Guilt pricked Sarah for her unguarded words, and she plucked at the ribbon tied at the end of her long braid, from which unruly curls sprang. Carolyn’s husband, Edward, had been a paragon amongst men—devoted, loving, and loyal. Not at all a nincompoop. Yet, more than anyone else, Carolyn was certainly accustomed to her outspoken nature.
“They only flirt with the potted palms after imbibing too much brandy. Which happens with shocking frequency. But I only mention nincompoops as we are speaking about our book selection, and as far as I am concerned, Victor Frankenstein was a nincompoop.”
“I absolutely agree,” said Julianne with a vigorous nod, her usual reserve temporarily forgotten, as it often was when the four of them were together. “All the bad things that happened in the story, all the murders and tragic deaths, were his fault.”
“But Victor didn’t kill anyone,” Emily said, scooting closer. “The monster was responsible.”
“Yes, but Victor created the monster,” pointed out Carolyn.
“And then utterly rejected him.” Sarah pressed her palms together, vividly recalling her dislike for the scientist and her deep sympathy for the grotesque being he created. “Victor discarded that poor creature as if he were yesterday’s trash, running away from him, leaving him with nothing. No knowledge of life or of how to survive. He created him, then showed him not even a moment of human decency. Simply because he was hideous. It certainly wasn’t the monster’s fault he was so. Not everyone is beautiful.” She gave a philosophical shrug and forced back the suspicion that her empathy for the monster perhaps reflected a bit too closely some of her own personal struggles.
“The monster was worse than merely ‘not beautiful,’” Julianne pointed out. “He was wretched and huge and hideous. Very frightening.”
“Still, even if no one else could have found it in their hearts to treat him decently, surely Victor, his creator, should have extended some tiny crumb of kindness to him,” Sarah insisted. “The monster didn’t turn harsh and cruel until after he finally realized that he would never be accepted. By anyone. How different his life would have been if just one person had been kind to him.”
“I agree,” said Carolyn. “He was such a tragic figure. If Victor had treated him with decency, I think others would have followed suit.”
“But Victor suffered greatly for his sins as well,” said Julianne. “The monster killed his brother, his best friend, and his wife. I found I had sympathy for both Frankenstein and his monster.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “I must admit my curiosity was piqued by the fact that other than vague references to visiting charnel houses and digging about in graveyards for bodies, Shelley was very evasive on how the creature was actually made and came to life. Makes me wonder if such a thing is really possible.” She glanced toward the window where the rain slashed and lightning flashed. “You realize that the monster was created during a storm just like this.”
“Do not even consider such a thing,” Julianne said with a visible shudder. “Don’t forget, it was Victor’s obsession with knowledge and learning that led to his downfall.”
“There is nothing wrong with the pursuit of knowledge,” Sarah protested.
“I suspect Victor Frankenstein, and his monster, would disagree with you,” said Carolyn.
“Personally, I think Victor’s downfall was creating a creature that was so repulsive,” said Emily. “Surely he could see that it was hideous before he brought it to life. I may not be a scientist, but if I were going to create a man, I would set my sights on fashioning the perfect man. Certainly not one a person couldn’t bear to gaze upon. And definitely not one who would resort to murder.”
“The Perfect Man…” mused Julianne, tapping her finger to her chin. “Do you think such a thing exists?”
Sarah glanced at Carolyn. Saw the shadow of sadness that clouded her sister’s eyes. And could almost hear her thinking, I know he does. I was married to him.
Emily sighed. “I’d like to think so, but I cannot say as I’ve ever met him.”
“Nor have I,” said Sarah. “And over the past few months, we’ve certainly had the opportunity to observe the best society has to offer. Not a perfect man in the entire bunch.”
“Not even a near perfect specimen,” Julianne concurred with a sigh.
“Well, I find that unacceptable,” Sarah said, sitting up straighter. “Therefore, in the spirit of our reading of The Modern Prometheus, I propose that we do what Victor Frankenstein failed to do.” She leaned forward and paused, excitement humming through her, the silence broken only by the ominous rumble of thunder and the violent splatter of rain against the windows. Lightning flashed, illuminating the trio of questioning gazes locked upon her.
