LADY ISABEL FESTER 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.
SUCH 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 s
truck 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.
She was absolutely frozen, but perhaps—perhaps this was a good time for their first kiss? Gabby smiled.
She drifted closer to Peter, who looked up in surprise. “It’s quite, quite cold, Peter,” Gabby said. She didn’t want to ask him for a kiss. Peter should kiss her the first time of his own initiative.
Peter peered at her. “Would you like to go inside, then? Have you woken up? You mustn’t look sleepy in the ballroom, Gabby. A lady should always look lively and refreshed, even when in the throes of exhaustion.”
Gabby was now standing so close to Peter that she could easily touch him. She was aware, given the arctic temperature, that her nipples were readily visible through the bodice of Madame’s gown. She had a clear memory of Quill’s groan at discovering the same physical fact in the drawing room.
But Peter was showing no signs of looking at her chest, or of kissing her, for that matter. In fact, he was looking rather discomforted. “Peter,” Gabby said in her sweetest, most docile tone. “Since we are to be married, I think it would be acceptable for you to kiss me.”
Peter practically recoiled. “Absolutely not! No such action is acceptable at a ball, under any circumstances.”
There was an awkward silence.
Gabby swallowed hard. “Do you really mean to say that you don’t wish to kiss me?”
Peter thrust his hand through his brown curls. “Of course I want to kiss you, Gabby.”
Gabby looked at him mutely, appeal in her eyes.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Peter exclaimed. He tipped up her chin and put his lips on hers.
Gabby stood still and closed her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass herself by being too forward.
But Peter showed no inclination toward great intimacy. His lips pressed on hers slightly, and a second later withdrew. Gabby opened her eyes. Peter was smiling at her.
“Well, that’s over,” he said jovially. “I expect that was your first kiss, wasn’t it, Gabby?”
Gabby hesitated, and then threw herself against his chest and pasted her lips to his. Luckily he was considerably shorter than Quill and she was able to reach his mouth.
Peter gasped in shock.
She thought he was opening his lips, precisely as Quill had taught her was the fashion in kissing, and so she followed suit.
But Peter’s hands did not wrap around her. Instead, he grabbed her bare shoulders and furiously pushed her away.
“My God!” Peter was appalled. He was disgusted. His stomach was churning. “Are you crazed?” He looked at his betrothed. Her hair was tumbling down again, and her nipples were—by God, she was precisely what Prinny had said. When Prinny had called her a dasher, he didn’t mean a person of style, but a coquette. Prinny was warning him! Prinny was his friend, and that was no compliment—it was a warning!
“You are, that is, you’re debauched,” he managed to choke out.
Gabby wrapped her arms around her shivering chest. Peter was the most punctilious person she’d ever met in her life. After all, Mr. Barlow showed every intention of kissing her on the balcony, until she ducked under his arm and returned to the ballroom; he wasn’t overwrought about propriety.
“And your hair! You even look tawdry!”
“Peter,” Gabby said in her most reasonable voice, “we are engaged. I am persuaded that no one would cry scandal if we briefly embraced.”
Peter cast a haunted look at the open door. “Anyone could have seen us! And if they had, you would be an outcast in London society.”
Gabby bit her lip. “I feel that you are exaggerating,” she said carefully. “But I shall retire to the ladies’ chamber.” She walked through the door. Then she popped her head back onto the balcony. “Would you have kissed me in the carriage on the way home?”
Peter’s stomach churned again. “Absolutely not! Do you think Lady Sylvia wouldn’t notice?”
“Well, would you have kissed me if Lady Sylvia wasn’t there?”
“Lady Sylvia or my mother will always be with us, until we are married,” Peter retorted. “It would be most improper for us to be unchaperoned.”
Gabby disappeared, presumably taking herself off to fix her hair. Peter took a deep breath and touched his cravat. Luckily it didn’t appear to be too crushed.
A cheerful voice broke into his thoughts. “Knew it had to be you out here, Peter, my lad!” One of his friends, Lord Simon Putney, walked through the door and took out a small cigar. “Saw your betrothed leaving the balcony. Never thought you’d do so well for yourself. She’s a beauty. Her breasts!” Simon kissed his fingers. “I always thought you’d marry one of those icy types, if you married at all,” he continued genially. “But you’ve caught the best one of the Season!”
