Her head was trapped in a hoopskirt of waxed calico over stiff whalebone. “Polly!”
“Sorry, ma’am. One more tug and . . . There!”
The hoop slipped down over her bodice and finally clumped onto the wooden floor. Joy gasped for air while Polly tied the waist ribbons, then glanced down at the hoop. It was very narrow at the sides, presumably to allow one to walk two abreast, and full in the front and back. She picked up the skirt and looked down. “It drags on the floor.”
“Here, you need the slippers, ma’am.” Polly held out a lovely pair of golden slippers with small squat heels that, like the toes, were crusted with sparkling diamonds and deep emeralds. The maid slid them on Joy’s feet, then stood back to judge the effect. “The heels are just the right height.” Polly pointed at the cheval mirror.
“I don’t want to look until I’m all dressed.”
Polly grinned. “Your Grace has been sayin’ the like at every fittin’.”
“And Her Grace hasn’t changed her mind, so will you stop Your Gracing me.”
“I can’t help it, ma’am, this night being so special and all. Look at what you’ll be wearing. Someone who’s wearin’ that fancy court gown should be Your Graced.”
“I am looking at what I’m wearing, and I don’t see the sense in it.” Frowning, Joy poked at the hoop, which bounced like a well-sprung curricle. “What’s next?”
“The emerald green satin.” Polly unhooked a long full skirt and held it up. “See this? Oh, ma’am, isn’t it the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen?” The rich green color was set off by golden falcons with emerald eyes embroidered on the hem.
Polly came at her and once again Joy saw nothing but green darkness, and no sooner was that skirt in place than another deep green tulle overskirt with a golden lace furbelow at the hem slid over her head. Finally Polly tucked into place a short top skirt of gold-spangled tulle, arranging it so that the golden falcons in the Belmore crest showed in the tuck openings.
Joy looked down at the layers of clothing that formed the English court costume, plucked at them, and muttered, “No wonder they call Englishwomen ‘skirts.’”
Polly picked up an emerald green plumed Carberry headdress with emerald-studded combs, paper-thin gold leaves, and golden tassels that dangled like Beezle down the back of Joy’s head. She fit the combs into the elaborate piles of her mink brown hair, then lowered her arms.
Joy wobbled, grabbing the back of a chair. “I don’t think I can stand up in this thing, let alone dance in it.” She felt as if her chin were in her collarbone.
Polly stood back. “What if you held your chin higher, ma’am?”
Joy shoved her chin up with one hand. The muscles in the back of her neck strained. “I doubt even Mrs. Watley could hold her chin up with this on.” Her neck felt like soggy bread. She tried to stiffen but managed only to contort her face into a grimace.
Polly giggled.
Joy took a wobbly step and hunched forward. “If I have to wear this thing, I surely won’t have to worry about anyone calling me Your Grace. No one is that blind.” She could feel her disappointment on the rise. Forcing herself to try to stand erect, she took two steps, and had to grip the chair again. She tried three more times under Polly’s nervous eyes and finally said, “Let me practice for a few minutes, please. Will you check on Beezle for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The moment the door closed, Joy sagged into a chair. The back of the hoop caught against the chair. She sat down, and up went the hoop. Green satin and tulle bounced into her face. She felt a cold draft on her thin silk stockings and shift. She shoved the yards of fabric aside and batted the hoop away, but it bounced back in her face. How did women sit in these things without having the hoop fly upward? She wondered how many ladies had given the world a private view. Again, she tried to smash the hoop down but finally gave up. Her neck ached so, even when she was leaning back, that she rested her chin on a hand and stared at the sea of green.
This night was terribly important. She wanted to be the perfect duchess, but she doubted she could walk, let alone waltz. And she so wanted to waltz with Alec. Perhaps she could recapture that magical moment.
With this headpiece, waltzing would be impossible. She could, however, lighten the headpiece in her own way. She bit her lip. Just one wee incantation. One little bit of a spell. Of course if Alec found out he’d be very upset, but she was behind closed doors where it was very private, and those had been his conditions. Also, he had been willing to allow her to use her magic to cure him, and she would have if that had been possible.