“I propose,” Sarah said in a low voice, “that we create the Perfect Man.”
Chapter 2
Sarah’s announcement was met with slack-jawed silence.
Finally Emily cleared her throat. “Create our own man? Are you daft? If you think I’m going to skulk about in charnel houses and graveyards in search of bodies—”
“Good heavens, Emily, your imagination is almost as grisly as Mary Shelley’s,” said Sarah. “Besides, I’m not convinced it is actually scientifically possible to reanimate dead objects such as Frankenstein did.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Julianne murmured.
“I meant that we should create our man in the figurative, as opposed to the literal, sense. Decide what would constitute the Perfect Man. Make a list of the physical qualities and personality traits.”
“I see,” said Carolyn, nodding. “But why stop there? I propose that we actually build him. Not as a monster, but more like a…life-size doll.”
“Oh, yes!” said Emily in an excited whisper. “One we can prop in a chair, who will sit in the drawing room with us—”
“And discuss fashion without complaint,” broke in Julianne with a giggle. “For hours on end.”
Caught up in the enthusiasm for the project, especially as it had clearly captured Carolyn’s interest, Sarah rose and crossed to the escritoire set in the corner near the fireplace. After sitting, she pulled a piece of vellum and the pen toward her and began making a list.
“So the Perfect Man is one who will sit and talk to us,” she repeated as she wrote.
“Not just talk to us,” Carolyn said, “but listen to us.”
“And not just listen,” stressed Emily, “but he must actively seek out our opinions.”
“Of course,” agreed Sarah, dipping her pen tip into the inkwell again. “Because he will recognize that we are intelligent and have worthwhile things to say. What else?”
“He must be kind,” said Carolyn. “Patient. Generous. Honest. And honorable.”
“Witty, intelligent, and a superb—and tireless—dancer,” added Emily.
Julianne heaved out a dreamy sigh. “The Perfect Man must be knee-weakening handsome, wildly romantic, and stunningly passionate.”
Sarah blinked behind her glasses and shifted her gaze toward the bed where Julianne stared toward the window with a faraway look in her eyes. “Stunningly passionate?”
Julianne turned toward her and nodded, her expression serious. “Oh, yes. The sort of man who can sweep a woman off her feet.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Both. The Perfect Man must make your insides flutter from a mere look.”
“Perhaps that flutter means you’ve merely eaten some bad cheese,” Sarah said dryly. Good heavens, after seeing the suffering Carolyn had endured after Edward’s death, she harbored no desire for any sort of grand passion. She’d simply devote her energies to her books and flowers and pets and sketches, thank you very much. Besides, she was not at all the sort of woman to inspire passion in a man.
Although sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder…what would it feel like to possess the sort of beauty that would inspire such feelings? What would it feel like to love a man that much? To be loved so much in return? To be desired that muc
h?
Her useless thoughts were cut off when Julianne shot her a stern look and pointed toward her vellum. “‘Make your insides flutter.’ Write it down.”
“Fine,” Sarah mumbled, and wrote it down. After she did so, she looked up. “Anything else?”
Carolyn cleared her throat. “He should also be a, um, good kisser.” She cleared her throat again. “Of course, that might already be covered under ‘stunningly passionate.’”
Sarah added good kisser to her list and frowned at the heat that suddenly rose in her cheeks. “Is that all?”
“I think he should enjoy visiting the shops,” said Emily. “And be tall and strong.”
“Oh, yes,” said Julianne. “With broad shoulders and lots of lovely muscles.”
“He sounds like a pack mule,” Sarah said, her pen flying across the vellum.
“Thick hair,” added Carolyn, her voice sounding wistful to Sarah’s ears. “Thick, wavy hair.”
“And lovely, full lips,” said Emily with a giggle. “All the better for kissing, you know.”
