Miss Lacey's Last Fling (A Regency Romance) (4 page)

Chapter 3

Aunt Fanny threw herself wholeheartedly into the business of turning Rosie into a pattern card of fashion. Rosie was quite sure her aunt was thoroughly enjoying herself.

"You have great potential, my dear," she had said. "We must do what we can to set you off to your best advantage. When we are through, I guarantee you will have all the gentlemen's heads turning."

"You forget, Aunt Fanny, that I am not in the market for a husband."

"Even so, a woman should never stop trying to turn heads."

She had gained her aunt's approval during their initial visit to Madame Dussault. When the modiste learned it was Rosie's first trip to London, she brought out muslins and sarcenets in pastel shades befitting a young woman making her debut into Society. Rosie had objected.

"I am neither young nor 'coming out,'" she'd said. "I am merely visiting my aunt and have no desire to dress as though I am just out of the schoolroom. I believe I should prefer more color. Like these, perhaps." She indicated a deep blue satin and an emerald green silk.

Once Madame Dussault had understood Rosie's requirements, and had received a discreet nod of approval from Aunt Fanny, she and her assistants entered into the business with enthusiasm. Except for an aversion to pastels, Rosie had little notion of what she wanted, or even what might look best. It had been years since she'd given much thought to her wardrobe. But the latest fashions, to her backward rustic sensibilities, looked fussy and overdone. She had a sinking notion that when Madame Dussault was through, she would look like some Bartholomew baby, when she had hoped to look sophisticated, worldly—like someone who could rightfully flirt with a notorious rake. Or two.

Without a word passing between them, Aunt Fanny seemed to understand exactly what Rosie wanted. She scoffed at the elaborate flounces, frills, and furbelows, and reminded Madame that her niece was no adolescent.

"Look at those bones, Madame," her aunt had said as she brushed a gloved finger along Rosie's jaw. "It would be criminal to obscure such refinement with overwrought decoration and excess ornament. Color, texture, line. That is what is important."

Rosie marveled at her aunt's innate sense of style, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was to benefit from it. Fanny insisted that the auburn highlights in Rosie's brown hair would best be brought out with deep reds and coppers and mulberries, that her height should be emphasized with vertical lines and fewer horizontal rows of flounces, that her square shoulders should be downplayed with deep, round necklines that stopped short of the shoulders and would also emphasize her bosom.

Rosie hadn't ever considered that she had much of a bosom. But then, she had never worn dresses that revealed quite so much of it.

Fanny had chastised Rosie on her posture from the first day, and began at once to drill her on proper comportment and carriage. Throughout the fittings, she sent silent messages to Rosie reminding her to stand straight, to throw her shoulders back, to hold her head high. Rosie thought her neck too long and skinny and felt ridiculous stretching it out like a goose, but did as she was told.

She was shown fashion plates and sample garments, bolt after bolt of fabric, and trimming of every sort. She was draped and pinned and measured until she thought she might collapse from exhaustion. By the time they left the shop several hours later, Rosie had ordered morning dresses, promenade dresses, carriage dresses, evening dresses, and ball gowns, as well as capes, pelisses, and spencers. She had also procured an assortment of silk undergarments and several rather daring corsets that gave her more curves than she would have thought possible.

The next few days were spent buying slippers and stockings and gloves and reticules and bonnets and every other sort of accessory that Aunt Fanny thought necessary. And finally, the hairdresser was sent for. Monsieur Julien, her aunt told her, was the best and most famous coiffeur in London. Rosie felt as if she were meeting royalty and almost cowed under his Gallic glare. She let her hair down and stood rigid as he circled her, touching her hair and holding out a thick lock to examine it.

"Off!" he exclaimed. "All off. Eet eez too much."

Rosie experienced a moment of panic. What if he cut off all her hair and it looked horrible? Her desire to look fashionable would be thwarted, and there would be no time to grow it back. She chewed on her lower lip and considered the matter.

"You refuse to cut eet?" Monsieur Julien said, his voice raising in outrage. "Zen I leave. I cannot work weeth zeez... zeez mess."

"Please, Monsieur," Aunt Fanny said in her most charming tone, "do not be hasty. It is a big decision to cut off so much hair, is it not? You must be patient with Miss Lacey. She needs your skill with the scissors. I am certain she is willing to put herself in your hands, are you not, my dear?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. "Yes, of course. Please do what you think best, Monsieur."

"Eet eez best to cut eet off," he said, and led her to a chair. "Eet eez too 'eavy and your face eez too narrow."

He draped a cloth about her shoulders, and within minutes the floor was thick with Rosie's hair. He continued to cut, using smaller scissors once the length had been chopped off. Rosie had worn her hair long all her life. The sudden absence of its weight, the cool air upon her neck, was positively liberating. She had no idea how it would look, but it felt wonderful.

Monsieur Julien stepped back and studied his work.
"
Et voil
à
." he said. "
Parfait
."

Rosie glanced at her aunt who smiled and nodded her head. "It is wonderful," she said. "See for yourself."

Rosie took a deep breath before looking in the hand mirror she'd been given. When she did look, she almost failed to recognize the face in the reflection. Soft curls framed her cheeks and brow. Curls?

Monsieur's deft fingers primped and fluffed at his creation while Rosie continued to stare in disbelief. "Where did all these curls come from? You did not use an iron."

"Ze iron eez not
necessaire
. Ze curls are
naturelle
, Mademoiselle. Ze too long hair eez too 'eavy. Eet stretch ze curl straight. But Monsieur Julien make
parfait
,
non
?"

Rosie tilted her head from side to side as she admired her new look in the mirror. She could not keep the smile from her face. "Yes. It is indeed perfect. Thank you so much, Monsieur."

The Frenchman smiled and turned to Aunt Fanny. "She eez beautiful,
non
?"