But this wasn’t impossible. There was also the fact that if she didn’t do well tonight he’d be even more upset. When she rationalized it that way—the what-if, against the sure— she had her answer. She’d do what came naturally— witchcraft.
She stood, or wobbled, upright, then shimmied the hoop back down and sat again. She raised her arms in the air, but raising her chin was impossible. Her eyes locked on the carved mahogany legs of her bed. Her line of vision wouldn’t reach any higher. Suppose her magic was weak from lack of use?
Since when has your magic been strong?
Don’t remind me.
To her this was a dire circumstance, and perhaps her magic would be stronger because it hadn’t been drained by overuse lately. She liked that rationale. Flexing her fingers for good measure, she closed her eyes tight and concentrated, really concentrated, on creating an incantation:
Oh, night so dark,
Oh, wind that blows,
Hark! Hark! Hark!
Help me with these furbelows.
Ignore my pelisse,
But hear my plea.
Make this headpiece
As light as can be!
Satisfied with her creation, she chanted the words aloud, then opened her eyes.
“Ahh.” Joy sagged back against the chair in relief. She straightened a moment later and walked toward the cheval mirror, her headpiece now as light as air. “My powers are not so rusty after all,” she muttered, tilting her head from side to side and watching the plumes bounce.
A few feet from the mirror she raised one hand shoulder-high, then held the other about where Alec’s hand would hold hers, then she began to waltz, “One, two, three. One, two, three.” Around she turned, swirling as if she were in her husband’s arms, twirling and gliding and wishing she could look up into those midnight blue eyes and see his very heart.
Her skirt swirled with the hoop and felt wonderfully elegant—there might be something to this garment after all, if one wasn’t sittingdown—and she laughed, gliding over to the mirror, where she stopped with a gasp.
“Oh, my goodness.” She stared, awestruck by the woman who stared back at her. “I look like a duchess. A real duchess.”
“Yes, you do,” came Alec’s deep voice.
Joy’s heart skipped a beat. She turned to face her husband. He stood in the connecting doorway, looking like the title he so proudly bore. He was dressed in a tailcoat and knee breeches of dark green velvet that almost looked black, and the points of a gold-embroidered waistcoat extended downward exactly two inches, as superb taste demanded. Shimmering in the perfect folds of his stark white cravat was an emerald and gold stickpin.
Her gaze returned to his face. “How long have you been there?”
“Only since your oh-my-goodness.”
Thank heaven.
“Why?” He closed the distance.
She stared at the wee sparkling stones on the toes of her slippers and tried to look as if she hadn’t cast a spell in years.
He lifted her chin with a knuckle. “There’s no need for modesty, Scottish. I’ve seen you in much less.”
Not recently, she thought, his illness having kept them apart. In fact, this was the first she’d seen him since he’d recovered. She knew he’d been avoiding her. But now he stood barely a foot away. He still held her chin atop a strong knuckle. She searched his face, looking for a sign of his thoughts.
He stared at her mouth again and she almost sighed, but held her breath instead. She could feel his gaze as surely as if it could stroke her flushed cheeks. Uncomfortable, she stepped back, holding out her skirts. His look started at the headpiece and moved downward, so slowly it seemed she stood still for eternal minutes during his perusal.
She held her breath. For the first time in her life, she did feel beautiful—fairy-tale beautiful. Remember, she told herself, he thinks you are beautiful. And the excitement of the night, of her first ball, of the promise in his look, made her blood race through her veins. It made her feel alive and giddy and . . . well, just magical, as if they should walk with a trail of stars in their wake. She smiled. “So you approve, then?”
“No.”
Her smile died. She closed her eyes against the sharp jab of disappointment that pierced her chest.
“You need these.”
She willed her eyes open. Though the view was misty, she saw that he held out a velvet box embossed with the Belmore crest. The mist cleared, and she cocked her head and studied the box. It was green with gold embossing. He snapped open the lid, revealing emeralds so deep and pure and clear a green that they appeared to have been conjured up by the perfect spell. “The Belmore emeralds,” he said.
