by Jess Russell
She placed her fingertips against her eyelids and sighed.
Light knifed its way between the pulled curtains. He could not stay. He would be groveling at her feet in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Like some kind of vampire, he escaped into the hall before he turned to ash.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The leaning tower of Pisa.
Anne stared in horror at the pale woman in the mirror.
Baedeker’s Guide to Italy lay at the top of her growing stack of books. The tower fascinated her. How had it managed to stand all these years? How could hair—
“Non, do not touch, it is perfect, madame.” But Yvette’s expression did not seem to match her compliment.
Her maid re-adjusted a huge tiara that must weigh nearly half a stone. It crowned the mass of loops and frizzed curls that had once been her straight-as-a-pin hair, and continued to list no matter how many pins the girl jammed into Anne’s head.
The acrid tang of burned hair, mixed with a heavy floral perfume, made her already nervous stomach heave.
Oblivious, Yvette wielded her various curling irons with such ferocity Anne shuddered to think of encountering the maid on a field of battle. She had ended up closing her eyes for sanity, whilst her scalp had been scraped raw and her hair wrenched into its present tower. She took it as a tolerably good omen that only one of her ears had been branded. “Oof!” A pair of jeweled combs joined the tiara in a trilogy of pain.
“There.” Yvette stepped back, her hands held out in front of her prepared to catch whatever might fall from her masterpiece. “Stop!”
Anne froze.
“Don’t move yer ’ead!” The French maid suddenly turned a cockney. “Only the eyes. Think of yerself as a queen this night. You are regal.” The maid rolled her wrists, punctuating the exaggerated rolled “r,” her accent now firmly back in place along with her confidence.
The headache ran up the back of her neck, circled the crown of her head, and pushed out toward her ears.
“It ez time, your ladyship. Lord Austin ez waiting.”
Tentatively she fingered the heavy matching gems circling her throat. Lord Austin had brought them earlier in the day.
Where was her husband? For nearly four weeks he had only seen fit to steal into her bed every night and then leave with the dawn without so much as a word. Well, that was not strictly true; he did murmur some words, but she was usually incapable of deciphering them as she was otherwise occupied.
Resigned, she hefted herself out of the slipper chair—no easy feat. The new corset bit into her, squeezing her breath to somewhere just under her collarbones. She gazed longingly at her bed, but teetered to the door on her new high-heeled shoes.
“Remember, madame, regal,” Yvette admonished.
Lord Austin and Margaret awaited her by the stairway.
Dear heavens. She stopped cold upon seeing her ladyship in her finery. Anne looked down—ah! She caught the tilting tiara just in time—righted the thing, and then cautiously cast her eyes at her own gown which seemed a smaller version of the one in front of her.
“Ravishing, simply ravishing.” His lordship bowed deeply. The bow, she suspected, was partly executed to cover the grimace on his face.
“Did I not tell you, husband? She will be the belle of the ball.” Margaret’s horsey grin showed all her teeth. And gums. “I hope you do not mind, Lady Devlin, your gown proved to be so stunning I had Bathilde make mine to a similar pattern.”
Yes, she was afraid that had been the case. “Not at all, Lady Austin.” She could not go so far as to offer a reciprocal compliment.
“Oh, and I see Yvette was able to achieve the hairstyle I had in mind. Unfortunately, I am too tall for such a creation, but you—well, mark my words, no other lady will touch such perfection.”
“I trust no one will touch it. I fear if they do, it will fall around my ears.”
Margaret did not seem to comprehend her little joke.
“Let us descend, ladies. I believe my brother is already waiting with the duke.”
Austin took her left arm and Margaret’s right. What a trio they must make—Lord Austin’s elegant and understated splendor book ended by absurdity.
Once again, she resisted the urge to roll her neck. Regal. You must think of yourself as a queen this night. Then she saw him.
He stood utterly magnificent in his black cut-a-way tails and pristine white linen. An utter stranger, and utterly—
Aghast.
