Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1)

by Larissa Lyons

  As though she discerned the reason for the worry on her face, Sarah clasped Dorothea’s forearm. “Marvelous. Give me your direction—I’ll send a carriage for you at half past six. You’ll be the first to arrive and we’ll set my abigail to arranging your hair. How does that sound?”

  “Thoughtful in the extreme.”

  “La, ’tis no more than you’d do for me should the situation be reversed. This way, you can be happily ensconced before anyone else makes their bows.”

  Which meant she had the bulk of the day to press into service her one remaining decent dress. Shore up the seams, make sure above her threadbare gloves the sleeves concealed the bruises without ragged lace falling free, no matter that the dress was hopelessly outdated. “You’re too kind. I appreciate all you’re doing immensely.”

  “And I’ve appreciated your friendship from the moment we met. I only wish I could have done more sooner.” With a hand on Dorothea’s arm, Sarah steered them toward the stairwell. “You have no idea how relieved I am. I truly think tonight could be the beginning of something wondrous for you. Just like Penry and myself.”

  Descending the steps next to her friend, Dorothea refused to let the questions beating about her breast take root. Would it be like that for her? Could a cold stick find warmth in the bed of a stranger? And what did it matter that Sarah’s “wondrous” man was married—to someone else?

  When they reached the ground floor, Sarah indicated the sales counter. “Let me buy you this volume and we’ll be off.”

  “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.” Food, she might accept; luxury gifts were another matter entirely.

  “Oh, but it is.” Sarah brandished the book she’d slid from Dorothea’s grasp earlier. “I see you’re a great fan of Byron.”

  Lord Byron, the gadabout poet. One Dorothea didn’t like at all. “But I’m not. Wordsworth and Burns, now them I enjoy, but Byron is not a particular favorite. There’s no need—”

  “There’s every need.” Sarah fanned the book and two loose pages broke free before she stuffed them back inside. “You proceeded to mangle these and several more when I asked about your landlord. So no more protests. I caused your distress, I owe you reparation.”

  “You most certainly did not cause my distress. Regardless, Sarah, your friendship repays any debt real or imagined, now and into infinity.”

  Sarah linked their arms and began making her way toward the clerk. “You’re such a dear but I’m still buying you the book. If nothing else, you can use it for kindling.”

  3

  To Converse Over Dinner – Or Not

  “Don’t be horribly disappointed if the food isn’t up to expectations.”

  Sarah surprised Dorothea with that statement when she returned to Dorothea’s side in the main parlor after a brief absence in the kitchens—the second absence she’d made in the short time since the splendid carriage had rolled to a stop allowing Dorothea—with the aid of a servant!—to alight.

  A carriage she’d been increasingly grateful for, given how the mild but stormy morning had given way to a chilling afternoon, the kind that heralded a bitterly cold night. How she hoped that wasn’t an omen for the evening ahead.

  “You’re bamboozling me,” she said now, unable to fathom such a claim, for any meals or snacks served during her prior visits had always been exquisite.

  While she’d been to Sarah’s residence a few times during the course of their friendship, it had always been during the day and only when Lord Penry was away from town (hence, no chance of his unexpected arrival). Unlike the lurid den of iniquity Dorothea had half expected a “kept” woman to reside in, relief reigned when she found that Sarah’s home mirrored her person: tasteful and composed.

  “How I wish that I were. Mrs. Beeson quit to keep house for the butcher and his four sons, and finding her replacement has not proved an easy task.”

  The plump, gregarious woman had been most welcoming to Dorothea—and the extra fare she always insisted go home with their guest had been delicious indeed. “I’ll not complain of any food at this point no matter how ill or illustriously prepared, but what of Mrs. Beeson? She left your employ to cook for five men? Has she more fleas than sense?”

  “He gave her his name. She’s to mother his boys.”

  “Ah, then. Happy for her am I.”

  “I as well. But not for my table.” Her rueful expression made Dorothea laugh. “Off with you now. Here’s my girl—” Sarah gestured toward the maid skimming down the stairs.