Sarah added it to her list, shoving aside the useless thought of kissing a man, full-lipped or otherwise. Still, that didn’t stop moments of longing from sneaking up on her…
With a brusque shake of her head to clear the image of lovely male lips that would never touch hers, she asked, “Anything else?” When no more suggestions came forth, she looked over her list then said, “According to the Ladies Literary Society of London, the Perfect Man is a kind, patient, generous, honest, honorable, witty, intelligent, handsome, romantic, stunningly passionate, make-your-insides-flutter, full-lipped, good kisser who can dance, shop, listen, and solicit our opinions, all tirelessly and without complaint.”
“Oh, yes, he does indeed sound perfect,” said Emily with an approving nod.
“But what about you, Sarah?” asked Carolyn. “You didn’t add any qualities to the list.”
“No, but I believe you covered everything,” she said.
“Surely there must be something else you think is necessary for the Perfect Man,” said Julianne.
Sarah considered for several seconds, then nodded. “Now that you mention it…I think he should wear glasses.”
“Glasses?” echoed three doubt-filled voices from the bed.
“Yes. And since I am so fond of horticulture, he should like flowers. And the garden. And digging in the dirt. And pulling weeds. All tirelessly and without complaint.”
“I can’t imagine a gentleman of the ton pulling weeds, and it’s not quite as exciting as being a good kisser,” said Emily with an impish grin, “but handy, I suppose, if you’re strolling through the garden and have run out of conversation.”
Sarah added her requirements to the list then set down her pen and turned toward her partners in crime, or rather, the Ladies Literary Society of London.
“Since it was your idea, Carolyn, how do you propose we make this life-size doll?”
Her sister frowned and tapped her finger to her chin. “Let’s see…we shall need some gentleman’s clothing. Breeches, a shirt, cravat, some boots.”
“Yes, and then we can stuff them,” said Julianne, her eyes shining in the firelight. “Like a pillow.”
“Form his head from a roundly stuffed pillow case,” added Emily. “Since Sarah’s the only one of us who can draw worth a whit, she can sketch his face on the material. I vote for blue eyes.”
“I prefer brown eyes,” said Julianne.
“Green,” voted Carolyn, not surprising Sarah with her choice, as Edward had possessed green eyes.
“In that case, in order to satisfy everyone, he shall have hazel eyes,” decreed Sarah, then she grinned. “Which just happen to be my favorite. Now, our gentleman needs a name.” She pursed her lips, then smiled. “How about Franklin N. Stein?”
Everyone laughed and agreed. Then Julianne asked, “How are we going to procure a set of gentleman’s clothing? Purchase the items in the village?”
“Completely boring,” Sarah scoffed. Her lips curved upward. “I suggest a scavenger hunt. The gentlemen attending the house party will be occupied during the day with riding and shooting and billiards. We’ll each simply pick a gentleman, nip up to his bedchamber when he isn’t about, relieve him of our assigned article of clothing, and voilà! Franklin N. Stein is born.”
“We can’t steal things,” Julianne said, sounding aghast.
Sarah waved away her concern with a flick of the wrist. “It’s not stealing—we’re simply borrowing the items. We’ll dismantle Franklin before the house party ends and return the items to the gentlemen in question.”
Julianne worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “But what if we’re caught?”
“You’ll go to the gallows,” Emily said with a perfectly straight face. “So you’d best be careful.”
Even in the dim light, Sarah saw Julianne’s face pale. “You won’t go to the gallows,” she assured her friend, shooting Emily a quelling look. “But you’d die of embarrassment and your mother would faint dead away so you’d best not be caught.”
Julianne chewed some more on her lip, then jerked her head once in a tight nod. “All right, I’ll do it.”
“Finally,” said Emily. “A bit of real excitement.” She bounced up and down several times and rubbed her hands together. “Who shall pinch what and from whom?”
“Hmmm…let’s base it on which article of clothing seems to mean the most to each gentleman,” Sarah suggested. “What about boots?”
