More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  Even so, she still didn’t regret her actions that evening. None of her toes had been broken, and with judicious applications of ice, and days lying about with her feet resting on a stack of plump pillows, the swelling had gone down quickly. She still had a few bruises, and she wouldn’t be able to dance tonight, but then no one would ask her anyway, so what did it matter?

  At least something good had come out of that debacle. Lord Chester had called on her the day after the ball to offer his apologies, and he’d told her he was leaving London to take a tour of the Continent. Hyacinth was glad of it. Lord Chester was a lovely, decent man, and she hated to see him ruined by an association with Lady Joanna.

  “Hmmmm.” Hyacinth held out one foot and turned it this way and that, considering. “I daresay you have a point there, Jenny.”

  Jenny saw her chance, and she pounced. “This deep violet color was made for a lady with your complexion, miss. Why, with your dark blue eyes and fair hair, you’ll be mesmerizing!”

  Mesmerizing?

  Hyacinth turned back to the glass to stare at her reflection. She was well enough, she supposed, but mesmerizing? “Oh, nonsense, Jenny.”

  Jenny shook her head, her eyes solemn. “It’s not nonsense, miss. It’s a great pity for such a pretty lady as you to hide as you do. I always said you’d be a belle if you just put yourself forward a bit.”

  “I’ve never had any wish to be a belle.” That was true enough. She’d never wanted that, and she didn’t want it now, but there was something she did want.

  To make her opinion regarding Brighton perfectly clear to Lachlan Ramsey.

  He was going to be furious when she walked into the Sedleys’ ballroom this evening, so why not wear the gown? After all, if a lady was going to stage a rebellion, there was no sense in doing it in half-measures. Anyway, hadn’t Lachlan complained about English ladies only wearing pale colors?

  Jenny turned in a circle, a delighted little sigh escaping her as the violet skirts fanned out around her. “Miss Iris has wonderful taste. This silk is divine, and the cut…well, Mr. Ramsey won’t be able to take his eyes off you in this!”

  “Mr. Ramsey!” Hyacinth whirled around in her chair to face Jenny, heat flooding into her cheeks. “Why should I care what Mr. Ramsey thinks? That is, if I do wear the gown, it won’t be to impress him—” Hyacinth broke off as a knowing grin crossed Jenny’s lips. “Oh, very well. It won’t be only because of him.”

  “Oh, no. Of course not, Miss Hyacinth. Now, let me see if I can’t find the slippers that match the gown.” Jenny shot her another sly smile, then disappeared into the wardrobe again, leaving Hyacinth to face her reflection.

  Very well, then. She did want Lachlan to look at her. She wanted his warm gaze to linger on her, to sweep over her from head to toe as it had in Lord Hayhurst’s library. She’d get little enough pleasure from this ball, but if she could steal Lachlan’s gaze from Lady Joanna, even if only for the space of a single heartbeat, she’d consider it a resounding success.

  Hyacinth titled her head to one side, then the other, studying the lady who stared back at her in the mirror. Blue eyes, pale skin, fair hair—it was the same reflection she’d seen countless times, but something under the surface had shifted.

  Perhaps she did want to torture Lachlan just the tiniest bit, but in truth this wasn’t really about him at all.

  It was about her.

  A daring violet gown, an elaborate, eye-catching mass of curls—these things were insignificant. They weren’t what mattered. What mattered was she felt…different. She couldn’t have explained to anyone—not even her sisters—in what way she’d changed. She knew only that she felt like one of the genies in Monsieur Galland’s Arabian Night’s Entertainment, except now she’d been set free, she didn’t know how to get back inside her magic lamp.

  Even if she could find a way back in, she wouldn’t go.

  If she were a foolish or whimsical lady, she might believe Lachlan’s kiss had freed her, but she was more practical than she was romantic. No, she’d found her own way out of that lamp, and like most escapes, it had started with a single, courageous step—right into Lady Bagshot’s ballroom. Something inside her had broken loose when she’d decided to go ahead with her season, but she’d been hovering on the edge of it since then, caught somewhere between the old Hyacinth and the new.

