Belle of the Ball

by Pam McCutcheon

  Oh, dear. Where had that thought come from? It was that horrid fan—it had put these strange ideas in her head. Belle consoled herself with the assurance that she wanted Kit falling for her only so she could spurn him, punish him for his rude remarks.

  She slumped in relief. Yes, that was it. After all, he was one of the threescum.

  But unfortunately, Kit had been distracted at the party after he had wrenched himself away from her . . . and he had paid a great deal too much attention to Miss Downs. Frowning, Belle wondered what Helena had that she didn’t. Why had Kit left Belle’s side to be so attentive to such a quiet little mouse? If Belle knew the answer to that question, it might help her capture all of Kit’s attention for herself.

  Was it the girl’s meekness? No, he seemed to enjoy their spirited discussions. Belle considered and discarded a dozen different attributes, then finally realized Miss Downs’s one outstanding charm—her milk-white complexion.

  Belle slumped in defeat. She might as well give up—she’d never be able to achieve such beautiful coloring with these freckles.

  Or could she? Grinning, Belle realized she needed to have a private talk with Madame Aglaia.

  After Alvina arrived and the two of them made their way to Madame Aglaia’s, Belle wondered how she was going to pull Madame aside to discuss the delicate subject of cosmetics. She didn’t want to broach the subject in front of Alvina and Kit—she doubted they’d approve.

  She needn’t have worried, however. Kit was already there, and he immediately engaged Alvina in a discussion of what Belle should wear to the opera, leaving Madame to apologize profusely for having sent Belle such an inappropriate fashion accessory.

  “I should have checked the fans more carefully.” she mourned.

  “It’s all right—no harm done,” Belle assured her.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Stanhope told me how very mortified you were. Please, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

  Belle smiled. “Well, as a matter of fact, there is.” Pulling the dressmaker aside, she said, “Do you remember our earlier discussion about my freckles?”

  “Yes, of course. But I think they’re quite attractive. Are you certain you wish to be rid of them?”

  Madame was just being kind. “Positive.” When the dressmaker continued to look skeptical. Belle added, “The gentleman I’m interested in seems to prefer young women with white complexions, free of blemishes.”

  “I see,” she said doubtfully. “But if you’re unwilling to use cosmetics, I’m not sure there’s anything we can do.”

  “Well, I’m not wholly averse to the idea . . .” Belle trailed off with a significant glance at her other two mentors, hoping Madame would get the idea.

  Apparently, she did. “Ah, I see. Well, if you wish to be discreet. . . .”

  Belle nodded vigorously. She wanted to have a freckle-free face, but didn’t want the cosmetics to be so obvious that she gained a reputation for being fast. “I do.”

  Madame looked thoughtful. “Then it would be best to try it under the soft, forgiving light of gaslight, instead of the bright sun.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Belle said. “What did you have in mind?”

  ‘There is a product I’ve heard of. . . . I should be able to procure it before your evening at the opera.”

  Belle beamed at her. “Oh, thank you, Madame. You’re a life saver.” With a complexion like Miss Downs’s, Belle was sure to capture Kit’s attention.

  “Well, it’s the least I can do after providing you with such inappropriate fans,” Madame said, patting her hand. “Shall we join the others now?”

  Belle nodded, and as she approached Kit and Alvina, Kit called her over to hold a length of cream-colored satin against her face. “She would look lovely in this, don’t you think?” he asked. Unexpectedly, an answer came from the doorway.

  “Oh yes, indeed.” Bridey Sullivan gushed as she surged into the room with Charisma and Grace in her wake. “Lord Stanhope, you are so perceptive. That would suit my little girl right down to the ground.”

  As Mama enthused over Kit’s taste, Belle cast her sisters a horrified, questioning look. By dint of shrugs, wiggled eyebrows, and waving arms, they managed to convey that they had nothing to do with this. That they had, in fact, tried to dissuade Mama from coming in here.

  Kit stiffened and Belle felt hot with embarrassment. Mama would ruin everything.

  Even now, Mama was wagging her finger in Kit’s face. “Naughty boy,” she said with an arch look. “Arranging to meet my daughter like this. What will people say?”

