The carriage rattled over the cobblestones, each bump making me wince as I struggled to maintain my composure. I glanced at my daughter Clara, who was admiring her reflection in the small mirror she always carried.
"You look positively radiant today," I said, feeling a mixture of pride and melancholy. "Marquess Fairchild will be utterly captivated when he sees you at the altar."
Clara smiled, touching her perfectly arranged hair. "Of course he will, Mother. I've made certain of it." She snapped her mirror shut and tucked it into her reticule. "Can you imagine the faces of all those who looked down on us? Especially that insufferable Gabriella. She'll be green with envy when I become a Marchioness."
I nodded approvingly. I had taught her well—perhaps too well. Clara had absorbed every lesson about social climbing and status that I had instilled in her. "Your wedding will be the event of the season. I've already begun planning the details."
