“Ella, are you awake in there, or shall I fetch a bucket of cold water?” Millicent was being persistent.
“Stepmother, I am sorry to report that I am dead. Fetch the undertaker.”
“How about a nice cup of tea, instead? I’ll just run down and make you some and you can get dressed.”
Ella heard the sound of Millicent’s footsteps moving away, and thanked every divine being she’d ever heard of. She’d wake up when the tea got here. If it was anything like Millicent’s normal hideous brew it would be enough to bring a dead donkey back to life. When she tried to relax back into sleep, however, she was reminded of the other reason—aside from sleep deprivation—that she kept falling into private reveries.
Max. Every time she closed her eyes she saw him. His face, alight with amusement, or his eyes, filled with desire. She could probably draw his half-naked form from memory, or sculpt it out of marble, if she only knew how. This wasn’t the first time she’d dreamed of him, either. Sometimes they were back in her shop front, and he was measuring her. Sometimes they were dancing, as they had been tonight. And once, just once, they had been in the parlor, and Max had been down on one knee.
Beatrice had woken her up before the end of that one, and Ella had been disappointed, but also relieved. She didn’t really want to know how it ended.
She had turned over the actual facts in her mind a dozen times. Max was clearly a noble, but she had no idea if he was a first, second, or thirty-seventh son. His personal station in life might be compatible with hers, if she only thought of herself as a gentleman’s daughter, and not as a seamstress. So, she supposed, there was a small hope that, if they both wanted it, they could be together.
Despite her better judgement, Ella knew she wanted just that. It hardly seemed possible, having known him for such a short time, but Ella did want him. She just wasn’t sure she wanted him more than she wanted her small shop and her tiny business. Ella liked working this way, and unless Max was a very minor lordling, it could hardly be imagined that she could be his wife and work as a dressmaker—not and remain a part of respectable society. Of course, her shop wasn’t exactly making money hand over fist. If she chose to work, rather than marry a handsome, charming, witty, dashing... Ella’s mind went in circles. She could be walking away from her last chance at security, if she chose to keep her shop and not marry Max. But she could be giving up her chance to live out her dream if she chose marriage, even to a wonderful man, instead of sticking to her plan.
And, of course—Ella tried to keep the thought firmly in front her—Max hadn’t actually declared his intentions towards her at all. She could tell he was pursuing her, but to what end? Perhaps he wasn’t a minor son of a minor lord; perhaps he was someone important. If that were the case, he could never think of marrying her, and this could be nothing but a flirtation for him. Or, worse, he might be meaning to make her an offer, one in which he kept her somewhere in style and seclusion while he went on to live his life. Every time Ella thought of that her temper flared, but she kept it in check. After all, there was just so much she didn’t know about him, she could hardly make an accurate guess as to what he was thinking.
And that, she had decided, was the crux of the matter. She was going to have to find out who he really was, and what his true intentions were. And if they weren’t honorable she was going to have to send him away. For good.
Ella heard her door open.
“I’ve got your tea, dear.” Millicent bustled in, and then stopped dead. “Eleanor Emberton! You are supposed to be up! That confounded costume in my room was your idea, and it is going to take at least two hours for me to get into it, not to mention my hair and face paint and... And your stepsisters! They haven’t the faintest idea how to wear those rigs, you’re going to have to help them, too.” Rambling on, Millicent helped Ella out of bed and practically shoved her over to the basin of water, where Ella splashed her face and rinsed out her mouth. “Imagine! It’s the day of the second palace ball, and you want to lie about in bed all day!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Max was pacing by one of the punch bowls with a great deal of nervous energy. All day he had been thinking of tonight, thinking of seeing Ella again. Vivienne had noticed his preoccupation early at the second presentation ceremony. This time his betrothal gift had been a splendid hunting equipage, complete with warm and comfortable riding habit, a bow with a light draw, and camping gear, for those long hunts. Vivienne had been delighted with his cleverness and the gift, but had drawn him to one side of the throne room afterwards.
“And where was your mind that whole time, my darling betrothed?”
“Only on you, my precious sweet, you are all that I see.”
She had smiled at his exaggerated solicitude, but persisted. “Seriously, Max, you seem distracted.”
“Vivienne, if I said... if I were... if you were, perhaps, right about my feelings on a certain matter...”
Vivienne had practically crowed aloud with delight. “I knew it! You’re in...” she dropped her voice to the barest whisper, out of deference, he assumed, to the fact that they were standing rather near a large group of people who thought them very much enamoured of one another, “... love.”
“I said no such thing, you meddlesome wench. I merely said that you might have been right, and I was wondering, hypothetically, what I should do if, in fact, it turns out that you are right. Which you might not be.”
“Well, first I think I should point out that it’s very improper of you to refer to me as a meddlesome wench.”
“Of course.”
“From now on I wish you to call me ‘Your most Royal and August Meddlesome-ness.’”
“I’ll get right on that, wench.”
Vivienne laughed, and gave a courteous nod of her head to the final few courtiers as they exited through the great double doors, chattering excitedly. “Max, what sort of advice do you want from me? It seems like you have two options—tell her the truth and hope she is willing to wait and keep quiet; or distance yourself until you can openly approach her in public.”
