by Jess Russell
The women in the mirror flinched. Surely no one would recognize her? After all, over twelve years had passed since she had been in England. And in London…
Olivia closed her eyes, feeling hot shame engulf her.
Her step-mama’s words still rang in her head. Open your eyes, Edgar, she is a beauty—not conventional, but if we spend a little blunt to fire her off, we might be able to get some rich, old nob to take her.
Still, Olivia was to have her dream, a proper come out.
She had spent hours unearthing, sketching, and re-making her mother’s old court dress, complete with five foot train and ostrich plumes. And despite the circumstances, she had felt very much like a queen herself when she had made her curtsey before Queen Charlotte. Then the balls and the musical evenings and the rides in Hyde Park…and Lord Ivo Daughtry.
She had thought him her angel, complete with a halo of golden curls. And clasped in his arms she had forgotten her fright at being quite alone with him, only wanting his kiss. Besides, he would surely sink to his knee afterward and ask her to be his.
Such an innocent dream—a fairytale.
The ton had called her ruined. Ruined. What an odd word to associate with a human being, as if she was broken and no longer useful, something to be thrown away. Ivo Daughtry had certainly thrown her away.
Expelling a deep breath, she purged all those poisonous memories. Mrs. Adolphus Weston had eventually risen out of those ashes and reclaimed her life. Now, Olivia Weston, dressmaker, would do the same.
She smoothed the gown over her waist and down over her hip bones—bones still too prominent. What was the time? Perhaps she should go above stairs to check on Egg?
“Whoa,” a voice called from the street.
He had arrived.
****
“Is there nothing to be done?” Daria twisted in an attempt to see the back of her gown. “It fit perfectly last week when we tried.”
“Once again, madam.”
Daria sucked in a deep breath, pulling in her stomach as Foster jerked at the stays. Daria heard the snap even as her belly filled the now-gaping corset. Foster frowned at the dangling cord.
“Oh, hell!” Daria ripped the lacing out of the maid’s hand and flung it at the fire.
“Madam, if I may—”
Daria shot her a deadly look. “Well, speak up, woman. We do not have all day.”
“I believe the red crêpe is a bit more…forgiving,” she offered. “Shall we try that?”
“Hell’s harpies!” Daria gestured for a handkerchief and mopped her brow. “I suppose we must at this point. I cannot keep Lord Morton waiting much longer.”
There was a time when she could have let her beaux cool their heels for hours while she primped and fussed over her toilette, but times had changed. Oh how had she had sunk so low as to be hurrying for the Lord Mortons of this world?
In the end, after much squeezing and fluffing and tacking a bit of tulle here and there, Daria critically surveyed the final product. Yes, she thought, yes, by God, she would do quite well. In the right light, her face was quite good, and her breasts, when properly supported, were still magnificent. The Weston chit was really rather brilliant. Too bad she could no longer mine that particular vein…But never mind that. When she had Roydan back, she would be ordering more things before the season was in full swing.
“Foster,” she said, taking her outrageous mask of feathers from the maid. “You may tell his lordship I am ready.”
Chapter Eight
As she and the duke entered the lower hall at Madame Parkington’s, Olivia ceased to wonder how merry ol’ England would compare to the wild delights of Les Halles.
The footman wore a bejeweled turban, a cropped vest of delicious persimmon velvet—exposing an expanse of rippling muscle—billowing bloomers, and a huge curving sword. Olivia would have sworn he had been imported straight from the Kasbah.
“May I teck yer cloak, madam?” Well, Persia, by way of Scotland perhaps.
As she surrendered the wrap the Scotsman gasped, or perhaps it had been the duke? Hum, his face betrayed nothing.
The entire stairway was draped in silks to resemble a long tent, the lower portion swathed in saffron. But as they ascended, Olivia had the feeling of leaving the bright sunlight, entering a sunset of oranges and reds, and finally being swallowed in the deepest indigo of night. Huge footmen, all dressed as Mamluks, waved enormous plumed fans from the sides of the stairway. The farther she and the duke ascended, the sparer the attendants’ costumes. Good gracious, their silk pantaloons were now nearly transparent. She was sure the last poor fellow would be quite naked except for a well-placed palm frond.
