All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  Meg wasn’t certain she could move her legs at all. The reason for all this observation, which required that she endure his scrutiny, eluded her. Never had she suffered such acute awkwardness, such stinging of the skin all over her person, such heat in her face, such lack of feeling in her hands and feet.

  However, she had a plan, and that plan could very well benefit from practice such as this. She must become accustomed not only to enduring the attention of gentlemen, but to seeking it out. The thought brought a painful glow to her already overwarm face.

  Collecting herself, she inclined her head at the Count, stiffened her spine yet again and progressed, eyes high, toward the desk. And promptly tripped.

  In one stride the Count was at her side, catching her about the waist as she would have fallen. “You might want to have the bottoms of your boots inspected,” he said. “Possibly a seam has become unstitched.” He released her at once.

  He had noticed they were old. “Thank you,” she said, breathless. And he had held her about the waist. “I shall take your advice.” Lifting each foot in a manner that felt ridiculous, she continued her progress toward the desk, and around the desk to the windows, where she pulled a heavy, looped drapery aside and looked down upon the shiny, black metal railings fronting the flagway. A gate in the railings led to steps descending to the basement and the servants’ domain.

  Meg waited to be told to return. The Count made no such request. Rather he came to stand some feet distant, his arms crossed, his dark, arched brows pulled down in a frown. She inclined her head as if to look toward the gardens in the middle of the square. “A lovely time of year,” she remarked while the pulse in her throat felt painful. “Crocus and primrose, and so much budding. Spring can be so delightful.”

  “You speak well,” he said.

  “So do you.” The instant the words left her lips she looked at him, aghast.

  He actually smiled, and he did have a dimple beneath each cheekbone.

  “I apologize,” she said. Oh, would she never learn to curb her careless retorts?

  “You are perhaps overly outspoken, but I accept your apology.”

  Such generosity of spirit, Meg thought. Would she actually manage to navigate her way through this difficult interview, obtain the position and turn it into the result she and Sibyl needed if they were to survive with any degree of dignity?

  “I am half English,” the Count said, surprising Meg. “Which may account for my command of the language. I was educated in England, and I have property here—on the Thames at Windsor. It has always been my delight to spend as much time as possible there.”

  She nodded with genuine interest and smiled. “My travels have only been within this country, and those over short distances, but my love for England is a deep thing that brightens my heart.”

  The Count took a long time to respond, and while he was silent he concentrated on Meg in a most disconcerting manner. “I think you may do quite well as my sister’s companion,” he said at last. “At least from the manner in which you present yourself. Tell me about your accomplishments.”

  These had been glossed over in her letter, Meg thought. How insignificant they were bound to seem when explored. “I, er, have a flair for design. Of ladies’ clothing. I am self-taught—to pretend otherwise would be foolish. But I am always informed of the latest fashions and I am adept at making patterns from fashion plates and producing wardrobes that bring great pleasure to my small number of clients.”

  “But you are not well known?”

  She looked away. “No. My father is dead, but he was a minister and did not approve of drawing attention to oneself. He would have been embarrassed that Sibyl—my sister—and I are forced to work.” She regarded him. “We are forced to work, Count Etranger. And we work hard. We were brought up as ladies, but that is not enough to guarantee that one may placidly expect to be taken care of. We are understated women, but accomplished in our own small way.”

  His expression didn’t change from one of mild interest.

  He was not touched by her description of herself. Tension mounted for Meg. She needed this position—needed this position as a stepping stone to something more, or she and Sibyl would surely descend into poverty.

  “I will do my utmost for the Princess,” she said, hearing how hurried she sounded, and how eager—too eager. “I believe I will be able to win her confidence and help her enter what must be a disconcertingly demanding time in her life, with a sense of assurance.”

  “A commendable speech,” he said, but he was frowning again.