“I don’t think I can stay away.”
“Then you had best tell her the truth. Only, for goodness sake, Max, make sure you’re positive about this. She could ruin everything if she wasn’t careful.”
“I don’t think she would ruin your escape, Vivienne, even if she loathed me. She isn’t that type of woman.” Max thought a minute. “But, Vivi, have you thought, what am I asking her to wait for?”
“For you? My slightly dimwitted friend?”
“But, Vivienne, even if she was willing to wait the months or even years it might take before I can pretend to get over my heartbreak, can you imagine my father ever allowing me to wed a seamstress?”
Vivienne had stopped laughing, at that pointed question. “No, you’re right. But isn’t she well born?”
“I’ve checked; her father and mother were well placed among the gentry, but her stepmother has frittered away any fortune they left her, and now she’s basically a penniless girl with a good name.”
“Mmm... that’s a difficulty. But if you sink into the depths of despair after I leave... Who knows? Maybe the old boy will give a little, if she’s ‘making you happy’ again.”
“Perhaps.”
“She’s going to have to give up working, though.”
Max already knew that. And he wasn’t entirely sure if Ella was willing to give up working to marry. After all, the very first time they’d spoken she’d told him how she felt about marriage, and how she felt about her work. He wasn’t sure how to go about convincing her to change her standpoint; and, once that was accomplished, he wasn’t sure how to go about explaining Her Royal August Meddlesome-ness’s insane plan, and how he was involved in it.
All in all, it seemed like he had quite the evening in store.
So now he was pacing by the punch bowl. He had been at his post for three quarters of an hour when he heard Mr. and Mrs. Minglesall announced. The names caught his att
ention, and when Max looked up he was stunned. Layer upon layer of diaphanous violet veils gave her rail-thin form a curvaceous fullness. The braided copper belt circled and emphasized her small waist, and the ends fell loosely, almost to her knees, swaying enticingly with each step she took. Tiny copper sequins caught the light, and shimmered when she moved. Her headdress, comprised of the infamous belt and more violet fabric, tinkled sweetly when she moved, while a thin veil over her face softened the hard lines, and gave her a look that was both alluring and mysterious. As he took in the sight of Mrs. Minglesall, Max felt like an idiot. He had seen Ella’s work before, but this was the first time he’d realized that she was an artist: every bit as accomplished in her medium as some of the great painters or sculptors were in theirs.
Max lost himself in a daydream of the daughters that he and Ella would have, each one beautiful and each shown to perfection in masterpieces designed just for them by their own mother. He snapped back to reality when he caught the announcement that the Emberton family was descending the staircase. He skidded around the end of the refreshment table and came to a halt. Beatrice had been swarmed by young men, all clamoring for her attention, and Ella was for the moment out of sight. He saw white folds of fabric flowing gently down to some silver slippers on Beatrice, and behind her, on Prudence, bright splashes of color, soft dancing shoes, and, yes, a tambourine. Millicent stood to one side, in a resplendent gown of blues and greens, which broke away in the front to cascading waves in the back, and rose around her neck with puffs of tulle in a sea foam green. When Max saw a gentleman dressed as a hoary old sea dog bowing to Ella’s stepmother, he realized the genius—Millicent was dressed as the briny sea. Then Ella straightened from arranging her Stepmother’s train, and Max’s mouth went dry.
Anyone looking at Ella standing with Millicent and her beau would think that she had dressed to match them, but Max guessed otherwise. Ella was outfitted as a pirate. Her white silk shirt was similar to Max’s, but over it went a tight black leather vest, and her trousers, for she was, indeed, wearing trousers, were red and black striped and tucked into supple knee-high leather boots. A fringed shawl knotted about her waist gave the illusion of a skirt, although the saber belt slung low on her hips forced the fringe to hang close to her body, not so much concealing as emphasizing her round bottom. Her wide-brimmed leather hat was adorned with a long sweeping ostrich feather, and her hair, braided in one long tail, swung freely just above the saber belt.
Max couldn’t move. Now he knew why women didn’t wear breeches. With fabric fitting so snugly over their hips you couldn’t help but be drawn into wondering what they were wearing under their breeches. Those striped leggings were very tight. He doubted she could fit anything underneath them. Max’s mouth went dry, and his mind filled with images.
Images which could, apparently, hold a man paralyzed next to a punch bowl.
He needed to get a grip on himself. If he didn’t go greet Ella, some other man was going to ask her to dance first. He wasn’t sure he could handle knowing one of these other dandies was contemplating what was not under those trousers.
Of course, before he could go greet her, he was going to have to remember how to breathe.
Ella spotted Max by the punch bowl. She observed, with a great deal of satisfaction, that he looked like all the blood had left his head and was making its way... elsewhere. As his eyes seemed to be glued to her, she could only assume that she was the cause of that glazed look on his face. Good. She’d hate to be going through so much internal turmoil and not have any effect on the infuriating man.