“Well, Your Grace, what do you make of the place?” It was the first time she had addressed him since entering his carriage.
He spared her a look before studying first one side of the stairway and then the other. As if that was not enough, he turned back to the entrance, now far below them, and spent a long moment looking at something. She looked as well but could not begin to imagine what had so thoroughly captured his attention. Finally he turned back to her. “Mrs. Parkington seems to take prodigious care in creating a most authentic setting. I am quite convinced the footman who greeted us is carrying nothing less than a twelfth century cutlass…possibly even from the Abbasid era. An extraordinary”—his masked eyes found hers—“specimen,” he finished, with not even a glimmer of a smile.
Impossible. She was about to turn away, giving up the idea the man possessed any scrap of humor, when she noticed his ears. Were they just a shade too red? Perhaps he was human after all…
They reached the top of the stairway and stepped onto a small dais. Every inch of the ballroom ceiling, and a good deal of the walls, was swathed in deep purple silk. Tiny mirrored stars had been fixed into the canopy, and colossal jewel-toned lanterns, the size of small carriages, hung from the peaks of the tent, casting a kaleidoscope of shifting color across the silk.
But just as impressive as Madam Parkington’s décor were her guests; a river of colorful couples, whirling upon the polished marble floor and eddying around the perimeters of the room, served as a mirror image to the glory above.
Then, like a child’s wind-up toy, the dancers slowed, stuttered, and finally stopped. The music followed suit, hiccupping as the players one by one stopped their bows, flutes, and horns. Olivia looked about her, trying to determine the cause. The company gasped, as if all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room, and their masked eyes homed in on…her and the duke.
Olivia turned to Roydan, sure at last this scene would move him. She was correct, it did.
He drew her forward, down the few steps, and into the frozen crowd. A wide, deferential path formed. Moses could not have looked more commanding when he parted the Red Sea. Now the room was dead silent, no one dared even a whisper.
Then someone did move. A large woman in an absurd, red, frizzled wig and a huge ruff rivaled only by her more enormous bosom, puffed up to Olivia and the duke. It would seem Queen Bess had made an appearance after all. Olivia suppressed a smile. This frizzled and frazzled woman must be their hostess, Madam Parkington. The poor woman was decidedly overwhelmed and only just remembered her curtsey, which she executed with surprising grace, given the largeness of her person and her extreme agitation.
“Your Grace, I never hoped…I mean to say…I am most humbled and gratified you have chosen my poor affair for your evening’s entertainment.”
The duke looked at her for a long moment, perhaps, Olivia thought, deciding whether to even deign to even speak with his hostess.
Some unseen scale tipped in her favor—maybe it was her twelfth century cutlass? “Madam”—he gave a brief bow—“I see I shall have to work harder on my disguise at your next affair.”
Madam was about to go into further raptures, but the duke gave a nod to the orchestra and the music immediately commenced. He reclaimed Olivia’s arm and moved past their hostess and into the throng.
&
nbsp; Olivia had a difficult time not gaping along with the rest of the guests. She knew they would cause a stir but never dreamed the ball would stop dead.
What would it be like to be the mistress of this man? The thought slipped by her vigilant fortress like a songbird from its cage. She stole a look. Ramrod-straight, yet he possessed a kind of ready grace, as if at the slightest provocation he could spring into action. Lud, she had seen it firsthand in his hall when he’d nearly impaled her. Now she imagined him not as a warrior, but moving as a lover…
Steady, feet on the ground. This line of thought was hardly useful. She was here to work. Besides, the duke barely seemed interested. Indeed she was rather shocked by his extreme reserve thus far. Not that she expected him to leap on her, but the man who had entered her shop spouting all kinds of innuendo, seemed to have vanished.
Anger flared, settling deep between her shoulder blades. He was so bloody calm. How could he be so, when her heart was thumping along with the orchestra’s scotch reel?