  “Miss Sarah.” The bright-eyed, mob-capped redhead curtsied at her mistress and then beamed at Dorothea. “Is this your friend?” Without hesitation the girl, who couldn’t have been much over sixteen, plucked at Dorothea’s freshly washed hair (a luxury she’d indulged in this afternoon, having hoarded what water she could the past few days; even cold and liable to make her scalp feel like frozen tundra for the two hours it took her hair to fully dry, it had been worth it). “Gah.” The girl frowned. “Gettin’ this thick mass to take a curl will be a chore, I tell you.

  “Don’t be sittin’ on thorns, none.” The girl made shooing motions, urging Dorothea up the stairway. “No time to waste!”

  With that, Dorothea was herded into the care of Sarah’s capable servant.

  Thirty minutes later, declining to don the beautiful dress the servant tried to coax her into—there was no way Dorothea’s bosom would have adequately filled the top nor her shorter legs the skirts—but wearing the stunning evening gloves in kid leather that her friend had left boxed and beribboned, she rejoined Sarah as they waited for the remaining guests to arrive.

  “What? Not the dress?” Sarah took up her hands, pulling the leather past Dorothea’s elbows and smoothing the fingers in place. “The gloves. At least you accepted those, thank goodness.”

  “They’re lovely.” And sumptuous and quite possibly one of the nicest things she’d ever received. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “No more purple fingers for you, my dear.” And no worries that anyone would see the unsightly bruises, either, Dorothea couldn’t help but think with relief. “For these shall keep you warm.”

  Self-consciously, Dorothea raised one hand to the intricate swept-up coils, in lieu of ringlets, that the servant had miraculously substituted in a trice. “I feel so majestic.”

  And afraid to move her head lest they topple.

  “As you should. Besides, you—” Sarah cocked her head, listening, then smiled and fluffed out her skirts. “If I’m not mistaken, I hear the first carriage now. Chin up, Dorothea dear. The food may not be all that is fine but I can promise the evening will be memorable, and after tonight it is my hope you shall worry no more.”

  But Dorothea did worry, in her peaceful little shadowed corner, lit only by the candles strategically placed throughout the parlor, as she waited and watched each individual and couple arrive.

  Nearly two hours later, though she still claimed the same corner, “peaceful” had been replaced by pandemonium. With every minute that droned by, an increasingly apprehensive weight pressed in on her chest as her thoughts tumbled as freely as did some of the women’s inhibitions. And clothing on more than one occasion, as gloves had quickly been stripped, even slippers sailed forth—to her utter astonishment.

  Regardless of whatever surprising sights her eyes beheld, the thoughts swirling behind them kept circling back to one unmistakable conclusion: Tonight, if all went according to plan, she would officially join the Fashionably Impure.

  It was an unsettling thought. One that had only grown in proportion every moment that she remained alone.

  Dorothea surveyed the men congregating about Sarah’s parlor, feeling as though her rioting stomach was in danger of expelling what little it held. How she was soon supposed to sit down and act engaging during a five-course supper was beyond her. Nerves held her nearly immobile.

  Which of these men would be responsible for her imminent placement into the ranks of London’s demireps and courtesans? Would
it be a young blood, someone with more pence than sense, who sought to buy favors before his title had to buy a wife? Or perhaps an older, more moderate gentleman, one whose paunch preceded his phiz? Although, really, what did it matter what his face looked like, or his body?

  As long as he treated her with a measure of kindness, then she’d be significantly better off. In fact, Dorothea consoled herself, would she not be raising her consequence—from starving and practically homeless to protected and well fed? In exchange for simply cultivating a pleasing manner and a satisfactory presence in a man’s bed…

  She could manage that, surely.

  “How are you doing?” Sarah asked in her ear, causing Dorothea to start. She’d lost sight of her friend at some point in the last half hour, hostess duties—and her new cranky cook—demanding much of Sarah’s time. “Now that most everyone’s descended upon us like a swarm of lusty locusts.”

  “Rather nervous, I’m afraid,” she confessed, wringing her hands in front of her to stop their visible trembling. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a fan? (Mayhap because she didn’t own one?)