  “After our father died, Sibyl and I decided to come to London. This sounds somewhat silly, but we no longer had a home and we came to seek our fortune. We intended to make the best of the talents we have. Sibyl is a most accomplished musician, an excellent teacher of the pianoforte and also a voice teacher. I’m sure your sister needs little help in these areas, but my sister is available and she works well with young people.”

  “Yellow becomes you, Miss Smiles.”

  Meg forgot whatever else she had intended to say. She glanced down at her pelisse and said, when she could gather her wits, “Thank you.”

  This was a pretty muddle, Jean-Marc thought. The girl was a minister’s daughter, probably from some insignificant place where society consisted of the odd musicale in less than elegant surroundings. Yet she had courage and style and she might just do.

  It wasn’t as if he’d had any luck finding someone more qualified who was at all interested in the post.

  “You also walk exceedingly well. Do you feel qualified to…to ensure that the Princess’s deportment is without flaw?”

  “I do indeed,” Meg said. She would approach Lady Hester Bingham for any extra advice she needed. “Oh, absolutely.” She wondered how often she would see Count Etranger—if he retained her. Often, she hoped—although she shouldn’t hope for any such thing.

  “In matters concerning toilette. Coiffeur and so on. What of those?”

  “I’m sure—”

  “Kindly remove your bonnet.”

  Meg swallowed, but she slowly untied the ribbons beneath her chin and slid off the bonnet. Sibyl had been right when she’d said Meg’s experiments with Mme. Suzanne’s product had produced a startling result. What if the Count found the color garish?

  Count Etranger came toward her and bowed his head to regard her at a singularly discomforting proximity. “Yes, indeed, your own hair is most fetching. Do you dress it yourself?”

  “I do,” Meg said. Did he think she’d be looking for employment as a companion if she could afford her own maid?

  Etranger made one of his slow progressions around her, studying her hair from all sides. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen hair of a brighter red hue. Extraordinary.”

  Artificial. “Thank you.”

  “How well it sets off your white skin.”

  Yet again her white skin felt scorched. “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.” He stood inches from her right shoulder and she would have to be blind not to note that his attention rested where she’d made the rash decision to follow the fashion plate to its most extreme feature by including a keyhole cutout that revealed her décolletage. After all, she had decided not to disguise the full bosom with which she had been endowed.

  Jean-Marc realized he had contemplated Miss Smiles’s interesting—or rather, her somewhat arousing display of bosom for too long. It wasn’t as if it was obviously presented. Oh, no, the girl had merely created a wicked little peephole beneath the collar of her pelisse, a peephole just large enough to give a glimpse of the way her plump breasts pressed together above the neck of her gown.

  “Very white,” he murmured. “And you have a few freckles.” He shifted his gaze to her nose. “Yes, I do think you may be what I need—for my sister.”

  If Miss Smiles noted his correction, there was no change in her expression. She appeared vaguely bemused.

  “Very well, my dear,” he said, deliberately hearty. �
��We shall discuss what I require of you, shall we?”

  Meg said, “Yes,” and enjoyed his hand beneath her elbow, and the manner in which he guided her to a chair facing the huge expanse of an ebony desk, the legs of which ended in gold claws. The Count settled himself on the opposite side of the desk and pulled clean paper before him. The silver lid of his crystal inkstandish clicked open beneath his fingers and he dipped his pen.

  “Sibyl—my sister—is very musically gifted and—”

  “So you have said. I will consider giving her a trial. But first we must be clear on what I expect you to accomplish and plan how you will set about following my instructions.”

  He absolutely had to agree to take Sibyl, too. Not only did Meg need her sister’s support, but she had vowed to remove her from the odious business of teaching badly behaved children.

  Jean-Marc reached into a drawer in the desk and produced Meg Smiles’s letter—her well-composed letter written in a strong, beautifully formed hand and with evident understanding of such matters as appropriate forms of address and so on. “Now,” he said, tossing the two sheets of good quality paper on his blotter, “let us dispose of the details. Princess Désirée is barely seventeen and brilliant. Her knowledge of world affairs is probably more developed than that of many men, even men of her class and position.”