  Kit dropped the bolt of fabric onto the table and assumed a haughty expression. “I did nothing of the kind, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, lying without apparent compunction as Belle held her breath in dismay.

  “Oh, no? Then what are you doing in a dressmaker’s shop?”

  Madame Aglaia stepped into the line of fire. “He was visiting me,” she said quickly, continuing the fiction Kit had started. “We are in the way of being related.”

  “Really?”

  Belle released the breath she had been holding, but Mama didn’t look convinced.

  “Quite so,” Kit said. “And Miss Keithley asked for my opinion on the satin versus the . . . er, lace for Miss Sullivan.”

  “Yes,” Alvina intervened. “And he was kind enough to give us his opinion.”

  Mama must have believed her, for her expression fell. “Oh, I see.”

  “But now, I must really be taking my leave,” Kit said swiftly. Turning to Madame Aglaia, he said, “I’ll see you another time, cousin.”

  “Of course,” Madame said as Kit made a quick exit.

  Once he was gone, Mama turned on Belle and pulled her aside to whisper, “You sly thing, you. Here you are, pretending you care nothing for catching a husband when you have cast your net for the most eligible bachelor in town.”

  “Oh, no, Mama.” Horrified, Belle glanced at Alvina, hoping she hadn’t overheard. The last thing Belle wanted was for Kit—or anyone—to think she was pursuing him.

  Mama patted her hand. “It’s all right, dear.” She sighed in ecstasy. “It would be so nice to have an aristocrat in the family. Do what you can to attract him—you won’t hear any recriminations from me.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Belle mumbled. It was easier just to agree. After all, she had every intention of doing just that. For once, she and Mama were in perfect accord.

  But Belle had an entirely different end result in mind. . . .

  Chapter Eight

  For a week, Belle used every method she had heard of to get rid of her freckles, from bleaching them with lemon to abrading her skin with a solution of borax and rosewater. Unfortunately, nothing worked. They just made her skin sting and smell odd, and the freckles were still there.

  In her room, she slumped in dejection. She had so hoped to have white skin for this evening without the use of cosmetics, but it was not to be. If she wanted to be beautiful, she would just have to slather some concoction on her face. That was, if Madame Aglaia had been able to find one that would work.

  Since Alvina had other plans for the evening, Belle had enlisted the rest of her family to ensure that Mama was too busy to accompany her to the opera, so that Madame could play chaperone.

  When Madame finally arrived, she presented Belle with a fan. “I think this is what you requested.”

  Belle spread it open in delight. Made of large plumes of ostrich feathers, the fan opened in graceful elegance, complete with a design of a cat at the base, staring up at the feathers with a mischievous look in its eyes. Even better, the handle had a lorgnette built into it so Belle could get a better look at what was happening onstage at the opera. “Why, it’s perfect,” Belle exclaimed. Functional as well as beautiful. “How ever did you find it?”

  Madame shrugged. “I made it myself, once I knew what you were looking for.”

  Not only was she a fabulous dressmaker, but she had other accomplishments as well. “It’s wonderful,”
Belle said and hugged her. Belle was taking no chances on something being wrong with this fan, so she had vowed to check it thoroughly herself. After she did so, she said, “Now, tell me. Have you come up with something to cover my freckles?”

  With a smile, Madame produced a small jar. “I have indeed.”

  Belle clapped her hands. “Wonderful. Shall we try it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Madame helped her put the cream on, saying, “When I was in France, this was called fard blanc de bismuth, but is known here as pearl powder.”

  As Belle regarded herself in the mirror of her dressing table, Charisma and Grace entered without knocking, and Charisma stared at Belle’s reflection. “What do you have on your face?” she asked in horror.

  Belle lifted her chin in defiance. “Madame calls it pearl powder. Don’t you think it makes my complexion look better?” Belle liked the way it looked—it glowed a pearlescent white with nary a freckle in sight. And luckily, she only needed to use it on her face since her neck and chest were rarely exposed to the sun.

