Fallen (9 page)

She was well snared, however. Forced to go, for he had asked it of her. She tried to tell herself that none of it would matter, that soon she would cross the sea and forget all about England and the Marchwells. And Julian.

For the first time she wondered if perhaps she should marry him. He had asked her in all sincerity, and she rather thought she would not be receiving any other offers. She sighed.

Marriage was not possible. Although he seemed to like her, she knew he did not truly want her. Not to tie his future to. Not to journey with through a life of passion and laughter, as her parents had.

No, if she could not have that, she would take nothing less. It would be better to make her own way than to accept a dry loveless bond such as Melvin and Hildegard shared.

Finished with her work, she restored her tools to the shed and returned to the house. If she could coax the cook into a few pails of hot water, a bath would soothe her nerves. With effort, she might make the process of dressing stretch into the afternoon.

Entering her room, she was astonished to find a strange maid in it. A tall girl with an impressive bosom and laughing brown eyes was laying out one of the new gowns and its underthings. The fine garments shone in the shabby environs. The room had never seen such a display of finery. Izzy blushed to realize that even the maid's dress was much better than the one she herself wore.

"Hello, miss. I'm Ellie. Milady sent me to help you get ready for tonight, miss. A near thing it is, too."

Bemused, Izzy allowed the strapping brunette to remove her shabby gown and sit her down at her dressing table.

"Milady said you 'ad some fine points to you, and you see, she's right. Look at all this hair, miss. Oy, it'll be a pleasure to dress it. And you're so dainty, why you'll look like a fairy princess in that blue gown, see if you won't. Milady ordered all new underthings for your gowns, so we'll be startin' from the skin out, now. Best we get you in the bath. We've scarce enough time as it is."

Izzy hated to interrupt her bright chatter, but when she informed Ellie that her bath must wait, the girl laughed. "No, miss. I have your tub all prepared behind yon screen. Milady, told me not to let the help get in me way, you see. Now, in you go."

Izzy let Ellie ease her into the soothing bath and begin to wash her hair.

"Law, miss. Such a head o' hair you got. Clear down to your waist it is. Can't bob it, no, miss, though 'tis the fashion. You got a best feature, you don't go loppin' it off. I can do it Grecian, maybe, or tie it all up and let it fall."

"Ellie?" Izzy asked, although she already knew. "Who is milady?"

"Why, Milady Bottomly, miss. She sent me because she knew you'd be all atwist about lookin' fair for the ball. So I packed up me trunk full of secrets and here I am."

"Secrets?"

"Law, miss, you don't think milady has a few secrets? It takes a bit o' work, it does, bein' that beautiful every day. Not that milady isn't just stunnin' even fresh from the bath," the maid claimed staunchly. "But milady knows how to stay that pretty all the time."

Having never given much thought to beauty or its upkeep, Izzy now wondered what Celia had got her into.

After six hours of bathing, oiling, buffing, massaging, tweezing, snipping, and hair-pulling, Izzy had decided that being plain had definite advantages. But Ellie's cheer and unending chatter about milady made the time pass quickly and before she realized, it was time to don her gown and meet Julian downstairs.

" 'Tis lucky that milady decided on two sets of gloves to match each gown. You must never go without 'em, miss. Not with those hands. I haven't seen the like since my granny used to beat the wash by the river. Me mum's used 'er hands all her life, but they're soft as butter compared to yours.

"You keep this cream here, miss, and use it every night and mornin'. And gloves for all work. Never heard of a lady workin' her hands like you."

Izzy was not listening. She was gazing dumbfounded at the girl in the mirror.

It could not be her. This girl was nearly pretty. Yes, a nearly pretty girl with beautiful hair in a gorgeous gown of blue-shot silk. Closing her eyes a moment, she peeked again. The gown hugged her waist in the newest style, and the boned underthings pressed her breasts high. The horizontal line of the neck revealed more bosom than she had known she owned.

She had a figure! Not the finest, perhaps, yet one that was definitely shown to advantage by the lovely gown.

