Enchanting Pleasures (17 page)

“Will you join us, Quill?”

Quill shook his head. In his present mood, it was only irritating to find Peter acting his generous self. It couldn’t be easy for the pink of the
ton
to have a brother who was both lame and antisocial. But Peter never failed to urge Quill to accompany him to various events.

“Perhaps I will stop in later,” Quill said, quite to his own surprise.

Gabby gave him one of her huge smiles. “That would be delightful, Quill! I shall look for you.”

Peter ushered Gabby into the carriage, noting with approval the velvet pelisse that Madame had designed to accompany this particular gown. “You look quite well this evening,” he pronounced in the semidarkness of the carriage.

“She’s a beauty,” Lady Sylvia agreed. “You’re in luck, Peter. It’s risky, getting a bride from abroad. One of my second cousins contracted a gel from Scotland who turned out to be a tallow-faced chit. He ran away to the Americas before the wedding.”

Gabby sighed with relief. She’d done it. Peter approved of her.

Peter had an alarmed thought. “Do you know how to dance?”

“Yes,” Gabby said. “Although I have never danced with a man,” she admitted. “My father hired an Englishwoman to teach me.”

Peter quite liked that idea. If Gabby misplaced a step, he could gently drop the fact that his betrothed had never been held in a man’s arms before. There weren’t many men in London who could say such a thing.

“Don’t worry,” he said comfortingly. “I will explain everything.”

Gabby’s heart expanded with happiness. Peter was acting precisely like the sweet gentleman of her daydreams: protective, thoughtful, admiring. “Oh, Peter,” she exclaimed, “I’m so happy we’re to be married!”

Peter was taken aback. What the devil was he supposed to say to that? And why would she say something so intimate before Lady Sylvia? “Quite appropriate,” he finally managed.

Gabby was only a little disappointed. It was too early for Peter to express the same anticipation that she felt. But perhaps this evening they would kiss, the way she and Quill had kissed. She had sensed anticipation in Quill’s hard body, in his darkened eyes. She meant to see that same emotion in Peter by the end of the evening.

L
ADY
I
SABEL
F
ESTER
was quite proud of the fact that her ball was always the very first event held after the opening of Parliament each year. In truth, she took great care to make sure that her ball marked the opening of the Little Season; when the Parliament inconsiderately delayed its opening in 1804, due to concern for the king’s health, Lady Fester boldly canceled her ball, citing the same reason, and resent her invitations only once the danger was past. She felt, with some truth, that her ball had gained a certain notoriety, and for those, like herself, who could not bear to wither in the country until March or April, it served as a signal that
la haute société
had returned to London. Let all the matchmaking mamas huddle in the damp country houses until after Easter. The true
élégantes
—Lady Fester had had a French nurse and liked to show off her claims to high education—the true
élégantes
would never molder outside London if they were not forced to do so.

Thus the polite smile on her face actually gained a glimmer of true welcome when she saw one of the most elegant men in all of London, Lucien Boch, walking behind her butler.

“My dear marquis,” Lady Fester cooed. She was well-aware that Boch had repudiated his title, but she believed in overlooking such foolish mistakes.

Lucien bowed extravagantly and kissed her fingers. “Dearest Lady Fester,” he said, “may I present Mrs. Ewing?”

Lady Fester’s eyes narrowed fractionally. Emily Thorpe—no matter what she chose to call herself—was not the sort of woman whom Lady Fester cared to welcome to her ball. But in the split second before she issued a glacial acknowledgment, her eye caught Mrs. Ewing’s gown. It was created of amber-colored Italian gauze, worn over crepe of a slightly darker shade. The gauze was caught up in amber ribbons, and beads ornamented the bodice and the sleeves. In all truth, Mrs. Ewing’s gown was easily the most original creation Lady Fester had seen all evening. And it would undoubtedly be detailed in the next issue of
La Belle Assemblée
, an honor that Lady Fester herself was longing to receive. She suffered a stab of envy that was almost blinding in its force.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ewing,” she said respectfully. The gown had won the day.

“Well,” Lucien breathed into Emily’s ear as they strolled into the ballroom, “in case you didn’t recognize it, my dear, there was a dragon guarding the entrance to this ball. And you just floated past her guard.”

Emily looked up at him, her eyes shining. “How could it be otherwise? I have a dragon slayer with me, do I not?”

He chuckled. “I cannot take credit for that particular victory. Would you like to dance?”

Emily paused and looked over a ballroom shimmering with gowns in the neoclassical mode, gowns heavily trimmed with satin roses, gowns with collars of lace, and gowns whose bodices were so low that the waistlines mimicked a collar. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Oh, this is wonderful!” Then she clutched Lucien’s arm. “Do you happen to know the young woman next to the window, Mr. Boch?”

Lucien looked in that direction. “Do you mean the lady with all the objects in her hair?”

“That is a
very
fashionable coiffure,” Emily said, instinctively pulling him slightly in that direction. “She’s dressed her hair with lace, and I can see at least one white ostrich feather.”

“Don’t forget all those tassels,” Lucien said disapprovingly. “However, as it happens, I do know Cecilia Morgan, and I’d be happy to introduce you.”