  Or the old Hyacinth, and the real Hyacinth.

  But then Isla had said something to her at the Hayhursts ball a week ago…

  I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told.

  For as long as Hyacinth could remember, she’d done what she was told.

  Be careful of your health…consider your delicate nerves…guard against becoming overwrought…

  It had started innocently enough. She was the youngest, and she’d had her share of struggles, especially after her parents died. She was, by temperament, more timid than her sisters, and they were, by temperament, fiercely overprotective. But if her family had been cautious of her, they’d been so out of the deepest, most abiding love, and she was grateful to them.

  But this was no longer about love, and it hadn’t been for a long time. Her doubt, her hesitation, the way she shied away from people, and avoided attracting any notice…

  That was about fear.

  It was no longer enough for her. If she was ready to escape her magic lamp and experiment with freedom, it had as much to do with Isla and Ciaran as it did with Lachlan.

  Well, perhaps not quite as much.

  Scowlish. A little smile played at her lips. Oh, he was scowlish, all right. Brooding and gruff, with that insolent dark eyebrow always quirked, and as likely to frown one out of countenance as wish them a good morning.

  Of all the people who might have peered around the side of that column and found her cowering there…

  Of all the people who might have taken her by the arm and dragged her out…

  Of all the people who refused to believe she was better off there…

  It had been him.

  Lachlan was the only person in her entire life who’d ever told her she was brave.

  Hyacinth rose and crossed to the bed, where Jenny had laid out the violet gown. The neckline was so low it would raise eyebrows, and she could already tell the bodice would be tight—tighter than any gown she’d ever worn.

  She touched a fold of the fluttery silk. It was so fine it felt like mist against her fingertips, and the color made her think of wild Scottish heather in full, glorious bloom.

  There’d be no hiding behind a column in this gown. No disappearing. If she chose to wear it, there’d be no turning back once she entered the Sedleys’ ballroom.

  “Here they are, miss!” Jenny emerged from the closet, waving a pair of violet slippers over her head. “Aren’t they sweet, with the pale purple ribbons and all the tiny embroidered violets?”

  Hyacinth held out her hands, and Jenny handed her the slippers. “They’re…dramatic.”

  “So is the gown.” Jenny gave her a calculating smile, and retrieved the curling tongs from Hyacinth’s dressing table. “You can’t wear your hair in a simple twist tonight, miss. That gown demands something far more elegant. Ringlets, and trailing curls, with a jeweled headband, I think.”

  Hyacinth eyed the tongs with trepidation. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t terrified—no doubt she’d spend the entire evening shaking in her sweetly-embroidered violet slippers—but if a young lady chose to wear a dramatic violet-colored gown with a tight bodice and scandalous décolletage, what was the sense in quibbling over a few curls?

  She crossed back over to her dressing table, and plopped down in the chair. “Very well, Jenny. I leave myself entirely in your hands.”

  * * * *

  Hers wasn’t the most daring gown at Lord and Lady Sedley’s ball. It wasn’t the most fashionable, or the most extravagant, or even t
he most revealing.

  But it may as well have been. Never again would Hyacinth underestimate the uproar a single gown could cause.

  If any other lady had been wearing it, it wouldn’t have caused the scandal it did, but she wasn’t just any lady, and the ton couldn’t have reacted with more astonishment if she’d strolled into the ballroom wearing only her shift and a pair of dancing slippers.

  Every head turned, and a hush followed in her wake as Hyacinth made her way quietly across the floor at her grandmother’s side, but she’d hardly taken a dozen steps before the thick silence gave way to furious whispers and audible gasps.

  “By Gad, it seems the mouse has a bit of a roar after all, eh, Giles?” remarked one gentleman, nudging his friend in the ribs as Hyacinth approached.

  “Long overdue, if you ask me.” The other gentleman peered at her, his avid gaze sweeping from her jeweled headband to the toes of her violet slippers. “Lovely. Looks just like her sisters.”

  If one could judge by their appreciative gazes, the gentlemen heartily approved of her gown, but the ladies weren’t so enthusiastic. When she did dare to raise her eyes, Hyacinth found at least a dozen feminine glares directed at her over the top of more than one wildly flapping fan.

