Dawn in My Heart by Ruth Axtell Morren Page B

owner.”
    The smile on her face grew, lighting her pale green eyes and parting her rosy lips.
    He strained to lean forward and kiss them, but he held himself back.
    Next time, Jilly-girl, he promised, liking the sound of the nickname that popped into his head. He would taste of them the next time they met.
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    Gillian glanced across the carriage to her mother. They had spent most of the day on their coiffures and dresses, and by eight in the evening, they sat in a queue of carriages that inched along the cobbled street. They had finally left Bond Street and now stood at the top of St. James’s Street.
    She chanced a look out the open carriage window to see how many coaches were lined down the street behind them.The interior was hot and stuffy so they had been forced to keep the windows down, to the displeasure of her mother.
    She could see why. As soon as she did so, the crowds packed along the sides of the streets began ogling her.
    â€œHey, ducky, you’re a comely thing.”
    â€œCome, lean out farther, so we can see that pretty frock.”
    â€œLook at those pearls.”
    â€œAre the flowers in your hair real?”
    â€œGillian, put your head in immediately!” her mother said.
    â€œWho’s in there with you, love?” a female bystander demanded. “Is it Lady Bessborough?”
    â€œI think it’s Lady Hertford,” her companion decided. “The prince’s favorite.”
    â€œNo,” decided a poorly dressed man who had the effrontery to press his head into the coach window. “This lady’s not fat enough!”
    Gillian had pulled her head back in as the soon as the man approached. Now, she imitated her mother who sat in icy silence until the man removed his head from the window.
    â€œThe line of carriages seems endless. I can’t see how far down Bond Street it stretches, but there are certainly many more coaches than when we first arrived.”
    â€œThat is why I insisted we leave early. Remember at last year’s fete for poor King Louis?”
    Gillian was thrown back in her seat as the coach suddenly lurched forward. It only traveled a few yards before stopping again.
    â€œThey should have guards to control these crowds,” her mother complained.
    Gillian didn’t reply, having heard the same lament several times already.
    She and her mother had eventually received their invitation from the Prince Regent. Whether Lord Skylar had expedited it or whether they would have received it anyway, she had no way of knowing. In any case, they were on their way to Carlton House to greet the great Duke of Wellington.
    An hour later, their bodies damp with perspiration, they arrived at the gates of the Prince’s official residence. The wide, colonnaded portico was lit with dozens of torches. At long last their carriage came to the front and they were handed down onto the red-carpeted steps and ushered into the high-ceilinged entry hall.
    Gillian glanced ahead at the long line of guests inching past the dark red porphyry marble columns. She didn’t see Lord Skylar’s dark head in the crowd, but countless guests had already headed into the rooms beyond. Once they had received their invitations, he had told them he would meet them at the fete.
    She had been through these rooms before on other state occasions, but she knew the Prince was always carrying out renovations, so there would doubtless be new things to see. She was also curious to see how the Prince would outdo himself to welcome home the returning hero, after his splendid celebrations the month before to honor the Austrian, Russian and Prussian royalty.
    Gillian and her mother moved with the line of guests through the Blue Velvet Room, the Rose Satin Drawing Room, the new Gothic Dining Room, the Golden Drawing Room, and the long Conservatory—each room a brilliant display of gilded cornices, elaborately painted doors, frescoed ceilings, thick French carpets matching the