Yes, it was going so well!
When, on Monday morning, Betsy Redmond suggested that they pay a visit to the dressmaker, Miss Clothilde, Minerva assented like a lamb. At the shop, she pored over lengths of shimmering silks, as Percy sulked in a corner.
“Oh, this is gorgeous,” she gasped over a green silk with thin lines of gold. “This will make a stunning ball gown, with cream lace —”
It was ordered, and the dressmaker set several of her girls to working furiously so the gown could be ready by Wednesday evening, for the select ball at the home of Lady Blanche Villiers.
Then Minerva went on recklessly, encouraged by her mother, to choose a length of silver-grey-and-green stripe for a morning gown, a rose-pink confection for evening, an electric-blue gown that set off her red hair like fire, a daffodil-yellow that made her look like a tea rose, and a sleek gold silk that was so sophisticated Minerva was in ecstasy.
They arrived home to find Oliver Seymour cooling his heels in the drawing room.
“Oh, I am so sorree to keep you waiting,” she cried, letting him kiss her hand. He seemed to eat it up, nibbling at the fingers, and she felt a thrill go through her.
“Where have you been?” he asked sharply, as though he had a right to know.
“Buying gowns.” She sighed, as though the whole thing fatigued her. “I had not meant to remain so long in London, so I must have more gowns for all the parties. Everyone is too kind to me, I am invited everywhere!”
He looked irritated, yet fascinated, as she left the room to go and remove her hat, renew her makeup, brush out her shining hair, and return to entertain him. She kept him at a little distance, chattered gaily about all her sweet friends in London, how she missed Paris and her friends there, and so on. By the time he left, lingering for quite two hours, she knew he was falling at her feet.
By Wednesday the green silk-and-lace confection was ready, and she donned it happily. It was so low cut she felt embarrassed, and averted her eyes from the mirror. But it was all the fashion for married women and widows. Her rounded breasts showed through the cream lace, boldly.
“Has your mother seen this gown?” asked Jessie bluntly, as she arranged the shoulders carefully, trying to bring up the fabric to cover a little more of Minerva.
“Yes, at the dressmaker’s when I had a fitting yesterday.”
“Well, all I can say is, I’m glad your brother will be there to defend your honour!”
“Now, Jessie,” said Minerva. “After all, I am a French widow, and everybody expects me to be fast!”
“Fast is as fast does,” muttered Jessie. “Just don’t you go out in the garden with no gentlemen!” Jessie arranged the hair curls down on one white shoulder, and fastened a jade butterfly into the fall of curls near her right ear. “Now, where did this come from, miss?” she asked, curious.
“Mr Seymour sent it to me with some flowers.” Minerva blushed. It had been a surprise, this dainty gift in the box of forced roses, all of beautiful golden yellow. “He is very fond of jade.”
“Um. And what did your mother say?”
“She approved. It is not like a precious jewel, she said.”
“Hum. Accepting presents from gents, and all. No good can come of it.” And Jessie grumped and harrumphed the rest of the hour as she finished dressing Minna.
The butterfly was the first thing Oliver Seymour noticed when he rushed to the door to greet her as she entered with her mother and Percy. “You are here — and you wear my gift,” he panted, taking her hand reverently, and pressing a kiss on it. His grey eyes glowed as he looked her over from head to foot, and she felt sure he did not miss her bosom.
“’Ow do you do, Mr Seymour?” she said demurely. “I must greet my hostess,” and she drew her hand slowly from his to turn to the lady who stood nearby, watching the scene thoughtfully. “Lady Villiers, ’ow nice of you to invite me. My cousin Minerva Redmond sends her apologies, she is still so veree sick —”
“I am so sorry to hear, pray give her my best regards,” said Lady Blanche Villiers. “And so you are their French cousin? You have some resemblance to Minerva, I believe.”
“Oh, yes, we are first cousins,” smiled “Gabrielle.” “But Minerva is much more clever than I, she likes to read ze books ze best. Me, I like ze — people!” she proclaimed, and smiled alluringly up at Oliver Seymour, close at her side.