She took a step toward them, unable to believe they were real and fascinated by the way they were designed. Every gold setting formed the outline of the ducal crest, and each clasp was an intricate figure of a falcon—the Belmore crest. There were earbobs composed of three square-cut emeralds set in the intricate gold crest pattern, a brooch shaped like the crest, three bracelets, a necklace, and a set of combs.
“Everyone will surely know I’m the Duchess of Belmore.”
“Of course. The Belmore emeralds were designed for the fifth duchess and were thought to rival some of the crown jewels. I believe Henry the Eighth tried to purchase them from the tenth duke. But the settings are unmistakable, and the stones are as much a part of Belmore as the crest.”
Still no sense of humor, she thought, but enough pride for all the English. She laughed inside, but her smile was small and bittersweet.
“Turn around and face the mirror.”
She turned and watched him in the mirror. He placed the heavy necklace around her neck and clasped it. The gold was cold and hard against her skin. He handed her the earbobs, and she put them on and stared in wonder at the woman who looked back at her. She put a hand to her lips and did something a duchess would never do. She giggled.
“Scottish.”
Summoning up some proper seriousness, she composed herself, trying to look suitably arrogant, then met his eyes in the mirror.
“Turn back around.”
She did, expecting him to put the bracelets on over her gloves.
A second later she was in his arms, his lips parting hers and his tongue burrowing into her mouth with that dark, desperate passion he hid so well from the rest of the world. He tried so hard to control that passion . . . and she delighted in making him lose his control of it.
“Oh!” Polly’s voice sounded from somewhere far away.
Alec gave a small groan and broke off the kiss. Joy wanted to groan herself. Their gazes locked and the moment swelled between them. He started to reach for her but stopped himself, then shifted his gaze to the doorway where Polly still stood. Joy turned.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace.” Polly curtsied and backed out of the room.
“Wait!” Alec held up a hand, then picked up the jewel caseandheld it out to the maid. “Here. See to your mistress.” He crossed the room in long strides and paused at the door. “The coach will be waiting.
“I’ll be downstairs.” He left without a backward glance.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“The Duke and Duchess of Belmore!”
The royal servant’s imperious voice echoed in the formal hall like a battle cry in the Highlands. On the arm of her husband, Joy followed a footman up one side of the double staircase of Carlton House. The distant hum of voices and music drifted down from above, but she barely noticed, for her eyes were too busy taking in the room, which was all crystal and golden light. Candles glimmered in a majestic dance of flames on the massive chandeliers that hung from the heaven-high ceiling. Walls of mirrors flanked the stairs and captured the light, reflecting it like white moonlight on the glassy midnight sea. She saw gold— everything was gilded or sparkling. It was as if they’d entered the palace of Midas.
Their own reflections shone in the mirrors. She couldn’t tear her gaze away. That was her looking back from that mirror, covered in satin and jewels and sparkling from her toes to the top of her head. But best of all she was on the arm of Alec, her Alec.
Her hand rested atop his forearm, and she could feel his muscles tense. She glanced up at him, noticing the taut jaw, the wee spark of tension in his dark eyes, and with Scots determination she whispered, “I’ll try to make you proud.”
He seemed stunned by her comment, and something that looked like guilt flickered across his face, but her husband had nothing to feel guilty about, unless it was his marriage to her. Her throat tightened in reaction, but she refused to give in. She cast him a glance and saw that nothing in his stance suggested that he felt guilty or ashamed. He looked as proud as ever.
She summoned a small shred of confidence from somewhere under all that satin and tulle and thin skin, and a second later they ascended the last two marble stairs that led to an enormous room filled with a sea of elegant and suddenly curious faces.
Tonight she wasn’t Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie, the Scottish witch. Tonight she was the Duchess of Belmore, on the arm of her proud duke.
She felt Alec’s warm hand cover hers. “You look beautiful, Scottish.”
