Kasey Michaels (15 page)

Sophie happily complied, knowing herself wise to put her appearance in Desiree’s capable hands. It had, after all, been Desiree who had chosen the fashion plate from those sent across the Channel from Madame Lisette in Paris. Desiree had also chosen the material for this gown, a brilliant, watermarked white taffeta that rustled when Sophie walked.

The gown was cunning in its simplicity. Where there should have been velvet ribbons, there were none. Where there should have been flounces kicking at the hem, there was no adornment. There was no embroidery on the puffed, cap sleeves.

The beauty of the gown lay in its utter lack of fripperies. It was almost plain, in fact—until one noticed the artful curve and sweep of the seams that ran just beneath the bodice, the large “diamonds” of carefully seamed cloth that made up the softly draping skirt and demitrain.

The bodice, the very plain, unadorned bodice, also was much, much more than a single piece of cloth. It had been, in fact, fashioned out of no less than two dozen cleverly cut pieces; diamonds upon diamonds sewn to accent the breasts, flatter the shoulders, mold against the upper back.

The result was so simple, so clever. Sophie’s every movement, every breath she took, set the gown to glowing, sparkling, shimmering with light.

White kid gloves encased her hands and arms to above her elbows. White kid slippers skimmed her small, narrow feet. The rope of perfect pearls caressed her perfect neck, kissed the creamy, perfect skin exposed by the low bodice, tumbled over her perfect breasts, then fell to a good eight inches below her perfect waist. Like a magnet, the pearls drew a man’s eye to all he could see—then down to all he could wish for, all in life he would ever long to possess.

Perfection.

Sophie’s hair, as always, was allowed to riot where it willed, curling from her center part to her shoulders, a mass of touchable, barely tamed ringlets that formed a halo around her, yes, perfect features. No rouge pot was necessary to lend color to her cheeks or lips, and her eyes sparkled with an inner life, a private humor that would draw anyone not already mesmerized by her gown or her long rope of pearls.

“That fool Bonaparte would never have left Paris, had you had been there,
ma petite
, knowing that you were the only world worth conquering,” Desiree cooed, looking exceptionally pleased with both herself and her charge. “Of course, Josephine would have had your head sliced off,” she ended, shrugging. “
C’est la vie
.”

“The good duke would also like to slice off my head, Desiree,” Sophie said, fingering the small pearl that held the glove snug to her skin at the inside of her wrist. “Unless he has an apoplexy first. You should have seen his face when I waved that nasty little wagering list under his nose. He was caught between wishing to melt into the floor in embarrassment and wanting to strangle me. He’s very handsome, yes?”

Desiree shook her head as she handed Sophie her reticule, a cunning little diamond-shaped piece that matched her gown, slung from a long, thin satin rope and edged with a three-inch-long fringe. “You shouldn’t have told him what Giuseppe found. Now he’ll be watching you twice as hard.”

“Yes, I know,” Sophie said, taking the reticule and playing with the fringe, allowing it to slide across her fingers like river water would cascade over a smooth rock. She hadn’t told Desiree about the kiss; she wasn’t so foolish as that, even as she loved the woman. But the kiss was her secret, her dilemma, her puzzle to solve. “I like when he watches me. He looks so hungry.”

“Hungry, is it? I could call it something else.” Desiree rolled her eyes and muttered something short and Gallic—and probably obscene—beneath her breath. “For all I try, for all my lessons, she remains at heart her mother’s child. Next she’ll be telling me she loses herself in his eyes. Lord help us all!” She gave Sophie a gentle shove toward the door. “Now get yourself downstairs,
ma petite
, before they leave without you.”

“I’m not my mother, Desiree,” Sophie said firmly, accepting the fringed shawl the woman handed her. “As you said, I’ve read her journals. I can remember listening to her weep behind the closed door of her bedchamber when yet another uncle gave her her
congé
. Always, she believed she loved them. And always, they left her. Take and give, give and take—but keep your heart to yourself, yes? I’m your student, Desiree. I’ve listened to you, and learned everything you’ve taught me. Men speak of love, but only to get what they want. In truth, there is no such thing as love. Only desire.”