“I suggest Lord Berwick for the boots,” said Julianne. “Not only does he walk with an air of great confidence, but he clearly takes pride in his footwear. We partnered in the quadrille several weeks ago at Lady Pomperlay’s soiree, and when I admired his Hessians, he waxed poetic about their fine leather for the next five minutes.”
“Excellent suggestion,” said Sarah. “You’re in charge of procuring Lord Berwick’s boots, Julianne. But don’t relieve him of that particular pair, as he’s certain to notice their absence. What about the cravat?”
“Lord Thurston is proud of his intricate neckwear,” said Emily. “And with good reason—I’ve never seen a gentleman with more beautifully tied knots, and ’tis admirable when a man takes pride in his appearance. I’ll pinch one from him. Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve had plenty of practice taking back things my annoying younger siblings have stolen from me.”
“I thought we said this isn’t stealing,” Julianne said in a worried tone.
“It isn’t,” Sarah assured in a soothing voice. She turned to Carolyn. “That leaves you and me, and a shirt and breeches. Seeing as how breeches seem more…personal, and you’ve been married and are therefore more familiar with things of a, um, personal male nature, I think you should get the breeches.”
“Very well,” Carolyn said calmly, as if Sarah had just suggested she pour another cup of tea. “Of the gentlemen remaining in the house party, I believe I shall borrow a pair from Lord Surbrooke. His taste is impeccable and his clothing is always perfectly tailored.”
“Not to mention that he fills out his breeches very nicely,” Emily said with a mischievous grin.
Sarah watched as her sister and two friends glanced at each other, then burst into smothered laughter. She joined in, delighted to hear Carolyn laugh, but annoyed at herself for not noticing how Lord Surbrooke apparently filled out his breeches. She was normally very observant. She made a mental note to look at him more closely at her first opportunity.
“I think the shirt should come from our host, Lord Langston,” said Julianne. “I noticed at dinner this evening that of all the gentlemen, his shirt was the whitest and looked the most crisp.”
“Plus he has very broad shoulders,” Emily chimed in with her impish grin in place.
“Lord Langston it is,” said Carolyn. She looked at Sarah. “Your assignment is to procure a shirt from our host.”
Sarah pressed her lips together to keep from grimacing. Ah, yes, their host. Who, in the course of mere seco
nds during dinner this evening, had noted her soup-fogged spectacles, laughed at her, then instantly dismissed her. Oh, he hadn’t laughed outright, but she’d seen his lips twitch. Then the all-too familiar way he had quickly averted his attention to someone else—a very attractive female someone else. The way other gentlemen’s attention always quickly veered away from her. It had ceased to bother her long ago, yet with Lord Langston, for the tiniest fraction of an instant, she’d thought he meant to speak to her. Ridiculously believed he might be laughing with her rather than at her. Which is why she’d felt the sting of his dismissal more strongly than she’d wanted to.
She’d observed enough men like him to know his sort all too well. She had no doubt that Matthew Devenport, who’d inherited the title Marquess Langston upon his father’s death last year, was merely another handsome, wealthy peer spoiled by too much money, too much free time, too much pleasure seeking, and too many fawning women. And certainly a man of his striking dark good looks had to be accustomed to fawning women. Indeed, it was fortunate she was immune to such superficial attributes as a handsome face lest she’d be tempted to simply stare at the man.
She’d known her invitation to his house party was Carolyn’s doing. Although Carolyn was officially her chaperone—heaven knew she didn’t require one—Sarah knew she was more her sister’s traveling companion. If the only way to get Carolyn back out into the world was to accompany her there, then by God, she’d go to the ends of the earth if necessary.
Still, she suspected there was more to this house party than a simple gathering of friends. She’d heard whispers that the eligible Lord Langston—holder of one of the oldest and most venerable titles in England—might be looking for a wife. Of course, that could have merely been wishful thinking on the part of the young women she’d overheard talking about it at a musicale last week. Yet, if it were true, from his perspective either Julianne, Emily, or Carolyn would be perfect candidates. She strongly suspected he’d invited them to look them over. Humph. As if they were horseflesh to be inspected.
Sleepless at Midnight Page 2