Oh, why had she not trusted her instincts? One look at his face confirmed the horrible, irrefutable truth. The hours in Madame Bathilde’s and Margaret’s company had been tedious at the time, but it was nothing to seeing the frozen surprise on her husband’s face.
Copious amounts of French floss now tickled her neck and bosom. And feathers. Her nose twitched. Please, you must not sneeze. Certainly no Owl this evening, more like an overblown peacock. If only she could be an ostrich instead. She would have turned around to escape back to her rooms, regal be damned, but for Austin’s firm arm keeping her fixed to his side.
How she made it to the bottom of the staircase she never knew, but the gorgeous stranger who was her husband now stood beside her. Being two feet from him was rather dizzying. Never seeing him so formally dressed, she could have gazed at him for hours, but her humiliation, and the fact that much of her concentration was employed in keeping her head erect, prevented her from doing much of anything.
“Lady Devlin.”
She cut a glance to her husband.
His mouth had closed. Thank God. His jawline jumped, and she thought she saw one side of his lips twitch. Did he imagine her plight was amusing?
She could not tell because he chose that moment to bend over her hand and kiss her glove. When he straightened, his face was as blank as one of his primed canvases. “I see my dear sister-in-law has been busy.”
“Let me see the chit,” the old duke said from his bath chair as he motioned a footman to wheel him forward. “I hear the dress cost an absolute fortune. Near as much as the new water closet Austin insisted I put in.” His old rheumy eyes shifted over her body. “Hmm, Devlin, if you paid by the yard I’d say you got your money’s worth. A gel this small might have gotten two or three frocks for that amount of fabric. Never understood women’s fashion.” He glanced at Lady Austin, humphed, and then returned his gaze back to Anne. “Gave her the Hatten Rubies, did you, boy?”
“No. I did not.” James looked pointedly at his brother.
“No? Well, they are a bit overwhelming on the marchioness, but then just about everything is, what? Still, it is well they are getting some air. Been in the vault since my great grandfather gave them to his duchess.”
“Shall we go meet our guests?” Her husband offered his arm.
Anne began to nod but felt an infinitesimal shift in her tiara and said, “Yes, my lord.”
Faces and names ran into one another as the crush of over-perfumed humanity streamed by narrowly disguising their disdain. Her dark pool of a headache burst into a raging storm of pain which crashed over her teeth to eddy into the place below her brow, where it settled into a pounding throb.
And this was only the receiving line.
A bewigged footman offered her a flute of champagne. Parched, she gratefully reached for it before realizing she would have to tip her head in order to actually drink.
“Come, we must open the ball.” James deposited the glass into a miraculously waiting hand, took her firmly by the arm, and towed her out into the middle of the room.
“My Lord—” Despite not having drunk a drop, she’d somehow acquired the hiccoughs.
But the music began and his arms surrounded her. She had no time to even get her bearings when the hum of their bodies overtook even the music.
He stepped backward, bringing her with him into what must be a waltz.
At least her fright had caused her hiccoughs to stop. However, her body now hesitated and stuttered as the pressure of his ha
nds signaled her to move. But where and how?
She stumbled, and he caught her. “I see you do not dance.”
“No.”
His jaw flexed again. “Relax. And try to breathe. We’ll get through this.”
She dare not look down at his feet. Oh, how would she manage? She opened her mouth to beg a reprieve. But his steady gaze held her as surely as his arms, telling her she was no coward.
Subtle pressures on her back and gentle squeezes of his hand in hers gave her the cues she needed. But mostly this newfound confidence came from his eyes, locked onto hers. “Down, up, up. There you go,” he murmured as he took her into a turn.
A kaleidoscope of faces and glittering gems whirled by as she found her rhythm, her feet miraculously mirroring his steps. He was an exquisite dancer else she would have been lost.
Bless Bess, she was dancing.
She breathed with the music. Much like lovemaking, every bit of her matched every bit of him, their bodies singing their own unique music. His eyes smiled into hers and everything else disappeared.
