The Golden Season Read Free Page A

maid, and a cook. Perhaps a butler.”
    “Dear God,” she breathed, collapsing back in her chair. “I am destitute.”
    She meant it and he conceded that in her world, the only one she’d ever known, the uppermost strata of the ton , she might as well be. Her life as hitherto known was no more. Even in Sir Grimley’s house she’d lived like a small princess, surrounded by every conceivable comfort and luxury.
    “And Emily, too?”
    “I’m afraid not. Perhaps she can return to wherever you found her,” Terwilliger suggested, smiling apologetically at Emily Cod.
    She blinked at him, her fingers twitching in her lap.
    “Good Lord, Terwilliger, you make it sound as if I overturned a rock one day and there she was. I didn’t and she can’t.” There was finality in her voice, a hint of the iron will few would warrant as belonging to the laughing Society beauty. Beside her, Emily Cod relaxed, her fluttering fingers stilled.
    “Then there will be no butler,” he said.
    Lady Lydia considered this edict a moment before saying, “I do not think I can live like that.”
    He didn’t, either. Still he said, “Many people make do without a butler.”
    “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t be poor. Too many people depend on me. Craftsmen and merchants, artisans and wine brokers, tradesmen and such other businesses.”
    This was doing it a bit brown. “They do have other clients,” he said.
    She frowned, more annoyed than offended. “I do not think you properly appreciate my position, Terwilliger. I am not just another member of the ton . I am”—she cast about for the appropriate word—“I am an industry.”
    Was she twitting him? She’d always had an odd sense of humor.
    “Terwilliger,” she said with a touch of exasperation, “I dine at an establishment and its reputation is made. I import a certain varietal wine for a dinner party and within a week the vintner has orders for the next five years and the vineyard where the wine comes from is secure for a decade. I wear a perfume and not only is that fragrance’s popularity guaranteed, but the perfumery’s, too. The same can be said of the mill that produces the silk for my gowns, the musician I hire for an afternoon salon, the composer I employ to write a new sonata, the cheese makers whose products appear on my sideboard, the milliner and horse breeder and the cabinetmaker and the carpet weavers . . .” She trailed off, studying him to gauge whether he understood.
    He recognized in surprise that she was right and once again was visited by the uncomfortable notion that behind all her frivolity, Lady Lydia understood very well the world in which she lived. She was an industry. True, the ton was filled with fashion makers, but no one save Beau Brummell had captivated the public imagination like Lady Lydia Eastlake. She drew crowds wherever she went. People stood in line outside the shops she frequented and lined Rotten Row each afternoon hoping to get a glimpse of her riding past in her barouche.
    It wasn’t just that she was pretty or witty; there were plenty of pretty, witty women in the ton . It wasn’t just her extravagant lifestyle. It was that she was all these things and independent. And happily, successfully so, for all appearances. Small wonder she fascinated Society both high and low. Her like was as exotic and rare as mermaids.
    “Well, Terwilliger?”
    “The only counsel I can give is that you find a very wealthy husband.”
    “You mean marry ?” She sounded as though he’d just suggested she sell flowers in Covent Garden.
    He nodded. “As you should have done years ago. You should have wed your fortune to another of equal stature and yourself to a man devoted to the concept of economy. A temperate, conscientious, careful fellow with an impeccable pedigree who could have multiplied your net value while still allotting you a generous allowance.”
    “An allowance. Someone to portion out to me that which is already