And her hair! What had once been a mess of unshaped, unruly coils now fell in gleaming tresses to her waist. The style Ellie had invented for her pulled the mass back to a knot, twined with pearls and ribbon, then left it to cascade in well-tamed curls down her back. Tiny ringlets framed her face, softening the great weight of her hair and easing the style next to her skin. Never had she imagined her hair could look so sophisticated.

Her face looked much the same, since Ellie had eschewed paint in favor of Izzy's natural complexion, but the relaxed style of her hair ornamented her ordinary features and the lapis sheen of the blue gown turned her skin radiant.

The dress was not the usual innocuous white gown of a girl in her first season. Rather, it was the definition of drama. The blue was a rich sapphire, the sort of color her mother had worn boldly, no matter the fashion of the day.

Izzy smiled. Dear Celia. She could not wait to thank her, so she settled for bestowing a delighted kiss on a startled Ellie.

When Spears informed Ellie that his lordship had arrived, Izzy stopped breathing. She wanted Julian to see her transformation more than anything in the world, but she was apprehensive, as well. What if he didn't like it? What if he didn't see it? She wasn't beautiful, she never would be, not with all the fine feathers money could buy.

Was he expecting better? Had he hoped she had hidden beauty? Even though they were only playing at this game of betrothal, Izzy found she wanted to be perfect for the part. Gulping for air, Izzy felt behind her for the chair.

"Now, none o' that, miss! You look real fine, you do. And you're a real lady, too. You got dignity, and a real kind way about you. It makes you look even finer, that manner o' yours. You just go be yourself, miss, and the nabobs'll be eatin' out o' your hand, see if they won't."

Izzy really heard only one word. Dignity. Yes, if nothing else, her pride demanded dignity. She straightened, taking deep breaths. After a moment of fervent prayer, she gathered her elegant velvet wrap and stepped through the door.

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Julian stood, leaning one elbow on the marble Adonis in the Marchwells' front hall, nearly comatose from boredom. Izzy's cousin, Millie, a washed-out blonde infant with echoes of Hildegard in her face and manner, chattered incessantly at the blank wall of his inattention.

Hildegard waited behind him, berating her limp rag of a husband yet again, apparently for his very existence. Spears stood stiffly at attention by the entrance, doing his best to look as if he lived merely to open doors for the Marchwell clan. He was not convincing, but he was more interesting than "the cousins," as Izzy called them.

When Millie fell silent, he did not notice. When Hildegard's badgering halted, he experienced only relief. It was not until Spears shed his hard-won butlerian manner and exclaimed "Oy!" in a fine East End accent, that Julian raised his eyes to see a pretty young stranger descending the stairs.

What hair
. Julian felt the first stirrings of male interest. And quite a neat little figure, as well. How many cousins did Izzy—

"Izzy!" exclaimed Millie. "You look so…"

Izzy? Blackworth straightened away from the statue with a jerk that nearly sent Adonis back to the quarry.

Izzy? He looked up into her face, trying to find the plain little wildflower he knew. Her eyes were gray, he noticed for the first time. No, blue-gray. They seemed to change color even as he watched, darkening at his continued regard.

With her hair allowed to frame her face with small, loose curls, and her porcelain skin set off by the azure gown, his Izzy was pretty. Without realizing it, he was pulled to the lowest step, gazing up at her where she seemed frozen halfway down. For the span of three breaths, they remained thus.

So pretty. He had anticipated some improvement, had hoped she would be presentable, but he had expected nothing like this. She shone, in her shimmering gown. Her face was dear and familiar, yet transformed. Her eyes seemed huge, drawing his gaze again and again. So dark now, as she watched him, awaiting a response.

His reaction, oddly enough, was not one of approval. He felt strange, as if he had plucked a common daisy, only to find a rose in his hand. It was a favorable substitution, obviously, yet he found he missed the daisy.

Nonsense, he scolded himself. She was perfect. Everyone would see her now and have no doubt that she was the wild seductress of Lord Cherrymore's house party. It was exactly what he had intended all along. His misgivings were utter tripe.

Abruptly, he laughed, a great single shout of triumphant laughter. Clapping his hands once, he whirled on the gaping Marchwells.