Simon lowered his voice and gave Peter a manly sort of look. “You know what I mean. She looks as if she’ll liven up your bedchamber, old fellow.”
Peter did. In fact, he was so gloomily aware of the truth of his friend’s assessment that he stayed out on the balcony for a half hour, smoking one of Simon’s cigars. Normally he would never do such a thing, given that the pungent odor of tobacco was so difficult to remove from clothing. But it was comforting, under the circumstances.
The only problem was that Simon proved to be intoxicated, and he waxed more and more enthusiastic about Gabby’s prime feature—her breasts. Peter restrained himself from saying irritably that if he wanted to buy a cow he would have gone to the country. The pure unkindness of the remark was not fair. Gabby’s chest was not her fault.
Gabby, meanwhile, was sitting in the ladies’ chamber having her hair pinned up yet again when Sophie Foakes, the Duchess of Gisle, entered the room.
“Miss Jerningham!” Sophie exclaimed with delight.
“Do forgive me for not rising, Your Grace,” Gabby said with a smile. The maid still had some twenty hairpins to apply, and if Gabby moved, the whole process would have to begin again.
“Oh, surely we needn’t be so formal,” Sophie exclaimed as she plumped herself into a chair next to Gabby. “Now, are you enjoying London, Miss Jerningham?”
“Please, will you call me Gabby?” The question was impetuous, but the duchess seemed very friendly.
“I would adore to,” Sophie replied promptly, “as long as you call me Sophie. We shall scandalize the old biddies.”
“Why would it be scandalous?” Gabby felt a bit wary about causing scandal, given Peter’s admonishments.
“Oh, it isn’t really, Gabby. It’s just that women of my mother’s generation who have known each other since the cradle are still greeting each other as Lady Such and So. Now, why haven’t I seen you in Hyde Park or at my reception? I sent you a card.”
Gabby looked about. They were the only ladies in the chamber at the moment. “I had to wait until Madame Carême’s clothing was delivered,” she confided. “Peter was most adamant about my remaining in the house until I was properly attired.”
Sophie frowned. “That doesn’t sound like sweet Peter.” Then she thought for a moment. “Well, of course, your appearance would be most i
mportant to him. You look splendid, by the way. I wear a good deal of Carême myself. Tomorrow I intend to demand a small train on the gowns she is making up for me. I fully expect that you will start a rage!”
“Perhaps,” Gabby said, and then chuckled. “I think it’s more likely that I shall start a scandal. I am not persuaded that this bodice will stay in place.”
“Oh, it will,” Sophie assured her. “We have approximately the same figure and I have never had a problem in that respect. Madame has a magical touch. Goodness, I’m tired!” she added, fanning herself idly. “I always find this point in the evening simply unbearable.”
Gabby looked at her curiously. “Why not go home, then?”
“Oh, it improves,” Sophie replied. “They’ll call for the supper dance soon. After eating, most people find a second wind. And, of course, by then the gentlemen in the card room have become quite inebriated. That always creates some interest,” she said with a mischievous twinkle.
“How are drunken men of interest?”
“They garner their courage.”
At Gabby’s questioning look, she continued. “They approach women who are not their wives, or they begin absurd arguments and get themselves into a primitive display of male temper.”
“That does sound more interesting,” Gabby observed.
“Ladies, too, throw caution to the wind and wander off into the garden unchaperoned. That wakes up my mother and the rest of the more severe dowagers.” She smiled impishly. “I used to count the evening quite wasted if I didn’t give my mother at least one reason to scold me on the way home.”
Gabby smiled back rather uncertainly. Then she asked, in a near whisper, “Were you ever kissed on a balcony? I mean, before you were married?”
Sophie grinned. “Yes, of course, I’ve been kissed on a balcony—many balconies, as a matter of fact.”
“Did it cause a scandal?”
“Oh, certainly,” Sophie said blithely. “Until I married Patrick, I was practically the most scandalous baggage in the ton. My mother used to lecture me all the way to a ball and then rant all the way home. I have some lovely memories.”