She took a stab at him. “I suppose you are used to being thoroughly admired wherever you go.”
“And why would you imagine that, Mrs. Weston?” He raised an eyebrow without a trace of reciprocal anger.
Humph. Really, she could not treat his answer with any credence. It was abundantly clear he was the most exalted person in the room. And he knew it. He must. So she remained silent.
“Actually, I have never attended a mask…of this sort.”
Again, she should not believe him. After all most men his age—he must be at least thirty—would have delved into the seamier world outside Almack’s and their various clubs. But she did believe him. Perhaps he was a bit of a monk.
Her gaze followed his, trying to see the ball through his eyes. Her first impression of sheer opulence narrowed as she watched him focus on specific vignettes; just to their right, a corpulent woman, in the far too scanty gown of a milkmaid, sat on a huge silver platter surrounded by fruit. Her companion roughly pulled her breasts free, spilling his champagne onto their heavy globes as he bent to lap at them.
She looked back to him. The duke’s sober black dress and simple mask—his only nod to whimsy—stood out like a cool drink of water in a sea of heavy and cloying port wine. Was he repulsed? His head was tilted back, focused on the starry canopy.
“I wonder at the logistics of hoisting those lanterns. They must weigh over forty-five stone.” He adjusted his mask and turned to her. “Would you care for champagne?”
“Definitely, Your Grace. I am parched.” Good heavens, he was a surprise.
As he turned away to get the wine, she scanned the room again, this time trolling for a perspective patroness. She dismissed the milkmaid. The woman was too far in her cups to be worth the effort to convince her of her need for Olivia’s talents. But bless Isabelle Harton, she had been right; the mask was a crush. Everyone who was anyone was there—painters, opera singers, actresses, writers, mistresses—all the fringes of society.
Olivia noted she was garnering as many looks as the duke. Good. She hoped to spend a sufficient amount of time in the ladies’ retiring room as well as in the ballroom. In Paris, she found she could speak more freely with the “ladies” without the gentlemen interfering. Rather a tricky bog, luring men with her person, but not alienating the women who might want her wares.
An icy chill shot up Olivia’s back to settle at her nape. She tried to shake it off, but the feeling of unease gripped her and spread, as if a cold shadow loomed over her. Sure she would encounter something horrible, she ducked her head and wheeled to confront the evil presence.
There was nothing. Silly. She was about to turn back, when a man, leaning casually against one of the huge posts that held up the canopied tent, raised his glass in a salute to her. He wore a heavy, ornate mask of a satyr with huge horns and a ruff of curling fur about his shoulders. His gaze slid over her body, making her feel soiled, as if his hands were on her. She imagined dirty and over-long nails and spider-like fingers. The feeling was so very familiar. Did she know this man?
He made a slight bow. She could not see clearly, but she was sure a slow smile curved behind his grotesque mask.
She shivered.
“Mrs. Weston, are you chilled?”
She pulled her gaze away. It was the duke with her champagne. “No, I thank you. I am well.” She took the proffered flute and gulped. Bubbles rushed her mouth and tickled her nose. Lord, this was nonsense. She was no newcomer to this sort of entertainment and the crudeness that went with it. She could well handle a salacious glance or two. After all, hadn’t she come here to gain attention? She took another sip and turned back to confront the leering man, but he had vanished.
Daria had been brushing a crumb from her skirts when the crowd hushed. She looked up to find the source, and her mouth dropped open along with all the others. It was a good thing she had managed to swallow her canapé in one deft bite, or it might have fallen right out of her mouth and been lost in her décolletage.
How dare he attend this ball. And how dare he attend it with some skinny chit! Daria promptly closed her mouth and raised her quizzing glass as Mrs. Parkington pushed her way through the crush, veritably mowing down her guests in her haste to greet Roydan.
There it was, the nauseating fawning and groveling. Daria used to lap it up on the rare occasions when Roydan took her out. But seeing it lavished on some drab who had the audacity to poach her man, now turned her stomach.