“Another turn now.” He need not have spoken; she was ready. His mouth smiled now to match his eyes. She must have smiled back because his lips hitched into his roguish grin. He pulled her slightly tighter to him, her French floss now brushing his waistcoat and cravat, her enormous skirts belling out from the press of his legs.
If only they could waltz right out the open doors, never to return.
But the music had slowed, signaling the denouement. He bowed over her hand. A smattering of applause was soon swallowed in a collective gasp from the surrounding company.
“Lord Devlin,” A dour looking lady dressed in black stood before them. “You look quite recovered. I am glad to see it.”
Every guest seemed to be bent in supplication. James made a deep bow and Anne managed a reasonable curtsy given the encumbrance of her tiara.
“The papers have made a great show over you of late. It is regrettable how they take such an interest in the ton these days. I do not approve. However, they would have nothing to report did people behave as they ought. I had hoped your bride would have a better influence on you”—she gave Anne a stern look—“but, if the rags are to be believed, it appears you continue in your rakish ways?”
“Your Majesty, we are most humbled by your attending our affair.” James turned to Anne. “May I present my bride, Lady Devlin.”
Dear Heavens, was this tiny woman the Queen? All the calm she had achieved during their waltz vanished. Her highness held out her hand, and Anne mimicked her husband. “Your Majesty.”
“Hmm, I like your face, Marchioness. However I do not approve of your gown. One must try to remember less is more. I was entirely too fussy in my youth. Death always brings perspective.” She turned back to James. “While your body appears recovered, I trust your morals have as well.”
The old duke, with Tally guiding his chair, appeared from behind the Queen. Margaret trailed after, followed by Austin.
“I did not dare to hope you would attend, ma’am,” the duke actually smiled. Anne had never seen him do so and was struck by how much James favored his father. “I know you prefer to keep quiet these days.”
“Yes, as quiet as one can with a gaggle of children to tend.” She turned to Anne. “I understand we have hope of a blessed event?”
Did one answer the Queen? Dear God, what was the punishment for lying to your sovereign? She smiled and played shy.
“I can always tell when a lady is increasing.” The Queen looked pointedly at her. “Always.” Margaret coughed and turned away. “Ah, Lady Austin. You’ll be ready to retire soon?” Margaret gawped and nodded. “Hmmm… They say a female child steals its mother’s beauty.”
She turned back to James. “I am most anxious to see what you will produce for the art exhibit.”
“I had not thought to enter anything this year, ma’am, being newly married.”
“Nonsense. You must get back on the horse, as I am doing by attending this evening. Show them the Malvern fortitude. My charity for waifs and strays will thank you for your contribution.” She looked down her nose at James, no small thing as her highness stood at eye level with Anne.
“And when the time comes, you will attend the House of Lords.” It was not a request. “I must depart now.” She turned to the duke. “Malvern, I trust Doctor Gull has done you some good? He worked wonders with the prince.”
“You are all kindness, ma’am. The doctor is most attentive.” The old duke bowed his head.
“I am glad to hear it. One must always be vigilant in supporting good health. It is shoddy to neglect one’s person and squander God’s favors.”
“I am devoted to that end, ma’am. I must see my grandson born.”
“Yes.” The Queen’s gaze found Anne’s. “Yes, I look forward to that as well, Malvern. And to the Marquess’ painting. Until then, I bid you all a good evening.”
The Queen turned and then walked through the throng of lords and ladies who, like falling skittles, curtsied and bowed as she moved past their ranks.
Now that Queen Victoria had departed, the old duke seemed to collapse within his starched cravat. “I never thought she would actually attend.” The duke speared a look at his eldest son. “We will not disappoint Her Majesty. Not after such condescension.” His gaze shifted to Anne, his eyes narrowing. “I count on the both of you.” Her hands burned to ease the duke’s suffering. “I am for bed now I’ve done the pretty.”
“Shall I take you up, Father?” Austin stepped forward.
The duke barely raised a hand to wave his son off. “All right, Tally, shuffle me off now, I am all in. Still, a good day’s work here tonight.”