  Grace tripped over the rug as she moved closer to get a better look, but quickly righted herself. “I don’t know,” she said. “You look kind of pasty. . . .”

  “Not pasty,” Belle insisted. “A delicate milky white, don’t you think?” Just like Miss Downs.

  “Here,” Madame said. “Let me turn down the lights as they will appear at the opera. Now, what do you think?”

  Belle thought she looked beautiful.

  Charisma nodded grudgingly. “It looks better like that. Your freckles are gone, and your skin does look white—almost natural. But . . . do you have to wear that muck on your face?”

  Belle gave her an admonitory glance. “Not everyone has a complexion as smooth and creamy as yours and Grace’s,” she reminded her sister. “Some of us just need a little help.” She glanced at herself in the mirror once more, very pleased with the result. “And I do need to be beautiful tonight.”

  “Oh, you are,” Grace assured her.

  Madame raised an eyebrow. “And you will be even more so if you were to dress for the occasion . . . ?”

  Belle laughed. “I guess it wouldn’t do to arrive at the opera in my robe.”

  So, Madame helped her get dressed in the dazzling creation she had made for Belle—emerald green satin trimmed with a spangly material that sparkled as if she had captured the very stars in the sky. And with her shoulders bare and the tight corset making her breasts plump into generous mounds, she looked positively . . . feminine.

  It wasn’t a look she had striven for before, but Belle rather liked it. For once, she looked like a woman.

  Once Madame dressed her hair up in a style that made her neck look long and graceful, Belle stared at her reflection in awe. Oh, my. She had never imagined she could look so wondrous.

  Even Charisma nodded approvingly. “No one will call you homely now,” she declared.

  Grace beamed at her. “You’ll have the men falling all over themselves to get to you.”

  Belle laughed. “You’re exaggerating,” she said, but she was very pleased. Tonight, surely she would capture at least one man’s heart.

  Maybe even two.

  To ensure that Kit saw her at her best, they turned the lights down in the hall. After her sisters had positioned him for the best possible view, Belle made a graceful entrance. She paused for a moment so he could get the full effect of the vision she knew herself to be and held her breath, waiting for his reaction.

  He just stared at her for a moment, apparently speechless.

  Belle smiled to herself. An auspicious beginning.

  “You look . . . stunning.” he said. And this time, his expression matched his words as his gaze drifted down to her décolletage and lingered there.

  Belle’s breasts tightened in response and goose bumps covered her bare flesh. Oh, my, she thought again as her gaze locked on his sinful mouth. He looked rather marvelous himself. His hair appeared starkly white-blond against the rich black of his evening dress, making him look totally handsome and very sleek and sophisticated.

  Her breathing quickened and she felt the tips of her breasts crinkle in response as a warm fluttering started in the pit of her stomach. Oh, dear, Kit Stanhope made her feel positively decadent.

  She simply stood there, reeling with the sensations, not sure what to do next.

  “Are you cold, dear?” Madame asked with a smile and draped a gauzy spangled wrap around Belle’s shoulders.

  Grateful for being given something to do, Belle drew the flimsy shawl around her bare skin, trying to warm herself.

  Kit’s gaze lifted to her face and he seemed to come to his senses. Odd. Had her expanse of flesh had that much effect on him? As an experiment, she opened the wrap, once more revealing her décolletage. Sure enough, Kit’s gaze dove back to the shadowy cleft as if his eyes were a magnet and her breasts the lodestone.

  She casually closed the wrap again, and his gaze cleared once more. How interesting. She had never realized these two mounds of flesh constituted such a powerful weapon. Pleased with the discovery, she decided to consider carefully how to deploy them.

  He cleared his throat. “You look . . .” He paused, apparently unable to find the appropriate word.

  “Adequate?” Belle supplied with a half-smile.

  He waved her words away impatiently. “You know better than that. You look . . . stupendous. Breathtaking. Extraordinary. You will eclipse all other women at the opera.”

  A warm glow filled Belle. It was quite obvious he wasn’t merely trying to be polite and was perhaps exaggerating only a little. It was balm to her foolish pride. “Do go on,” she said with a mischievous smile. This certainly made up for being called homely.