  In her element, Sarah looked as composed as ever, her lustrous brown hair done up in loose ringlets about her face and her dress fancier than any Dorothea had ever conceived. In a deep emerald-green fabric that fairly shimmered, the elegant dress barely perched atop Sarah’s shoulders, leaving much of her upper chest and all of her arms—above her silk gloves—bare. A profusion of tiny diamonds sparkled about her neck, woven into the most intricate necklace imaginable. A few gems even glistened throughout her curls. With her confident air and bedecked in finery, her warm and kind-faced friend became so amazingly beautiful it almost hurt to look at her.

  “Would it be horrid of me to shoo you away?” Dorothea asked, thinking how she definitely needed to invest in a fan. Weren’t they useful for hiding behind when one became embarrassed? She glanced down to find that the dull olive fabric covering her chest and arms had taken on the cast of chewed peas in the last few minutes. Ugh! “What was I thinking? Next to your glittering presence, I look a veritable dowd.”

  The dress she’d thought would serve earlier, especially with its new layer of lace at the cuffs (scavenged from her best petticoat), was easily the oldest, most-out-of-date article of clothing in the room. Even the statuary boasted finer attire—a saucy, beribboned hat perched atop a bust of some bearded Greek fellow, though Dorothea was clueless which one. For the first time in weeks, she thoroughly regretted her decision not to accept when Sarah tried to gift her with a new gown. At the time, it had seemed prudent—walking about her neighborhood in finery was the surest way to invite unsavory notice. Now though…

  “Dearest.” Sarah placed her hands around Dorothea’s and spoke earnestly. “It’s not your dress he’ll be considering. It’s what resides beneath it.”

  After she laughed, Dorothea growled, “Was that supposed to alleviate my discomfort? If so, I’m afraid you’ve accomplished the opposite for it’s looming ever larger.” Her anxious gaze skimmed over the men in the room once more. “Which one is he?”

  Was Lord Tremayne the portly gentleman in the opposite corner who puffed on a cigar in the presence of the women—which even Dorothea, with her limited knowledge of tonnish proprieties, knew was beyond the pale? He also, she couldn’t help but note, patted the bum of every female who passed within arm’s distance, encouraging Dorothea to remain right where she was—bum against the wall.

  Or was Lord Tremayne the gentleman with absurdly bushy side whiskers? The one who’d been leering at her since he walked in? Or perhaps the fellow with a deep laugh and a nose so large Dorothea feared he’d poke out her eye were they ever to kiss? Or mayhap the gangly youth who stood, unfathomably, off to the side appearing as ill at ease as she felt?

  In truth, none of them appealed.

  Nor did the other prattling four, just coming in, talking loudly with the equally vivacious women on their arms. Women who were more colorful than any profusion of rainbows—and just as above Dorothea’s own meager station. How could she hold her head up among such lovelies? As to that, how did they hold their heads up with such thick layers of cosmetics plastered on their faces? And who was she to be thinking such critical thoughts?

  “You neglected to tell me rouged lips and kohl-rimmed eyes were a prerequisite,” Dorothea said softly. “Really, Sarah, given my dated dress and bare face”—and complete lack of sexual confidence—“I’m so very out of place.”

  “I think you worry overmuch. Pay attention because…” Sarah gave her hands a reassuring squeeze, then turned to wave at one of the heavily made-up highfliers. “By the end of dinner that one will be so in her cups she’ll find Socrates amusing.” Ah, so that was the identity of the bonneted bust. “And Dominique there”—fingers fluttered toward a raven-haired beauty who returned Sarah’s greeting with a cool nod—“her accent will start to slip by the third course. Her manners far sooner.”

  Hearing of their foibles, some of the tightness eased from Dorothea’s frame. “But I thought these women were your friends.”

  Sarah looked right at her, a piercing glance completely void of the artifice she’d just shown the room at large. “You, my dear, are my friend. A select few of these women are as well, but most of them are simply competition. That’s how they view me and I them.”

  “Oh.” Some of the thawing nerves inside Dorothea froze, thickened. “That’s…sad.”