"She is indeed."

And Rosie felt beautiful. Or close enough. Her nose was still too long and her mouth too wide and her cheeks too thin, but she felt almost beautiful for the first time in her life.

The next day, when she had dressed in one of her new evening frocks in preparation for Lady Wadsworth's rout, Rosie stared at her reflection in the pier glass and was pleased with what she saw. The dress was claret-colored crepe worn over a pink gossamer satin slip. The sleeves were short and full, composed of alternating panels of claret and pink, gathered into lattice-patterned bands of the same colors. A similar lattice band encircled the high waist. The bodice dipped shockingly low and revealed so much bosom that Rosie felt almost naked.

She could hardly believe the woman in the mirror was the same one who had left Devon only a week ago. That Rosie would never have dreamed of wearing such a dress in public and would likely have been frightened to death at the prospect of meeting friends of her notorious aunt. The new Rosie was looking forward to it. Perhaps she would meet more rakish gentlemen such as Mr. Davenant.

Tonight would be the true beginning of her adventure. She was attending her first Society event, wearing an elegant and sophisticated gown, and feeling ready to take on the world.

The new dress and hairstyle acted almost as a disguise. Or perhaps costume was a more accurate term, for donning it gave her the courage to act a part. At least for the short time she would be in London, she would not be the shy, plain, selfless older sister from Devon. She would play a new role: an elegant, sophisticated woman of the world. No longer Rosie, but Rosalind.

And Rosalind was ready for the curtain to rise on the first act.

She had never been to a rout and wasn't even quite sure what one was, but Fanny had assured her it was the best sort of gathering to begin her foray into Society. Rosie had been shown the invitation, which had simply said that Lord and Lady Wadsworth would be at home on Tuesday evening. It all sounded quite informal, and she worried that her dress was both too formal and too immodest for what sounded like a small gathering. Fanny had only laughed and told her she had a lot to learn about London Society.

She did indeed. She was astonished to discover that a rout was neither informal nor intimate.

It took them almost an hour to reach the Wadsworth townhouse, though it was only a handful of streets away from Fanny's residence on Berkeley Square. There was an incredible crowd of carriages queuing up before the house. Every window of the palatial building was uncovered by either shutter or curtain to reveal a blaze of light within and what appeared to be a great assembly of people milling about.

Though it would have been easier to disembark and walk the few steps to the entrance, apparently that was simply not done. One waited one's turn and only left the carriage when it had reached the entrance.

Rosie's amazement continued once they had finally entered the house and mounted the grand staircase. It seemed that every room had been stripped bare of furniture, making room for a teeming crowd of beautifully dressed people. After being greeted by Lady Wadsworth, Rosie had stayed by Fanny's side as she made her slow way through the series of apartments.

No one sat. There were no cards, no music, no dancing, and no food, though liveried waiters made their way through the crowds balancing trays of drinks. It was altogether a very odd affair, as far as Rosie was concerned. But oddly enjoyable.

Fanny introduced Rosie to more people than she could begin to remember, a great majority of them gentlemen. She could not help but notice an appreciative gleam in more than one gentleman's eye. It was surely the gown, with its scandalously low neckline and the modish shorter hem that revealed more than a hint of ankle. Or perhaps it was her new cropped hairstyle with the profusion of curls framing her face, confined by a demiturban hardly wider than a ribbon.

Whatever it was that brought so many approving glances, Miss Rosalind Lacey had become a center of attention. It was a heady experience for one who had never thought herself more than passably handsome.

She had done the right thing in coming to Aunt Fanny. Even if the disease took her tomorrow, it would have all been worth it.

*          *          *

Max moved through the crowd like an automaton. Every move, every look, every word had been performed a thousand times before. It was almost ritualistic in its sameness, but without the spiritual nourishment of ritual. In fact, it was all rather numbing to the spirit.

Sheer, unadulterated boredom.

One might ask why a man who so hated these wretched events continued to attend them. But Max had no need to ask himself such a question. Unfortunately, the answer was a predictable as the event itself.

Max always came looking for something new— something or someone to relieve the boredom, even for a moment. Something that might give him a reason not to take Freddie's route. But Max knew in his heart that what he sought did not exist. He'd seen it all, done it all, again and again. Nothing and no one piqued his interest anymore.

True, Max could easily find temporary escape in the arms of any number of willing women even now casting significant glances his way. No doubt he would. In fact, almost before realizing what he was doing, he answered Lady Heatherington's lifted brow with a discreet nod. She was a beautiful woman and a lively bed partner. And so, there would be momentary sport this evening after all.

But what of the morning?

He was tired of crawling out of some woman's bed before the sun rose, dressing in rumpled clothes, and making a hasty exit before dawn. He was tired of waking midday in his own bed, alone, with head throbbing from too much drink, the smell of stale perfume on his skin, and God knows how many vowels in his pockets.

Beautiful women practically at his beck and call. Sinfully lucky at the gaming tables. Money to burn and no obligations. Max was the envy of almost every man he knew.

Yet he felt old and tired and sick to death of his life.

It wasn't just the repetition. A good deal of what he did was worth repeating. An evening in Eugenia Heatherington's bed, for instance. No, it was something else that had begun to nag at him of late. Something that had never concerned him before, that only last year would have made him laugh if he had given it a single thought.

He was thirty-six years old and had done nothing with his life. There. He'd admitted it, if only to himself. His entire life he'd done nothing but womanize and drink and gamble, which had been enough until recently.

In fact, for quite some time debauchery had meant everything to him, had become his reason for existing. He had nothing else to live for, after all. Max had no career, no wife, no children, no charities, no interests. He supported himself by gambling, both in the hells and on the Exchange; and though he'd been rather successful, it wasn't much of a legacy.