Lady Eleanor Mary Cantwell, daughter of the Marquess of Salford, is a proper young lady. With her golden complexion, raven-black hair, and manners befitting a princess, Lady Eleanor has always been deemed a belle. There is just one problem.
Lady Ele...
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London, 1875
'Lady Eleanor Cantwell,' the herald announced and immediately, every lady and gentleman in the ballroom averted their gaze to the top of the staircase. The lady in question fidgeted under the stare of every single person in the room but managed - with quite the effort - to keep a polite smile on her face and walk down the stairs, not once tripping on the ridiculously long train of her ball gown, and alighting at the bottom with the grace and poise that could have rivalled the queen's.
'Well done, darling,' her father, who was waiting at the bottom, whispered into her ear as he took her arm in his and led her away from the scrutinising looks that were being thrown her way.
'Thank you, papa,' she said under her breath, all the while keeping the smile plastered across her face. 'Although, I am quite uncomfortable in this blasted dress.'
Her father, trying to hide a smirk at her daughter's use of language, led her to the centre of the ballroom and positioned himself to dance. Eleanor never used such language - after all, it was not proper for a lady to do so, as her mother liked to constantly remind her - but her father said nothing. After all, this was her coming out ball.
The quartet, which had stopped playing upon her arrival, started up again and her father led her in the dance as the rest of the ballroom joined in.
A few minutes later, the song ended and everyone cheered politely as Eleanor curtsied low and her father bowed deep. The music soon started up again and everyone moved in to the next dance as her father escorted her to the side.
'Now there,' her father said, smiling down at Eleanor, 'that wasn't so bad, was it?'
'I still want to take off this dress,' Eleanor said, itching to run out of the ballroom and change out of the layers of lace, net and silk. She was sure that any onlooker - had they not known it was her - would have mistaken her for an enormous pastry. The white silk which her dress was made of certainly did nothing to deter such thoughts.
'Dear me, has the day arrived? Is Eleanor Cantwell actually thinking of walking about in her undergarments?' It was Adrian Fielding, her not-so-beloved cousin, who had made the scandalous comment. His mother, the Countess of Birmingham - who had come to stand by her son's side - gasped and hit her son with her fan.
'Adrian,' she screeched. 'Where are your manners? Apologise at once!'
Adrian immediately adorned a look of guilt before looking at his cousin. Eleanor, sensing an apology coming her way, straightened.
'I am sorry, cousin -' Adrian began but Eleanor cut him mid-sentence with a small nod of her head. 'It is quite alright.'
'-that you would probably look like a horse's bottom in your undergarments,' he finished before taking off in the opposite direction, laughing like a lunatic, leaving a shocked Eleanor in his wake. Her father however looked suspiciously as if he was fighting to not laugh but the countess, like Eleanor, was aghast.