"You! You were surprised, yes? Come, Izzy. Let's go show the Polite World what had me crawling into dark bedrooms. Come, my dear. I cannot wait to show you off." Grasping her hand, he towed her briskly off to the coach. Tossing her in with great good humor, he ordered the driver onward, taking no notice of the three stunned people left standing in the drive.

In her shadowed corner, Izzy sat silent during the long carriage ride through London.

Her reticence disturbed her companion not at all. Julian seemed not to notice. He merely looked out on the deepening night, with only the occasional amused glance and smug chuckle directed her way.

Each instance irritated her more. By the time they arrived, Izzy was quietly, thoroughly furious.

As the carriage halted, Julian jumped out to lower the steps himself and help her down. Touching his hand as little as possible, she descended with icy composure.

Before her stood a gracious townhouse set like a jewel in a necklace of other lovely homes. The relatively quiet street was lined with tall trees and smelled refreshingly of only woodsmoke and a touch of horse. It was a change from the air usually encountered in London. The Marchwells' neighborhood tended more to coal soot and the smell of the markets, with their merchandise both animal and vegetable.

Realizing that the street was too peaceful, Izzy turned to Julian sharply.

"There is no ball here tonight."

"Finally worried over your reputation, my dear?"

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "That does not concern me. I merely do not wish to be late."

"No, the ball will not begin for more than an hour. Since it will last well into the morning, I thought I should feed you first."

Like a horse, she thought. Like a pet that will soon be asked to perform. Fuming anew, she followed him past the bowing butler into the beautiful house. As the stately silver-haired man took her wrap, she could not help but appreciate the surroundings she found herself in. Years of residence in the decorating chamber-of-horrors had left her starved for beauty.

Gleaming, ungilded woodwork adorned the walls, the lovely natural grain
contrasting with the silk hung there in rich, soothing tones of blue. The
elegant benches furnishing the front hall were tufted in a deep blue-green
velvet that harmonized soothingly with the vibrant Aubusson runner. Though distracted by her ire, a part of Izzy relished the peacefully tasteful setting.

"This is my house," Julian announced. "I cannot live with my father, you can imagine why, hence I bought this a few years ago to use during the season."

He strode through the elegant hall to a small, intimate dining room.

Another example of tasteful restraint in ivory and green, the room would have delighted Izzy had she not been so disturbed. Ordering a cold repast from another unobtrusive servant, Julian waved her into a chair, seating her with absent-minded courtesy.

He immediately began to infuriate her again.

"Tonight you shall meet so many people you will not be able to keep them straight. Do not worry. Simply call everyone 'my lord' or 'my lady' and you cannot go far wrong. If they are not titled, they shall be too flattered to contradict you. Moreover, if they are not titled, they do not really matter anyway." Oblivious to her rising ire, Julian went on. "Do try to keep track of the dukes and duchesses. They tend to become a bit shirty if you don't remember to 'Your Grace' them."

"Julian," she interrupted tightly.

"Yes?"

"Stop it."

He blinked. "Stop what?'

"Stop treating me like a performing dog or a child who is going to chew her hair and scratch her rear!"

"Izzy!" He was scandalized.

Pushing back her chair, she stood. "What? Are you surprised that I can be crude? I would have thought you expected it, by the way you speak to me. Julian, I may be inexperienced in the whirl of society, but that doesn't mean I do not know the rules. My mother was the daughter of an earl, my father was a knight. I may not have 'lady' in front of my name, but that doesn't mean I'm not one!"

What a picture she made. She was leaning over him, her hands fisted on her hips and her waist-length curls sweeping over her shoulder. Her color was heightened by anger, and her breasts were heaving with indignation.

Petite and fragile, yet fearless. A pocket Amazon. He grinned up at her.

"You're right, Isadorable. I'm sorry."

His apology took all the starch out of her spine and she sank limply into her chair. He had to lean close to hear her whisper.

"Oh, Julian. I am so nervous, I cannot eat. I can barely breathe. Please, do not make me go. Can we not simply stay here? We can play piquet, or chess, or—"

"Izzy."

"Yes?"

"Stop it."

She stopped. He rose to lean one hip on the table and took her hand. Even in her glove, her fingers were so cold in his that he began rubbing them unaware.