  Meg murmured appreciatively. But surely Finch’s letter had hinted that the Princess’s disposition was other than pleasing?

  “Princess Désirée is very quiet by nature,” Jean-Marc said, deliberately nonchalant. “But she is charming nevertheless, and ready to learn those graces she will need. Not, of course, that she lacks grace, but she has had little need to use it in social situations. Mont Nuages—our home—is a small country. Our intimate circle is also small.”

  Miss Smiles murmured again.

  “Princess Désirée is witty. In fact, when she is in one of her ebullient moods, it may be necessary for you to subdue her tendency to become overexcited and to laugh too often and too loudly.”

  Miss Smiles said, “I see.”

  “Of course we must understand her enthusiasm at the prospect of making her debut. And she loves clothes. She has so many. However nothing will suit her but that she acquire a completely new wardrobe. You are confident you can supervise such an extensive undertaking?”

  “Yes, yes. It will be my pleasure.”

  “Good.” Very good, Jean-Marc thought. The idea of having to take part in any of this foolishness had all but undone him. “Spare no expense. Princess Désirée learns quickly, so, if you should see some area of her development that appears to need considerable attention, do not panic—she will understand your concerns and set about fulfilling your instructions at once.”

  “I am not given to panic,” Miss Smiles said.

  “Good. Princess Désirée is malleable. She wants to please. She will want to please you. But you are to do whatever you think necessary to make her the success of the Season.”

  Meg smiled. “I will,” she said. Evidently she had misunderstood Finch. She began to look forward to the prospect of working with a high-spirited person. “And, if I may say so, your admiration for your sister is a heartwarming thing to see.”

  He raised his eyes from the notes he was making. “I’m glad.” One moment he smiled and looked approachable, the next he became forbiddingly cool. “Family loyalty is expected, isn’t it?”

  He was putting her in her place. “My father taught us that love of family should be second only to love of God.”

  Apparently Count Etranger found her comment noteworthy. He wrote for quite some time. Meg liked the sharp bones in his face, and the manner in which his eyebrows flared upward at the ends. His white neck cloth was simply tied and stark against an unrelieved black coat and waistcoat.

  She must not be caught watching him. “How fortunate that you found such a lovely house to rent,” she said, admiring the shimmer on dark wood, the acres of leather-bound books, the elegant furnishings, most of them French and old.

  “I understand it was not so lovely when it had no furniture. But you are right, it is quite fine now.”

  “It…Yes, indeed.” So, what she saw belonged to him. Though she shouldn’t be surprised that he would choose to go to such lengths for a stay of a few months.

  “I take it you understand who we are?” he said, still writing. He allowed a few seconds to pass before continuing, “Our father, Prince Georges, rules Mont Nuages. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes,” Meg said.

  “Good. Princess Désirée and I are his only children. It is at my father’s request that I am here to attend to bringing my sister out.”

  The manner in which he informed her of these facts did not invite a response.

  “Very well.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I shall send Princess Désirée to you so the two of you may become acquainted.”

  Meg became anxious all over again. “You will be with her, Your Lordship? To make sure she is comfortable with me?” There had been entirely too many strangers for one day.

  “No. You must exert authority, you understand? Not without respect for my sister’s status, but authority indeed. I shall hope for a suitable degree of friendship between you, but, as with any undertaking where one must follow the instruction of another without question—absolutely without question—rank must be established.”

  Meg wasn’t at all certain how she felt about that. “Surely—”

  He wagged a finger to silence her. “Think of battle, dear girl. How would it be if a soldier were to challenge his commanding officer at the height of battle? Tell me that, hmm?”

  “Battle—”

  “It would be disastrous.” Without so much as glancing in her direction again, the Count went toward the foyer. “Deferentially in command, that will be the nature of your position with Désirée. Oh, do you speak French?”