  “I know it sounds callous, but that’s the way of it. Why do you think I delayed hosting for so long, even though it was my turn ages ago? My time with Penry is limited and I guard it jealously. I do not like having to share him.”

  How Dorothea hoped she might feel the same toward the unknown Lord Tremayne. “Then why must you?”

  “Politics. These gatherings give the men opportunity to debate and, if they are successful, sway others to their way of thinking. It’s a select few and they’re away from the club where others are waiting to pounce in with their own views or agendas. There’s a hotly contested vote coming up in Parliament that Penry feels strongly about. As tonight’s host, he has more opportunity to guide the conversation in that direction than he might have otherwise.”

  “Your duty is done,” Dorothea told her, “you’ve adequately convinced me there’s more at stake than my ratty dress.”

  “Then this should comfort you further—despite the breach in etiquette, I’ve seated you next to me so assistance is only a whisper away if…” A commotion in the hall brought Sarah’s head around. “Appears as though Lord Harrison and Anna made it home in time. Wonderful! She’s a true friend—I’ll introduce you once Harrison takes himself off. They’ve just returned from Italy. And would you look at that—I declare, her fancy Italian dress looks as though it’s from your wardrobe! Her sleeves are long and the cuffs are just brimming with lace!”

  Dorothea laughed outright. “Admirable try. Especially as my wardrobe consists of three pegs in the wall.”

  “Oh look, they brought Susan,” Sarah added when a brightly hennaed young woman bounded in after them. “I believe you’ll like her as well. There’s not an ounce of artifice anywhere and— Fustian! I knew the last few minutes were too calm to last. I see my new cook frantically motioning. Why he abandons the kitchens instead of sending a servant, I know not. I must be off.” Sarah kissed her cheek. “Worry not, you’ll do fine.”

  “And Lord Tremayne?” Dorothea squeaked out hurriedly. “Which one is he?”

  Sarah acknowledged her cook, indicated she’d be over in a moment, then scanned the crowd.

  Dorothea prayed Sarah would point out someone other than the men she’d particularly noticed. There were others, a small, boisterous group of males lingering across the hall in another room, tumblers in hand, but there were as many or more “ladies” in their midst and not a one of the men had cast so much as an inquiring glance her direction. “I thought you said there were only going to be a dozen men here tonight.”

  Dorothea’s count was up to
fifteen at least.

  “That’s what I thought until receiving Penry’s note this afternoon. A few others got wind of our gathering and begged invitations.” Sarah took Dorothea’s arm and casually strolled until she could see into the next room.

  Dorothea tried not to be overly critical, tried to remember what awaited her at home: a moldy potato, mice groats—would that her options proliferated as fast as George and Charlotte’s “leavings”—and grabby Grimmett. She tried to be grateful, thankful for the opportunity of tonight. But as she evaluated the men present, the ones not melded at the hips to made-up mistresses already, she had to admit not a one of them appealed to her on the physical level she’d secretly yearned for.

  “La, that man,” Sarah said finally. “I told Tremayne supper was served at nine and not a moment later. And still he runs late.”

  Upon realizing none of the unpalatable choices before her were the man in question, a surge of relief swept through Dorothea. Mayhap the tardy Lord Tremayne would appeal after all.

  Do you recognize the significance of that? a part of her brain seemed to ask.

  He’s late, some imp emphasized.

  Late, something her “late” spouse would never, ever have tolerated. Too easily she could recall the disapproving glares should his breakfast, luncheon, dinner—or heaven forfend, afternoon tea—be placed before him even one second beyond the strike of the hour.

  My, oh my, Lord Tremayne was tardy. Dorothea smiled, predisposed to like him already.

  At twelve minutes past nine, Daniel presented his tardy carcass at the home he’d been invited to, doffed his hat, coat, cane and gloves, relinquishing them to the overly officious butler, and prayed he hadn’t made a mistake in coming tonight.

  At the pointedly assessing look the man gave his jaw—insolent fellow!—Daniel’s fingers automatically followed. So he encountered scruff instead of skin. What of it? He’d ordered Crowley, his valet, to trim and refine his whiskers in lieu of shaving them off.