expanse of floor that seemed to stretch for miles. Her mother walked beside her, clad in lavender silk.
And there, seated upon a throne that looked as ancient as England itself, sat Queen Gwendolyn.
The Queen was smaller than the portraits suggested, but she radiated an authority that filled the entire chamber. Dark eyes, sharp with intelligence, swept over Penelope with an assessing gaze that missed nothing. Her gown was magnificent, deep purple velvet with diamonds that caught the light like captured stars.
Penelope sank into the deepest curtsy of her life, feeling her knees protest the angle. She kept her eyes lowered, counting her heartbeats, waiting for permission to rise.
"Lady Penelope," the Queen said, and her voice carried a warmth that surprised Penelope. "You may rise, child."
Penelope straightened carefully, keeping her expression composed even though her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
The Queen smiled. "What a lovely young woman you've become. I remember when you were no higher than my knee, running through these very halls during your father's investiture." She turned to Imogen. "Duchess, you have done well. Your daughter is a credit to your family."
Imogen's face lit up with poorly concealed pride. "Your Majesty is too kind."
"Not kind. Merely observant." The Queen's gaze returned to Penelope. "Tell me, Lady Penelope, are you enjoying your season thus far?"
"Very much, Your Majesty," Penelope said, keeping her voice steady. "Though I confess I find the social expectations rather.….exhausting."
A ripple of shocked whispers went through the attending ladies. One did not confess to exhaustion in front of the Queen.
But Queen Gwendolyn laughed. "Honest! How refreshing. Most girls your age tell me they're having a splendid time even when they're clearly miserable." She leaned forward slightly. "The season is exhausting, child. Anyone who claims otherwise is either lying or lacks imagination. But it serves a purpose, tiresome though it may be."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Penelope said, relaxing fractionally.
"You may go," the Queen said, waving one bejeweled hand. "Enjoy your evening, Lady Penelope. I expect to hear interesting things about you."
Another curtsy, another careful backward retreat, and then Penelope was through the doors and breathing freely again, or as freely as her corset allowed.
"That went well," her mother said, looking enormously relieved.
"Did I just admit to the Queen that I find society exhausting?"
"You did," Imogen said, but she was smiling. "And somehow, she seemed to like you for it."
They returned to the waiting area where other debutantes were gathered, waiting their turns. Penelope was just beginning to relax when the herald's voice rang out again.
"Lady Cordelia Merriweather, daughter of the Earl of Ashford."
Penelope's spine went rigid.
The young woman who glided into the presentation chamber was everything Penelope was not. Tall, willowy, with red hair that cascaded in perfect ringlets down her back. Her gown was pale pink silk that made her porcelain skin seem to glow. Blue eyes, wide and innocent, gazed up at the Queen.
"Good God," one of the other debutantes whispered. "She's stunning."
She was. Even Penelope, who would rather eat glass than admit it, couldn't deny that Cordelia Merriweather was possibly the most beautiful girl in London.
The Queen certainly seemed to think so. Her Majesty's expression brightened considerably as Cordelia executed a flawless curtsy.
"Lady Cordelia," the Queen said warmly. "What a vision you are. Like a rose in full bloom."
"Your Majesty is too generous," Cordelia said in a voice like honey.
As she rose from her curtsy, Cordelia's gaze swept the waiting area and landed directly on Penelope. A slow, sly smile curved her perfect lips.
Penelope rolled her eyes and looked away.
She had known Cordelia since childhood, when their families would summer in the same country estates. Where Penelope had spent her time climbing trees and collecting insects with her brothers, Cordelia had perfected the art of being noticed by the right people.
She was also the kind of girl who would "accidentally" trip another girl in front of the boy she fancied. Who would spread rumors disguised as concern. Who could smile sweetly while delivering the most cutting insults imaginable.
In short, Cordelia Merriweather was absolutely insufferable, and Penelope had been hoping to avoid her this entire season.
Apparently, fate had other plans.
~
The Bancroft Ball that evening was exactly as excessive as Penelope had anticipated.
Lady Bancroft had transformed her ballroom into a rare sight, thousands of candles in crystal holders, garlands of white roses draped from every surface, and an orchestra so large it barely fit on the musician's platform.
And there, holding court near the refreshment table, was Queen Gwendolyn herself.
"I thought she only attended the most important events," Penelope whispered to her mother as they descended the grand staircase.
"She does," Imogen replied. "Which tells you exactly how significant Lady Bancroft believes this ball to be."
The Carrington family made their entrance. Anthony led the way, looking every inch the future Duke in midnight blue velvet. Adrian and Edmund flanked their mother, while Raphael brought up the rear with Penelope on his arm. The Duke on the other hand was unable to attend as a result of some of his duties.
"Where's Calliope? She was supposed to meet us here." Penelope asked, scanning the crowd for her cousin's familiar face.