  Kit’s eyes laughed with her as he placed a hand over his heart. “Ah, but words fail to capture the vitality of your presence.” He gestured expansively, getting into it now. “No one can hold a candle to your radiance. Your hair is a crown of fiery glory, your eyes are pools of liquid moonlight, your nose is—”

  “Enough,” Belle said, laughing. “I get the idea. Though I see you can be quite poetic when you try.”

  A smile remained upon his lips, but his eyes turned serious. “Ah, but only when properly inspired.”

  He leaned down to kiss her hand and Belle’s heart once more thumped erratically in her chest. Devil take him—she shouldn’t react so improperly to the man on whom she had vowed vengeance.

  She did still want vengeance, didn’t she? Yes, of course she did—for her sisters’ sake.

  Kit gave her a quizzical look when she withdrew her hand with a shaky breath, but he said only, “Shall we go?”

  Belle glanced up, then blushed. She had been so caught up with Kit, she had entirely forgotten they had an audience. Madame was watching them with a small smile, and Charisma and Grace looked as stunned as she felt. Belle averted her gaze, not wanting them to see whatever showed in her eyes. “Yes, I think we’d better go, or we’ll be late.”

  Charisma and Grace wished them well, and Belle left with Kit and Madame for the opera. The carriage he had rented this time was larger than the one before, and they were able to sit on the same seat without touching.

  But even so, she could still feel the warmth emanating from his body, sense his decidedly masculine presence envelop her. She inhaled, loving the scent that was uniquely Kit, wishing they were alone in the darkness so she could move closer, feel his body against hers, trace those decadent lips. . . .

  Madame cleared her throat, and Belle jumped in dismay. Oh, no, she was doing it again. She couldn’t moon over Kit. Not if she wanted to get revenge.

  He certainly seemed smitten this evening. All she had to do was open her wrap and she had him under her spell. Would it be better to make Kit her first victim instead?

  The anguish that thought caused surprised her. Quickly, she rejected that idea. After all, she needed him to squire her around to the parties, including the Founders’ Day Ball in July. No, Kit definitel
y had to be last. That meant she had to set her sights on either Harold or George tonight. Relief filled her at the thought, but she refused to speculate why.

  When they arrived at the Opera House, Belle was pleased to see that Kit had reserved box seats. Now she could not only see everyone and everything, but be seen by the people who mattered.

  As they seated themselves, Madame handed Belle her fan. Kit raised his eyebrows. “Feathers? You’re brave tonight.”

  Belle smiled. “I assure you they are securely attached and I didn’t let Grace anywhere near it.” She spread open the plumes to display the decoration at the base of the fan. “And since this is probably the only cat we’ll see tonight, I doubt I have anything to fear. Do you?”

  He quirked a smile at her. “Very clever.”

  Belle thought so—better to make fun of herself than to be caught out when others did it to her. “Thank you.”

  “But no Adam and Eve?” he asked with a grin.

  Belle grimaced. “Of course not. You and I are the only ones who know of that embarrassment.”

  Kit smiled but said nothing as Belle’s newfound friends inundated their box, all exclaiming over her clever fan. Impatiently, she waited for Harold or George to join the rest. Where were they? If they didn’t come, her plan would be ruined.

  Then, finally, Harold arrived—without George for once. Smiling at him, Belle loosened her shawl and leaned forward to greet him warmly, deploying her weapons to full advantage.

  Harold’s gaze locked on target and Belle smiled to herself. Bull’s-eye. “How are you this evening, Mr. Latham?”

  “F-fine,” he stuttered. Then his gaze rose to hers. “I thought you were angry at us. Uh, me. After the garden party?”

  “Not at all,” Belle assured him with an arch look over her fan. “I merely had the headache. I’m afraid I was terribly rude to you.”

  “Oh, no. You couldn’t— You wouldn’t—” His gaze lowered to her chest once more and he swallowed hard. “You look quite . . . magnificent this evening. George will be sorry he missed them.” He colored and stammered out, “I—I mean you. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”