Betsy Redmond choked a little, covered it with her hand, and greeted her hostess with exquisite manners. Percy was exclaimed over, and told he was handsomer than ever, then they were allowed to pass on to the drawing room. Percy was clinging to Minerva on one side, and his mother on the other. Oliver glared at him.
Percy did not approve of Minerva’s new gown, nor her heavy makeup, nor her accent, nor her masquerade. Gloomily he surveyed the room, located Denise Lavery in a pale-blue gown that made her look like a demure shepherdess, and sighed.
“I will take care of Madame Dubois,” said Oliver, definitely. “You need not linger, Percy!”
“What? Oh. No, I am my — cousin’s escort. I shall look after her,” said Percy, just as firmly. He had told Minerva he was sure she would be insulted tonight, and deserved it, for such a low-cut gown.
Oliver frowned. “I do not see that you need worry about your cousin. Why don’t you go off and attend Miss Lavery?”
“She is well attended,” said Percy, glaring at Ross Harmsworth, who now swept Denise Lavery into a dance.
Hastily Minerva turned to Oliver. “Do ask me to dance,” she whispered.
He was not slow in doing so, and put his arm possessively about her, to lead her into the next set. Percy glared after them.
“I am sure he is fond of the pretty little Miss Lavery,” murmured Minerva. “But he is so — fond of me — that he worries between his duty to me and his wish to be — wiz her.” Her eyelashes dropped.
“I cannot approve of marriages between first cousins,” proclaimed Oliver boldly.
Minerva opened her eyes widely, gazing up at him. “Marriage? Who spoke of marriage, monsieur?”
“Or affairs!” he continued.
“Non, non, not affairs,” she agreed sweetly. “That would be naughty, no?”
“Have you had affairs, madame?”
“Monsieur!” she scolded. And then she giggled. “What a question. I thought Englishmen were so staid!”
“We are not all staid, Gabrielle!” he murmured into her hair, and she felt a quick kiss on her white forehead. Then he stood erect once more, leading her into the next move. He had to let her go to another man in the set, but when he returned to her, he said, “You did not answer my question.”
“Which question, monsieur? You ask so many!”
“You tease me all the time,” he growled in a low voice.
She giggled again, and he gazed down into her animated face with a sort of hungry look that reminded her of a black panther she had once seen in a cage in the Zoological Gardens. Tail swishing, pace slow, muscles rippling along the black hide, as though he longed to spring —
The dance ended. Ross Harmsworth was there, in an instant, and claimed her hand. Oliver frowned. “She is with me,” he proclaimed.
“Oh, I say, Seymour, not twice in a row,” protested Harmsworth with a smile, and carried off Minerva triumphantly.
Oliver glared after them, not seeing Astrid Faversham, who stood hopefully nearby. He waited until the set ended, then grabbed Minerva’s hand once more.
“Oh, I promised this to Percy,” she said innocently, and pretended to look about for him.
“He is busy with Denise Lavery, do not interrupt them!” advised Oliver, and swept her into the waltz. “I have asked for this waltz from the orchestra — you dance it so divinely!”
“Zank you — you are so kind —” She did not say she had never danced it as she did with Oliver. She felt swept in his arms with a divine frenzy, she wanted to dance and kick up her heels, and let him swing her right off the floor with his strong arm. How sweetly delici
ous to waltz with him! He was so powerful, so demanding, so passionate!
“Have you been in the home of Lady Villiers before?” he asked as the dance ended.
“Oh, yes, several times,” she replied, before recalling that “Gabrielle” had not. But he did not know the difference.
Oliver frowned. “And I suppose gentlemen have always taken you to her conservatory?”
“No, I have not seen her conservatory,” said Minerva, daringly. She knew where he was leading. Yet she went along gladly, heart thumping.
He took her to the large, green-walled room in glass at the end of a long corridor. They passed some fine furniture; she did not note it. They passed cabinets of fine china and glass; she did not see it. But in the end room he opened the painted blue door, and ushered her into a warm, steamy glass room, in which were set shelves of pots — roses, orchids, exotic oriental flowers in gay colours.
“How lovely,” she exclaimed, and started to examine the blooms. “This rose is very beautiful — such a deep rose colour —”
Oliver paid no attention. He had his arm about her, he turned her to him. “I have waited for days for this,” he said thickly, and bent his head.