She murmured a quick goodbye to Millicent and then threaded her way through the crowd. It was so easy to make her way unencumbered by skirts, she wondered why women didn’t wear pants all the time. They were certainly more practical. Maybe someday she’d have her own large fashion house, and she could popularize trousers for women.
All thoughts of trousers, breeches, or any other form of leg covering flew out of her head as she reached her goal. Max had rid himself of any lingering effects from his first sight of her costume, and was grinning at her broadly.
“Heave to and prepare to be boarded, you scurvy dog.”
“Alas, kind sir, I must decline, but after I’ve relieved you and your crew of all their valuables I’ll send a thank-you note to your king for his largess.”
“A polite pirate? I really expected you to threaten me with walking the plank.”
“And risk water stains on that masterpiece you’re wearing? Never.”
Max took a quick look around the dance floor. The King was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t a surprise. His Majesty normally left the dancing as soon as it began, to closet himself with his peers and several fine bottles of brandy. He had been known to remark on several occasions that dancing was an amusement only fit for young people, which tended to influence the older courtiers to stay off the dance floor, as well. Seeing that the coast was as clear as it was ever likely to be, he flashed his most winning smile at Ella.
“I believe, Madam Pirate, that you owe me a dance.”
“Mmmm... I don’t think that’s discussed in the rules for maritime engagements.”
“Consider it a kindness to an enemy, then.”
Before she could demur again Max clasped Ella about the wrist and drew her near. He snaked his free arm behind her back and pulled her in against him, far closer than was called for, even by the waltz. Hip to hip, chest to chest, and faces inches away from each other, he spoke, letting his tone become low and intimate;
“Dance with me.”
Ella was caught. She knew he would let her go if she moved away, but felt incapable of even the slightest denial. His eyes crinkled with just a hint of humor—he knew how bad he was being. As Ella slowly nodded her head, she smiled. It might not be wise, but suddenly dancing with Max was just what she wanted to do.
Before she could change her mind, Max swept her away into the whirl of dancers. The dance floor was so crowded it was a miracle they didn’t cause a collision, but Max seemed to have a sixth sense about when he should turn or twirl her to keep them from disaster. Ella hadn’t been dancing in years, but Max was a strong leader. She let herself relax in his arms, and they glided across the floor. The music drew to a close all too soon, but Ella told herself it was better that way.
“Now that you’ve had your dance, perhaps we could...”
The orchestra began a polka, and before she had finished the sentence Max grabbed her hand and off they went. Between the music from the orchestra and the noise of what must have been two hundred couples prancing around the floor, Ella could scarcely hear herself think, let alone speak to Max. For a moment she was frustrated—she had been preparing herself all day for their conversation, and now it seemed as though they weren’t to have any—but the pleasure of dancing was too great to allow her discontent to last for long. They could talk later. For now she just enjoyed sailing around the floor in the arms of a man she... well, at least admired very much.
***
Prudence was creeping around the edge of the mass of dancers, searching for the red-headed young man. Finally she spotted him. He was also making his way around the dance floor, in the opposite direction. Every few steps he would lift his head above the crowd and scan it quickly. She began to move towards him, and almost at the same moment he spotted her, and started threading his way through the crowd, heading for her. When at last they were standing face to face, they both stopped, and for a moment neither said anything. Then the red-headed young man broke the silence.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
Again, silence. Prudence gave him her sweetest smile, and received a smile in return. This time Prudence was the first to speak.
“I have been looking for you.”
“And I, you.”
Another pause. The red-head shyly reached out and took her hand in his. His next words were wistful.
“I wanted to call.”
“I wanted you to call.�
�
“But...”
“Yes, but...”
Prudence wrapped her free hand around his arm, and leaned against him.
“I’m sorry I wouldn’t dance.”
“Yes.”
“Dancing is just so...”
“I understand. You had to be sure.”
“Yes.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Oh!” She let go his arm and drew forth from her bodice the fabric swatches Ella had given her. “My stepsister found these for me. They go with red hair!”
His eyes went blank for a moment, and then filled with the light of adoration. “I always wanted a daughter.”
When she laughed delightedly, he gathered up both her hands in his.
“Tell me your name.”
“I am Prudence Emberton.” She spoke softly.
“And I, Miss Emberton, am Evan Binkley.” Mr. Binkley raised her hands to his lips and kissed first one, then the other. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
“Mr. Binkley, I would be delighted.”
***
Max was amazed they hadn’t trampled anyone yet. He could hardly take his eyes off of Ella, and that must have made him dangerous on the dance floor. Several times he had narrowly avoided a mishap only by twirling Ella hastily out of the way. His beautiful partner either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care. Her face was alight with enjoyment of the moment, and the happiness in her eyes brought forth an answering warmth in his chest. When they had first stepped onto the dance floor Max had loosened his grip to something deemed acceptable to propriety, but with each pass across the floor he drew her just a bit closer to his body, just a bit deeper into his arms. When they had stepped apart for a quadrille, Max had felt nothing but impatience, until another waltz began and he could gather her close once more.
Before the Midnight Bells Page 10