  “Shameless! As if the girl isn’t already notorious enough this season!” hissed one outraged matron, as Hyacinth passed.

  “Perhaps that’s why she did it,” her daughter suggested, giving Hyacinth an appraising look. “She’s notorious no matter what she wears, so she may as well wear a daring gown. I think she looks rather dashing,” she added.

  Hyacinth flushed with pleasure at this unexpected compliment, but alas, her satisfaction was only temporary. It faded the moment they crossed paths with Lady Bagshot, who stood on the edge of the dance floor, her towering yellow turban quivering with outrage as she shot daggers at Hyacinth through her beady brown eyes.

  “Shocking!” that lady exclaimed in scathing tones. “I wonder she was permitted to leave the house dressed in such a scandalous manner. Why, I’d sooner face the executioner than I’d allow any granddaughter of mine to parade about at a respectable ball in such a…a…that gown! Indeed, I blame Lady Chase for it.”

  Oh, no. Hyacinth slid a guilty glance at her grandmother, but Lady Chase marched on, her face composed, and her chin high.

  When she’d met her grandmother in the entryway to depart for the ball, Hyacinth had been braced for horrified gasps, and a stinging scold that left blisters on her ears. Instead, her grandmother had surprised her. She’d raised her brows, looked Hyacinth up and down, and then poked at a fold of the skirt with the tip of her cane. “Are you quite certain you wish to wear this gown to the Sedleys’ ball, my dear?”

  Hyacinth wasn’t certain of a blessed thing by then, but she’d swallowed her doubt, and replied with as much bravado as she could muster. “Yes, Grandmother. Quite sure.”

  “Hmmm.” Lady Chase had studied her for another long moment, then she’d nodded. “Very well. Eddesley, have the carriage brought round. We’ll need a few extra rugs,” she’d added, with a glance at Hyacinth’s low neckline. “So Miss Hyacinth doesn’t take a chill.”

  Until now, it hadn’t even occurred to Hyacinth wearing the gown might reflect poorly on her grandmother. Oh, why had she let Jenny coax her into this? What had she been thinking, engaging in such a reckless stunt? For goodness’ sake, she must have lost her wits—

  “My dear Miss Somerset!”

  Hyacinth’s gaze jerked up. They’d made it to the other side of the ballroom and come to a halt in front of Lady Atherton, who raised her quizzing glass to her eyes, and subjected Hyacinth to a long, slow, and torturous perusal.

  “Well,” Lady Atherton murmured at last, lowering the glass and turning to Lady Chase. “A questionable choice for a debutante, perhaps, but the color suits her, and every young lady should have at least one scandalous gown. Don’t you think so, Anne?”

  Lady Chase paused for a long moment, then reached for Hyacinth’s hand with her gnarled one. “I don’t deny it took me by surprise, but I think you look just beautiful, dear. Very much like your mother.”

  For a moment, Hyacinth was too stunned to speak, but then her eyes filled with tears. Her grandmother could be a fussy old thing, and prone to stern lectures and rigid propriety, but when it came to her love for her granddaughters, she never wavered.

  “I-I beg your pardon, Grandmother.” Hyacinth squeezed Lady Chase’s hand. “I should have asked permission before I—”

  “Well, well, of course you should have, but then every lady is entitled to an occasional secret.”

  To Hyacinth’s surprise, both Lady Chase and Lady Atherton cackled at this, but she didn’t have time to consider it, because just then a hand landed on her arm, and she turned to find Isla standing there, beaming at her.

  “Oh, my goodness, Hyacinth, you look utterly divine! Oh, I wish you could have seen Lady Joanna’s face when you walked into the ballroom in that gown! As it happens, jealousy and anger turn her complexion a rather unattractive shade of blotchy red. And that odious Miss Tilbury was so shocked she spilled a glass of negus on Lord Clement’s new gray coat. He was quite put out about it. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to wear that gown?”

  “I, ah…well, I didn’t know I was, until I…did.”