He was so abrupt, he took her by complete surprise. On her half-opened mouth, he pressed his lips, and the hot passion of his mouth surprised her into silence. He bent her back, urgently, and his body pressed against her slim, rounded form, as though he would imprint himself on her.
She had thought to keep control of the moment, but could not. Warmth swept through her in the warm, steamy room. Her hand crept up to his neck, and her fingers curled about his strong throat. She caressed the scratchy skin where he had shaved, she felt the thick dark curly hair as it peaked near his neck. How unexpectedly silky was his hair, such thick curls; his son would have hair like that, baby fine.
His mouth pressed more deeply on hers, and his tongue pressed urgently into her mouth, in one of those intimate kisses which made her feel she herself was being invaded. She tried to turn her head aside, but it was so delicious — she yielded, and her mouth opened to his, and her tongue timidly touched his.
He groaned, deep in his throat, and his hands began to sweep over her silk-clad body. He put his hands on her hips, and boldly moved his hands up and over them, and to her waist, up to her back and shoulders, and down again, sweeping up and down, ever pressing her closer to him, so she felt every line and bulge of his hard body. He pressed his thighs to hers, and she could feel the masculinity of him against her softness.
His mouth left hers briefly, to move over her cheek and chin, over to her ear. He nibbled on the lobe, nipped it rather savagely, and she felt erotic sensations sweeping through her.
“God, I wish I could take you right here,” he muttered, but she heard him very clearly, and a hot blush swept through her.
She drew back, pushing against his shoulders, but she could not keep his thighs from pressing more firmly on hers. “Sir, you must let me — g-go,” she gasped. “I d-did not mean — you must — let me — g-go — p-please!”
“You are adorable,” he said huskily, not letting her go. His grey eyes were glazed with passion. “Will you come to my house soon? I must see you alone —”
She wanted him at her feet, not alone in his house. “No, I cannot,” she said firmly. “I — I zink you insult me,” she invented quickly. “I am not zat kind! You zink because I — I like people — that I would let myself — no, no, I am not zat kind! Is that why you ask about affairs, monsieur?”
His arms loosened, and she pulled herself away firmly, though he kept his hands on her hips in a familiar manner.
‘Then you are just a tease?” he accused. “You do not mean to allow me to — to have you? I tell you —” Then he looked down into her wide eyes, a bit frightened now because he did not let her go.
“I do not have affairs,” she affirmed quietly.
He drew a deep shaky breath, and let her go. She stepped back, her skirts sweeping against some dirty pots. “Do not — you will get your gown dirty,” he said, and put his hand on her bare arm to draw her away from the pots.
“If one gets near dirt, one gets dirty,” she said quaintly. “One should be careful — not to get too near to dirt,” and she looked up at him with a straight gaze.
He was flushed, he put his hand ruefully to the back of his neck, and rubbed it in a boyish gesture that went straight to her heart.
“I have — misjudged you, haven’t I, Gabrielle?” he asked. “I thought you might — frankly — that you might be willing to let me set you up as my — mistress. I would pay you well, find you a splendid apartment —”
Minna felt shocked, and gasped, her eyes shocked. Was this what she had brought on herself? This insult? Was her behaviour so loose —
“It is my fault,” he went on quickly. “I suppose in France the ladies flirt more, they have a different court there — or did, before the Revolution. Society is different there. I have misunderstood you, I think. Forgive me!
“You are — forgiven — monsieur,” she said slowly. “But you do misunderstand me. I enjoy people — I enjoy talking wiz men —” And she smiled wistfully, and turned her head away. “The years wiz my Gaspar — I was restless, and foolish, perhaps —” She let him finish the sentence. “I must go back to the ballroom.”
She meant to intrigue him, make him guess about her. But she was furious also, that he had said that about setting her up as his mistress!
“Don’t go!” He caught her arm, tried to hold her back. “We must speak more. What did you mean? Have you had affairs? Gabrielle, I must know — speak frankly, I implore you —”
Minerva had no intention of speaking frankly, and giving her game away. She was angry, yet drawn to him. She had enjoyed his kisses. But he was not going to know just what he could do with “Gabrielle”! Let him guess and stew and wonder! She wanted him abject, and at her feet! She would not be satisfied until he was.