Austin drew back, a tight smile plastered on his beautiful face, as his father and manservant moved off. “If you will excuse me?” Lord Austin bowed to the company and disappeared into the crowd.
“Devlin, so refreshing to have you back among us.” A middle-aged gentleman with a hawkish face and thinning hair presented himself. “The ton has been quite tame of late, but it seems your reemergence is worthy enough to bring our Queen out of hiding. What a coup.”
“Sir Charles.” James stepped slightly in front of Anne.
“Missed the receiving line. But couldn’t help overhearing you’ll be exhibiting after all. I must say I am relieved. All this tittle-tattle about your talents drying up—well, the world will be able to judge for themselves now, won’t they? The exhibition would not be the same without a James Drake portrait.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Wouldn’t do to go against our sovereign’s wishes, now would it? Disappointing all those poor waifs and strays.”
James said nothing.
“Don’t tell me you’re still peeved about our little misunderstanding? I wondered, when you did not reply to the Academy’s invitation.”
Sir Charles, she now remembered, was connected with the famous art exhibit she had read about in the papers, and apparently, no friend of her husband.
“Aren’t you going to present me to your bride?” The man smirked. “I came expressly to entreat you to join the exhibition, but I did want to meet the new marchioness.”
Her husband clearly did not want to make the introduction, but good manners won out. “Lady Devlin, may I present Sir Charles Brocket. Sir Charles, this is my wife, Lady Devlin.”
She curtsied, and the man bowed.
“I must say, I never expected you to go so easily, Devlin.” The man reeked of some overwhelming toilet water, likely used to mitigate the stench of his rotten breath. “What a shock to hear of your hasty marriage, especially after being away from Town for so long. But I can see that the marchioness is quite irresistible.” The man looked pointedly at Anne’s belly swathed in ruffles.
She resisted the urge to smooth her hand over them. Not that she need worry. A small family could hide under her skirts and have no fear of detection, let alone a several-month-old fetus.
James stepped forward and caught Brocket by his up
per arm. He turned to her and Margaret. “If you will excuse us, I believe Sir Charles is in need of some air.” Her husband and the older man headed toward the French doors leading to the balcony.
“Your pardon, Lady Devlin, I hope you will not think me too forward approaching you without an introduction, but I am in raptures over your gown.” A woman with an astonishing amount of facial hair and dressed entirely in black curtsied. A girl followed in her wake.
Margaret beamed and stood taller, if that were possible. “Lady Markham, may I present Lady Devlin, Marchioness of Devlin. Lady Devlin, Lady Markham.”
Again curtsies were performed. Apparently, the girl peeping out from behind did not warrant an introduction.
“What an astonishing gown, Lady Devlin. Is chartreuse the newest fashion? I had no idea. Joanna,”—the girl took a small step around her ladyship’s skirts—“we shall have to take Madame Broussard, our modiste, to task for keeping us in the dark. But then, that shade of green is such a difficult color on most complexions. I vow my dear Joanna could not hope to pull it off.”
The poor girl looked at her slippers and sniffed. As plain as the girl was, her gown was stunningly beautiful, a simple ivory satin with tiny pleats as its only adornment.
“Now I remember,” her ladyship continued. “I did see the color of late on Lady Harper’s eldest gel. She looked an absolute fright. Positively pea green. But, of course,” she continued, her eyes narrowing as she raised a quizzing glass and turned to Lady Austin, “the girl has not much in the way of beauty to begin with. Such a trial for her dear mama,” she tsked. “However,”—she smiled at Anne—“you, Lady Devlin, are very brave.” Her gaze swept over the dress once again. “Very brave indeed.” And she curtseyed and trundled off, tittering to her slack-faced daughter.
Tears burned Anne’s eyes. She blinked them away.
“Bertha Markham is an absolute troll.” Margaret slapped her fan against her gloved hand. “At my own come out, she said something very similar about my gown. I believe she is jealous. She had her cap set for Lord Austin as a son-in-law. As if Joanna Henry had near the portion to tempt even a second son.”