Desiree laid her hands on Sophie’s shoulders. “Desire, yes,
ma petite
, and it is a lovely thing. Very enjoyable, for both the man and the woman, if it is done right. But never love,
chérie
. Love will leave you alone.” She kissed her young charge on both cheeks. “And frowns will give you the wrinkles,
oui
? Now go, have fun, be dazzling. Be the innocent you are. Find yourself a husband, for this respectability you must have. Only after that,
chérie
, will we speak again of desire.”

Some perverted trickster had poured molasses in all the clocks. There could be no other explanation as to why time was passing so slowly. How long had Bramwell been here, watching Sophie dazzle the
ton
? Two hours? Three days? How could it only be just past eleven, with half the evening still to be survived without running stark, staring mad?

Warm lemonade, warmer rooms, stale cakes, tame-stakes gambling, marriage-minded mamas, simpering debutantes—
that
was the Almack’s the duke remembered. Or it had been, until his friends Wally and Lorrie had made the rounds of their clubs, tripped up and down Bond Street, telling anyone who would listen that the Widow Winstead’s daughter would be attending Almack’s. Her beautiful daughter. Her very rich daughter.

Between the curious and the fortune hunter, the ambitious and the randy—some of them (God only knew how many) possibly once the recipient of her mother’s favor—Almack’s was packed to the rafters this evening with eligible and not so eligible but still eager gentlemen.

All of them waiting for Sophie’s arrival.

All of them struck damn near dumb when she’d walked into the room—except for Robbie Sykes, who’d been drunk enough to loudly call out to Bramwell to step aside, so that he could get a better look.

As Bramwell had watched, Sophie had smiled as if she knew this “party” was being held expressly for her. She had then succeeded in that first, unbelievable moment, and without so much as lifting a finger on her own account, to dazzle every last man jack of them.

Either that, or some mischief-making witch had sprinkled looby dust over every gentleman present. A sane person could think none of them had seen a woman in a dozen years, for the way they’d stamped, herdlike, to Sophie’s side the moment she’d opened her dance card and gifted the company with a knee-melting, hopeful smile.

It was pitiful. They were pitiful. His male friends. His acquaintances. High and low and in between. All of them. Why, the earl of Watton had actually offered Bramwell one hundred pounds if he’d scratch himself from leading Sophie out for her first, patronesses-approved waltz—just as if he were a racehorse who had suddenly turned up lame before the opening race.

Yes, it was embarrassing. Lowering. An insult to his own species. And Bramwell was disgusted with the lot of them.

How would they all feel if they knew what he knew? That she was deliberately flirting with them all. That she was on a determined husband hunt. That she wanted only a name, preferably a title, and a stud service. That the young and strong need not apply, but only the old, with one foot already in the grave—soon to be followed by the remaining foot and the entire, worn-out body. That, as he had thought late last night while unable to sleep, she might be wanting that title and that old man—but that she also might be simultaneously inspecting the younger gentlemen, who would become the actual fathers of her desired children, while her husband played the foil, the fool. That, in reality, she either hated men, or just plain despised them.

No, she didn’t hate men. He knew that wasn’t true. But it was easier to believe badly of her than it was to think badly of himself. Of what
he
might want from Sophie Winstead.

He closed his eyes as his brain teased him yet again.
I never meant to keep you, Your Grace
.

She didn’t mean to “keep” him. She didn’t mean to “keep” any one of them. Ha! How would all these fawning gentlemen feel if they knew all of that?

And would any of the idiots—from the ambitious, to the curious, to the randy—even care? Probably not.

Probably not....

Bramwell drained the last of his drink, scowled at the empty glass, and remembered the waltz he had danced with Sophie.

She’d been so demure, curtsying her thanks to the sweetly accommodating Lady Cowper as that patroness had given her permission to waltz. And then she’d walked into his arms, her body lighter than any feather, more graceful than a swan, her right hand burning into his left. With her left hand, she held up the train of her impossibly flattering gown as they dipped and swirled, instantly responsive to each touch of his fingers against the small of her back.