“I must go — it is indiscreet to remain here,” she said, and pushed him firmly with her to the door, teasing him, her hand on his broad hard back. She enjoyed the touch of his silky coat, the warmth beneath it. “Come now, do not be obstinate!”
He half laughed, half frowned, but went with her. Inside the first drawing room, they encountered Astrid Faversham with Ross Harmsworth, and Astrid’s cold grey eyes were furious!
“Well, well, Madame Dubois and Mr Seymour! Wherever have you been?” she drawled, and her gaze went significantly to the blue door of the conservatory. “Among the flowers — and the birds and bees and all the nature inside?”
Minerva felt furious, but smiled sweetly, her hand on the stiffened arm of her escort. “Mais, oui, enfant,” she said, deliberately. “Just seeing the flowers, of course!” and she swept on, with a laugh.
Astrid raged, her voice too clear, “Oh, she is brazen — that Frenchwoman! She is not fit for English company!”
Oliver made to turn back. Minerva stopped him. “Do not mind her,” she said, in a low, placating tone. “She is so foolish, that one. So young and jealous of everyone. Such a bitter little mind, hers!” And she felt that she had triumphed over Astrid, for Oliver nodded and gave the girl a contemptuous look.
“Yes, she does not deserve attention,” he said, and went on to the next rooms with Minerva. “May I take you in to supper tonight?”
“Well — yes,” she said, with a little laugh. “You do find such delicious foods, and the best desserts!”
“Greedy little lady!” he muttered in her ear, and managed to give the ear a little bite with his teeth. “I wish I could turn that appetite of yours to other — more fascinating desires!”
That was bold indeed, and she should have rebuked him. But they were in the company now, and people were too close.
“Wicked,” she muttered, and shook her head at him. But his grey eyes only laughed down into hers, and he seemed to think they were of one mind about that.
She moved near to her mother, and settled down into a
chair for a brief rest. Oliver reluctantly left her for some duty dances. Minerva refused the next two men, with a smile, and a wave of her green and gold fan.
“Non, non, find some other girl to dance wiz!” She laughed. “I am weary of dancing, I must sit and rest and chat with ma tante!”
Astrid Faversham crept closer, listening to her, her sharp eyes searching, searching for a flaw. Minerva smiled serenely and turned to her mother.
“How do I do?” she muttered.
“My dear, everyone is talking about you and Oliver disappearing for fifteen minutes!” her mother whispered. “You will wreck your reputation completely. And your dress is mussed — there is dirt on the back of the skirt.”
“Pots of roses in the conservatory,” Minerva muttered, and rose with a smile. “Come to the dressing room with me, and brush me off,” she whispered.
They disappeared into the dressing room, where Astrid followed them. Mary Lavery was there — twenty-one, plain, and good. She helped Betsy Redmond brush down Minerva’s skirt.
“What a shame to get this gown dirty,” said Mary innocently. “However did you do it?”
“Someone was showing her the conservatory,” said Astrid sharply, as she pretended to brush her silvery-blonde hair. “A place I’ll warrant you have never seen, except to look at the flowers!”
It was a slap at both Mary, who was plain and not popular with men, and at Minerva, who had disappeared into the conservatory with a man and come out with her gown dirty. And it was overheard by their hostess, Lady Blanche Villiers, who had entered the room.
Minerva’s quick tongue could not resist the challenge. “Miss Faversham, I fear you are becoming so catty at such an early age, that when you reach the age of a matron you will be much disliked,” she said, with quiet dignity. “You must watch what you say, and be more kind, or no one will wish you about.”
“Well — really!” gasped Astrid. Lady Blanche nodded her white head.
“She is right, Miss Faversham,” she said, in her ringing voice. “Much gossip is spoken in society, to my regret. But when a woman puts herself about to be so catty and deliberately sets out to hurt, that I cannot approve. I pray you will watch your tongue in my house.”
French Jade: A dazzling Regency love story Page 6