Marie Antoinette’s hair shifted, blocking Daria’s view. She charged forward and elbowed the hair and the woman attached out of her way. And for a brief space all was clear. The neck came into focus first—the long gracefulness of it and the particular tilt of the head. Very well, she was a beauty. Then she saw the gown.
Hell’s Harpy, it was Olivia Weston. Her dressmaker.
The huge room became suffocating in a matter of seconds. Daria flushed, turning what she knew to be a deep and highly unflattering shade of red especially given she was wearing the blasted color. She heaved in a great gulp of air. Lord Morton looked at her in alarm, muttered something about getting her some punch, and rushed off.
“Well, my dear Daria, if one has to be supplanted, at least his betrothed is quite a stunner.”
Daria peeled her eyes from the couple to see Eveline Barton at her elbow. Oh Lord, not her. The woman had always wanted Roydan. No doubt she was here to crow over Daria’s ousting.
Daria forced what she hoped was a reasonable laugh. “Betrothed? By no means, Eveline, you mistake the matter entirely. She most certainly is not Roydan’s betrothed.” She pried open her fan and furiously applied it to her overheated cheeks and bosom. Was no one else having vapors?
“Oh, but I understood that is why he had to forego your pleasures, my dear, because he was to choose a bride?”
Daria stopped fanning herself. She would like nothing better than to brain the woman with it. “Yes, well obviously, he is here to look for me.” Daria laughed again, but didn’t like its desperate edge and stopped. “You see the woman on his arm is merely my dressmaker.” The sneer fell from Barton’s face. “I have been rather put out with Rhys of late. He is, no doubt, vexed and taking his revenge like a schoolboy. I suppose I must have pity on him.”
“Your dressmaker? Well, Daria, you certainly have held your peace. Her gown is stunning. So deceptively simple, yet so very…shocking.” She turned and looked Daria up and down. “Is yours one of her creations as well?”
Daria stood a bit taller and tried to suck in her belly, hoping her color had somewhat receded. “Why yes, it is.”
“I must say, my dear, it takes a good stone off you, if you’ll pardon my saying so. I have not seen you looking so well in an age.”
“Thank you, I’m sure.” Daria lifted her chin. “I would be happy to give you her direction.” Over my dead body.
“Oh, that would be most excellent.” Barton clapped her hands in girlish glee. Daria snorted. “As you have no doubt heard, I am off to the cont
inent with Lord Danvers in two weeks’ time and a few new gowns, especially of this kind, would not go amiss.”
“Danvers? Is he still creaking along? I thought he was quite dead!”
Barton instantly raised her fan at a full tilt. “No, he is quite well, thank you, quite well, if you catch my meaning.” She slapped the fan against her gloved palm a bit too firmly, Daria thought. “Now I had better not keep you. I am sure Roydan is on pins and needles…waiting to reclaim you.”
“Mrs. Weston, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
It had been so very long—a lifetime ago—since Olivia had danced. “Oh…yes.” Her voice sounded soft and ghostly in her ears. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said more firmly, “I would very much like to dance.”
Olivia adored dancing. She had practiced for hours in the dusty ballroom at Stokesly Hall, her old home. There was no dancing master, not even a pianoforte. It had long been sold. But she could sing to herself as she moved about the room.
In her imagination she was never subjected to the “obligatory dance.” The one where a gentleman must solicit a wallflower or relative, or perhaps the highest-ranking woman, and spend a half-hour’s time marking out the appropriate steps and conversing with the appropriate small talk of weather and the latest watered-down gossip. No, in her fantasy world, the dance would be that rare encounter where magic happened. Her partner always tall and handsome and the dance could only be the waltz.
Of course it had been forbidden. Even now it was considered rather scandalous in the ballrooms of the ton. Certainly it was never attempted in the country. But here in the lower circles, it was all the rage. And Mrs. Parkington’s mask was no exception.
She was sure the duke, as well as half the room, could hear her heart galloping wildly in her breast as they made their way to the center of the room. But passing politely nodding couples, she knew she must appear as serene as her three-mirrored actresses back at the shop.