She’d floated around the floor, chattering nineteen to the dozen to him about how happy she was, how lovely everything looked, how lucky they all were to be alive in such a wonderful time. All without missing a step, as if they’d waltzed together a thousand times and she knew his every move a full second before he’d even thought to make it.

And he’d danced as if he was marching guard in front of the palace. Stiff-backed, his spine rigid, his eyes looking straight ahead, steadfastly staring above the enchanting mass of curls, the creamy sweep of shoulder, that cursed rope of pearls that all but screamed at him to drop his gaze, to send it lower, lower.

He’d made himself no friends among the ladies gathered here tonight, their hopes raised for this first Assembly of the Season, then dashed the moment Sophie had entered the shabby rooms, turning them to gold. In fact, except for his aunt and his fiancée, not a single woman had spoken to him all evening, as if he had deliberately set out to ruin their lives.

Bramwell consulted his pocket watch once more. Was it only a little past eleven? How long was the last day, before the earth exploded?

Isadora approached, a single vertical line creasing her flawless forehead just between her eyebrows, advertising her concern, and quite possibly a hint of distaste. “She’s out on the balcony,” she said flatly, motioning toward the doors open to the evening air.

Bramwell didn’t have to ask her whom she meant, but he did anyway. “
Who
is out on the balcony, Isadora?”

His fiancée rolled her eyes heavenward. “Lud, Selbourne. Your ward, of course. You must rescue her. Viscount Eglinton—you
know
what a loose screw he is—all but dragged her off the floor at the end of the last set, and took her out there. They’re drinking lemonade.”

“How very scandalous,” Bramwell said, wishing his fiancée wouldn’t be quite so protective of the young woman who was tearing his once-well-ordered life to shreds. “It’s hot as blazes in here, Isadora. Half the company is swilling lemonade on the balconies and praying for a breeze. And she’s not my ward,” he added, feeling as if that particular sentence should possibly be tattooed onto his forehead.

“Lud, Selbourne, I know that,” Isadora whispered fiercely, drawing him into a corner even as she nodded and smiled to the Countess Lieven, one of Almack’s most formidable patronesses. “The thing is, nobody
else
seems to know it. If she had been presented at Court with her true guardian in tow, perhaps we wouldn’t be facing this embarrassment. But she wasn’t—lud, she couldn’t possibly be, could she?—and now everyone is whispering and gossiping, retelling that terrible old gossip. I’m sure now that it was only Lady Jersey’s love of a juicy scandal that secured you the voucher for Almack’s in the first place. The dowagers are furious, and poor Lady Shipley had to be escorted home, saying she feared she was about to suffer a spell, she was that shocked by the laxity of the patronesses in allowing Miss Winstead a voucher.”

“Lady Shipley?” Bramwell remembered Sir Tyler Shipley, and Ignatius, and barely suppressed a flinch. If the dieaway Lady Shipley could meet Ignatius, hear her husband’s voice coming out of the parrot’s mouth—well, she would be bound to suffer much more than a simple “spell.” She’d probably kill her husband, who depended on his wife’s private fortune to sustain his rather voracious appetite for gaming at high stakes.

“Yes, but that’s neither here nor there. Lud, that woman, dear as she is, goes into a taking over most anything. The thing is, Selbourne, you shouldn’t have come with us. You’re
never
at Almack’s. You used poor judgment being here this evening, lending Miss Winstead entirely too much consequence for a mere acquaintance—much as I dislike railing at you. Although, in a way, she
is
in your charge, isn’t she?”

“There is that, yes. But what’s to do?” Bramwell felt his spine going stiff. “I suppose I could always storm out onto the balconies, yell for the chit to heel, toss her over my shoulder, and then carry her out of here?” he suggested, immediately hating himself for being sarcastic with his affianced. “I’m sorry, Isadora,” he said quickly. “I’m no happier about the gossip than you are. But my attendance here was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”