  Praying he wouldn’t change his mind, Meg said, “As well as a person taught by her English father can. A person who has never spoken French with a French person. Schoolroom French, I suppose I should say.”

  “Ah.” He turned back. “Then I should remind you that the purpose of your position here is not to improve your command of French. Under no circumstances will you speak French in this house. Is that understood?”

  What a vexing man. A contrary man. A confusing man. “I hadn’t thought—”

  “Well, think of it now, Miss Smiles, and all will be well. Désirée’s English is perfect. Almost perfect. If she becomes uncertain about something, she may stumble a little. But she will be anxious to practice, and she must. She must practice a great deal. So—” he inclined his head and smiled “—not a word of French. We are agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Meg said, hoping he wouldn’t hear her relief.

  The Count’s purposeful footsteps departed across the stone floor in the foyer and Meg heard a door open, not too distant a door, and the sound of muffled conversation.

  A longcase clock ticked loudly. Meg remained facing the door, a pleasant smile in place. A princess was bound to be sure of herself, but still it was always nice to be welcoming.

  The ticking seemed to grow even louder. Meg could barely hear the voices now.

  More minutes passed, and more. She took a few steps while humming notes from a waltz Sibyl had played. It might be a good idea to improve her dancing skills, Meg thought, just in case. Of course, the waltz was very new and daring and she doubted she would ever have an opportunity to enjoy it herself.

  She held her arms as if she were dancing with a gentleman and whirled around, and whirled around again. Really, she might become skilled at this. “Thank you,” she said to her imaginary partner, and laughed. “You are too kind. Why, yes, it is warm. You think so, too?” Meg laughed again. “Of course, you are right.”

  Her next twirl took her past the oversize leather chair, then around it. She had always loved music.

  Count Etranger stood near the door, at the edge of the carpet.

/>   Puffing a little, Meg stood still. There was nothing she could do about either her blushes or the erratic beating of her heart. Oh, fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, the mortification of it. “Practicing,” she said in a silly little voice that shamed her.

  “So I see,” the Count said, and there was no doubt that the corners of his mouth twitched. “Very industrious of you. I thought better of what I said and decided to bring Princess Désirée to you myself, as you suggested. Come along, Désirée.”

  He leaned outside the library wall, then left the room entirely, to reappear holding a girl by the wrist. “Désirée, this is Miss Smiles. Miss Smiles, Her Royal Highness, Princess Désirée of Mont Nuages. Please remember everything I’ve told you, particularly the part about rank, and battle.”

  This time he closed the door behind him when he left, closed Meg and his sister inside the room together.

  Meg dropped into a deep curtsey and wondered how one gave orders from such a position. When the princess failed to make any comment at all, Meg straightened and reapplied her smile. “I am honored to meet you, Princess Désirée. Your brother has told me so much about you. He has said you are very excited by all you are to experience here in London. We shall work only as hard as we must to make you ready for all the wonderful parties and balls, and so on. The Count said you are to have an entire new wardrobe, and I shall be thrilled to help you with your selections.”

  Princess Désirée watched Meg, appeared to listen, but showed no sign of the exhilaration her brother had insisted she felt.

  An unpleasant premonition assailed Meg. She might fail here. If she did, and that failure was noted too soon, she would have no time to take even a small advantage of her hard-won opportunity.

  “Deportment will be simple, of course. And most of the so-called required graces. You must already know a great deal about those.”

  Not a word.

  Before Meg stood a thin girl, a thin girl who must be at least six inches taller than her new ranking officer. Princess Désirée’s hair was not exactly brown, but neither was it blond. Light brown, perhaps, and straight. Probably straight. Parted at one side and pulled flat over her ears, it was plaited. Two long plaits fell forward over the girl’s narrow shoulders. Not a hint of color brightened her features. Sallow might be the description employed by someone less charitable than Meg.