A moment later, he bowed before Cecilia. Within a few moments, Emily and Cecilia—or Sissy, as she insisted Emily call her—were deep in a discussion of the virtues of pink silk tassels as opposed to ostrich feathers, and Lucien and Sissy’s sturdy husband, Squire Morgan, were relegated to the side.

As the evening progressed, Lucien found, to his utter astonishment, that he didn’t mind the fact that Emily could hardly be persuaded to stand up with him. Instead, he watched her charm the women of the very society that had rejected her, ignoring their initial frosty greetings and winning them over by her engaging, infectious interest in fashion. Discussing the merits of slashed sleeves, Emily became alight with joy. She belongs here, Lucien thought with a pang. Not in that tiny house with its shabby furniture and few servants. Finally he dragged her away from an animated discussion of the fact that crepe conversation hats were quite, quite out of date, and drew her into a dance.

She floated in his arms. As they swept down the room, he had the fierce knowledge that they moved more gracefully than any of the other guests. It brought with it a mild intoxication, although it was not nearly as intoxicating as Emily’s slender body in his arms.

S
UCH A SWEET LITTLE SMILE
lit the corners of Gabby’s mouth as they walked into the Fester ball that Peter was startled. Gabby appeared to be looking forward to the evening as much as he did, generally speaking. Mind you, he was a bit more nervous than usual tonight. But normally he felt a racing sense of excitement as the evening hour approached, ushering in hours of pleasure and possibility. At every ball he strengthened his position in the
ton
just a trifle, he fancied. In every conversation, he strove to present himself in the best possible fashion.

At first the evening went very well indeed. Peter introduced Miss Gabrielle Jerningham to his friends, and according to their several interests they either gaped at her bosom or queried as to whether she was wearing Carême. Thank God for Madame. Every man in the room seemed to have eyes only for Gabby.

Gabby behaved very well and seemed rather subdued by the glittering extravagances of a London ball. She danced fairly well, Peter found. That was an important consideration. He himself thought that dancing ought to be a gentleperson’s primary form of exercise, and he rarely sat out even a rousing country dance. He left more arcane forms of exercise to his brother, who, now that he couldn’t ride a horse, spent hours stripped to the skin and performing grunting contortions.

Peter’s favorite dance was the polonaise, and to his delight, Gabby danced it commendably. It was a slow, stately dance that appeared simple to the onlooker. But it depended on split-second timing and languid motion. There was nothing more distasteful than jerky movements or someone rushing the beat.

All in all, Peter was more than satisfied with his new betrothed. Acquaintances clustered about him and complimented him on his future wife’s exquisite taste in clothing, her ladylike demeanor, her graceful bearing on the ballroom floor. Countess Maria Sefton had commiserated with him over his father’s illness and had announced that she would send vouchers to Almack’s. He didn’t even have to ask. The lascivious Prince of Wales had elbowed Peter in the chest and whispered that his bride was a true dasher, with the voice of a siren. Peter didn’t hear anything sirenlike about Gabby’s voice, but he didn’t argue. That was high praise from Prinny.

Thus when Gabby returned from a speedy version of Jenny Pluck Pears and wanly pleaded exhaustion, Peter allowed that they might retire for a moment onto the balcony.

“What you need is fresh air,” Peter announced, ignoring Gabby’s pleas that they retire for the evening. It was only two in the morning, and no one was even thinking of departing. But obviously it took time to develop the fortitude required of an English gentlewoman. Under no circumstances were ladies allowed to flag or look anything less than perfectly attired and coiffed. He had kept a sharp eye on Gabby’s hair and had already sent her away twice to have it pinned up.

“Lady Sylvia seems to be quite exhausted,” Gabby said in desperation. Her chaperone had been dozing in a chair at the side of the ballroom for the last half hour.

Peter shrugged. “She always naps. She’ll wake up for supper, and no one will think the less of you for it.”

That hadn’t been Gabby’s point. If those chairs weren’t so spindly and uncomfortable, she could go to sleep herself.

“We shall visit the balcony and inspect the gardens.”

Gabby shivered. A Mr. Barlow had taken her out on the balcony earlier in the evening, and she had almost turned into ice. It was virtually December, after all. Why, any moment she might get struck on the head with a huge ice ball. It was not the weather to be outside, especially with her entire bosom exposed.

But Peter was towing her toward one of the three doors leading to small balconies overlooking the gardens. Gabby sighed. It had been, to her mind, a miserably dreary evening. She couldn’t count the number of gentlemen who had accidentally touched her chest or rubbed her back. She felt like a plucked chicken that kept getting pinched by housewives looking for the very plumpest fowl.

The balcony was just as cold as she remembered. Peter left the door wide open. “We are engaged,” he explained, “but I would not want to give anyone cause to question your reputation.”

Gabby opened her mouth and almost remarked that Mr. Barlow had closed the doors. But then she thought better of it. Oddly enough, she found her future husband quite difficult to confide in. Much more so than Quill. That was probably because she was in love with Peter, Gabby reminded herself.