  “I’m ever so glad you did! You’ve put every spiteful gossip in this ballroom in her place tonight. But I must dash,” Isla rushed on, breathless. “Lord Sydney has this dance. I just darted away for a moment to warn you about Lachlan.”

  “Lachlan?” Hyacinth’s heart stuttered to a stop, then surged to life again with a painful thud. “What of him?”

  “He’s, ah…well, he’s in a bit of a temper, I’m afraid. We knew he’d be angry to find you were still in London, but the moment he saw you enter the ballroom, a scowl blacker that the depths of Hades spread over his face. I didn’t think he’d be quite so livid. It’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it? But I must go. I’ll come find you again after the dance.”

  Isla hurried off without waiting for a reply, which was fortunate, since at that moment Hyacinth couldn’t have squeezed a single word through her lips in answer.

  Lachlan had caught her eye from across the ballroom, and he looked…

  Oh, dear God.

  Isla was right. He was furious, and he was headed in Hyacinth’s direction.

  Isla met him halfway across the ballroom. She caught his arm and spoke to him for a moment, her lips moving rapidly, but even from this distance, Hyacinth could see Lachlan wasn’t listening. He watched her over Isla’s shoulder, his dark gaze raising gooseflesh on every inch of her skin.

  When Isla fell silent, Lachlan stalked away from her without a single word.

  Hyacinth looked to one side, then the other, then behind her, but there was nowhere for her to go, and even if there had been, she wasn’t going to run away from him. For better or worse, at least now she had his attention.

  She straightened her shoulders, folded her hands in front of her, and waited.

  It didn’t take long. The ballroom was crowded, but predictably, everyone scurried out of Lachlan’s way. Hyacinth had hardly caught her breath before he was standing before her.

  He didn’t say a word. He paused for a moment, his eyes on hers, and then his gaze drifted upward. A muscle in his jaw jerked as he took in her jeweled headband, the mass of fair ringlets gathered at the back of her head, and the long curls trailing down her face to brush her shoulders.

  And then…and then, dear God, his gaze drifted downward.

  Slowly, deliberately, those hazel eyes took her in, and he saw everything. The frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat, the flush spreading over her bare neck and shoulders. She’d been obliged to lace more tightly than usual to accommodate the snug fit of her bodice, and now his hot gaze lingered on the high curves of her breasts rising fr
om the clinging violet silk.

  Hyacinth couldn’t prevent a soft gasp at this blatant appraisal, at the way his lips parted as he skimmed over the trim curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips, and lower, over the outline of her legs just visible through the filmy silk. He devoured every inch of her, leaving her breathless, and far warmer than she should be, considering how much of her flesh was exposed.

  By the time he’d completed his journey down her body, high spots of color had appeared on his cheekbones. The rapid rise and fall of his chest hinted at something besides anger, but one thing was certain. Whatever else he was feeling, Lachlan Ramsey was angrier than she’d ever seen him.

  “What,” he growled through tight lips, “Are you doing here, and why are you wearing that gown?”

  How dare you…it’s none of your concern…you have no right to question my whereabouts or the gown I choose to wear...

  Because I wanted you to look at me…

  All of these responses flew through Hyacinth’s head, but the only one that made it to her lips was, “Don’t you like it?”

  She cringed at the hopeful note in her voice. She hadn’t worn the gown just for him, and yet she couldn’t deny she wanted him to like the way she looked. She raised her chin a notch in a rare show of feminine pride.

  “Like it? Oh, I like it, aingeal. Every man in this bloody ballroom likes it.”

  Hyacinth’s eyes went wide. His lips had gone white, and his voice was a husky rasp. Was he…jealous?

  “But that’s not what I asked you.” He stepped closer, and his hand closed around her upper arm. “I asked why you’re here, and why you’re wearing that.”

  Her chin inched up. “You were the one who told me to stop hiding behind columns, Lachlan. I’m only following your advice.”

  A low laugh scraped from his throat, and he drew her closer. “Oh, you won’t be able to hide behind a column tonight.” He drew his finger down a fold of her gown. “Not without every man in this ballroom following after you. Is that why you’re dressed like a Cyprian, leannan? Because you want them all to gawk at you?”