It was as if he knew the exact words she needed to hear. A slow smile spread like warm honey across her face, and her confidence became real. “I remember. You told me.”
“When?”
She stopped cold and cursed her loose tongue. “Uh, just now.”
He frowned at her, then shook his head and guided her down the hallway.
She stuck her duchess chin up another inch or so and squared her small shoulders, her skirts gliding around her, waving and floating with each step she took. Her mental clock ticked, making her nervous and excited and feeling as if it would take years—aeons maybe—for them to enter the ballroom. She peered upward, above the heads of the crowd, catching the glittering light that spread from the open ballroom doors at the end of the wide corridor. Music grew louder, truer, and sweet, and it was only the thought that a duchess probably didn’t sway her head to the music that kept her from her natural inclination to do so.
The crowd thickened as they approached, closing in and making her even more aware of how many people would be there to see her if she failed Alec. For the briefest of moments, she understood his apprehension. There were hundreds of people here.
“What are you doing?” Alec looked down at her.
“Counting.”
“What?”
“Forty-seven . . . jewels on the rug. See them sparkling? Forty-eight . . . ”
“They fell off the women’s shoes and clothing. Happens at every ball, but especially a royal ball. The servants who clean up reap the rewards.” He held her elbow and steered her through a tight group. He leaned down. “Any particular reason why you felt it necessary to count them?”
“Because then I don’t have to look at all those staring eyes.” Her whisper reeked of apprehension.
“You had best become used to it. You’re the Duchess of Belmore. As such, you shall attract attention.”
“Fifty-four . . . When do I meet the prince?”
“We’ll be summoned in a while. This isn’t a formal presentation.” He looked down at her. “Scottish.”
“Sixty . . . Aye?”
“No hocus-pocus.”
She cast a look of dismay at the carpet. “I lost count.”
His fingers tightened on her arm. “No changing the s
ubject. No levitating. No dancing statues. No spinning clocks. And above all, no spitting of toads. No magic. Those eyes that make you so uneasy will be very alert, looking for anything to find fault with, anything about which they can create a scandal. Every eye in the place will at some time tonight be on you. Promise me—no magic.”
“Tonight I am the Duchess of Belmore, your wife. Nothing more,” she said firmly. A small part of her was getting tired of being reminded not to use witchcraft.
“Fine. I’ll be nearby.”
She watched him a second, not sure if that statement was for comfort or a warning. They continued walking down the hallway toward the ballroom where a staring crowd stood in the doorway, many of the women whispering behind fans. She looked away, glancing into each room she passed for a glimpse of what was inside, seeking comfort from the furnishings because they didn’t have curious eyes.
Time then seemed to change speeds, and she saw the glimmer of ballroom light. She had time for only one quick breath before they stepped through wide doors into the ballroom.
In her most fanciful imaginings, she would have never thought to see such a sight. Feathery plumes of every imaginable color—crimson, fuchsia, royal blue, canary yellow—bobbed above the waves of society people and aristocrats whose headpieces were so tall and so bejeweled that she wondered at the strength of the Englishwoman’s neck. From the tops of their heads to the jewels on their toes the women of the ton were a most impressive sight of ornamental humanity. They sparkled, they glowed, they glittered as if it had snowed diamonds.
“The Duke and Duchess of Belmore!”
Her heart stopped. A second later they stepped into the swelling crowd and an ocean of eager and speculative eyes turned toward them.
“Take a deep breath, or you’ll faint.” Alec slid his arm out of her grip and casually wrapped it around her waist, holding her under the pretext of guiding her through the crowded room.
She gulped a mouthful of air and let him prod her ahead, walking through the throng unseeing.
“I say!”
At the sound of the viscount’s familiar voice, she focused on the first friendly face she’d seen. She did breathe then—a deep, relieved breath. The earl was with him. The other men parted to make room for them, and the earl took her hand. “Your Grace.” He made his bow, then looked at Alec. “Loveliest woman in the room, Belmore.”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 31
