“I think I need help,” she admitted at last.
She had turned her back before Perry turned around, so she didn’t see him approach her, but she heard the soft fall of his boots on the earthen floor and she felt his warm fingers brush against her chilled skin when he took hold of the tails of the bow and pulled on them.
A few seconds later, her stays fell away and Perry wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her up against his chest. Something large and firm pressed against the small of her back.
“How long do you think it will be until they miss us?” Perry asked.
A rapid series of soft knocks on her door dragged Cecily’s thoughts back to reality. She hurried to the door and opened it a crack.
“Quick, let me in,” Amelia hissed.
She pushed her way past before Cecily could get over her surprise at seeing her young cousin standing in the hallway in her wrap, her blonde hair down her back in disarray.
“Mama would flay me alive if she saw me outside my room like this,” Amelia explained with apparent relief at having escaped such a dire fate.
When she turned around and looked at Cecily, all she could say was, “Oh. Oh my.”
“You hate it, don’t you? I look cheap, don’t I?”
“Oh no, Cecily! You look— You look so grown up and sophisticated. Oh dear.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Oh it’s wonderful for you. But what man’s going to look twice at me, with you dressed like that? Mama’s got me looking like a schoolgirl.”
“Not every man wants sophisticated. And certainly not every man wants a woman my age. Look.”
Cecily drew Amelia with her to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, where they stood for a moment, studying their reflections. Amelia looked like nothing so much as a rumpled little sprite, slight and fair and rosy. Cecily looked almost exotic in comparison, but only in comparison. If given the chance, she would have wished for a cooler, Northern look, something blonde and icy, with a proper nose to look down instead of the ridiculous button sitting in the middle of her face. All in all, though, she thought she looked quite acceptable.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “If only you were shorter or I were taller, we’d complement each other perfectly.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll have a problem with the gentlemen confusing one for the other.” Amelia didn’t sound entirely convinced but she did appear to be trying to share Cecily’s optimism.
Cecily sat carefully down on the bed and folded her hands on her lap. “Now, what was so important that you risked your mother’s wrath to come tell me.”
“Oh! How could I have forgotten?” Amelia rushed across the room and hopped up onto the bed. “I just heard from Mama’s maid. He’s coming, after all!”
Cecily smiled at Amelia, waiting for more information. Amelia smiled back, waiting for a reaction.
“Who’s coming? I thought the guests had all arrived.”
“They have. At least, the ones who accepted the invitation have. Oh Cecily, how could you have forgotten? I sent you a whole letter about him.”
“It’s beginning to sound familiar,” Cecily said with a weak smile, trying hard not to disappoint her cousin. “As I recall, he accepted, but then he wrote to say business would keep him away. The only thing I don’t remember is who he is.”
“Oh Cecily! Franco Comestibili of course. The Prince of Persepoli.”
“Persepoli? Where on earth is that?”
Amelia furrowed her expertly plucked brows. “I believe it’s one of the Italian states. Or near them. It sounds Italian, don’t you think?”
“And is he truly a prince?” Cecily was warming to Amelia’s enthusiasm.
“Oh yes!” Amelia answered, bouncing on the bed in a most unladylike fashion. “Or at least he should be. As I understand it, Persepoli was a very small country. Before the prince was even born, something or other happened and now Persepoli is part of some larger country. So he’s only a prince in name, but still, a prince is a prince.”
“And a prince attending your party is no small accomplishment. How did you get him?”
Amelia flopped down on her back and stretched her arms over her head. “Papa got him. Met him at a race in London last time he was there.”
“Just think, Amelia,” Cecily said, leaning carefully on her elbow. “If you marry him, you’ll be a princess. Amelia, Princess of Persepoli.”
“Oh I don’t want him.” Amelia rolled over and wriggled closer to Cecily. “They say he’s hardly got a shilling to his name,” she confided in a low voice. “He lives on credit and good will. I want a rich husband.”
“So the poor prince is merely window dressing.”
Amelia pouted. “I’m sure it won’t do him any harm. Besides, he’s really more Papa’s guest than mine. They say he’s deliciously handsome, though. That should put a flame under my other suitors.”
“I see what you mean. If you flirt with him, it’ll give them someone to compete with, but you don’t have to worry about being stuck with him.”
“Exactly!” Amelia sat up so suddenly she nearly bounced Cecily off the bed. “And you can flirt with him too. You can even have him if you don’t mind him being poor.”
“Hmm. Papa would hate the thought of me marrying an Italian. Perhaps I will flirt with him a bit.”
“Oh and you know what else? Clarissa Arbuckle says he looks just like Lord Byron. I expect he must be the most enchanting man in England. Or at least he would be if he weren’t so poor.”
Amelia went on to rave about dark eyes and wavy hair and other attributes that she considered to be enchanting, but Cecily didn’t hear above one word in six. At the mention of Lord Byron, Cecily’s world had gone perfectly still. The curtains stopped billowing in the breeze, the birds outside no longer sang and even the house stopped its occasional creaking.
The Prince of Persepoli was nothing less than the answer to her prayers. Her father hated all things Italian, with the notable exception of her mother, with a passion that defied reason. The mere possibility of his only daughter taking up with an impoverished Italian—or somewhat Italian—prince would, Cecily absolutely knew, send him into fits and rages. Best of all, there would not be a thing he could do about it, because he was the one who had cajoled her into acquiring a fiancé in the first place. And my goodness, Cecily thought, if this almost prince looked like Lord Byron, what fault would she conceivably be able to find in him?
It was the night of the masquerade ball and Cecily had sought the solitude of the Queen Elizabeth room. She had always thought it was a room full of secrets, a place for whispered conversations and late-night trysts.
“I was afraid you had changed your mind.”
Cecily turned toward the dark form of the man standing in the doorway, filling the room with his presence. He still wore his mask, but she recognized his accent and the way he carried himself.
“I told my aunt I have a headache,” Cecily said. “Nobody will come looking for me.”
The Prince of Persepoli stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The way he smiled at Cecily made her feel like a trapped animal, but she was happy to be trapped.
“You said you had a gift for me?” she reminded him.
The prince took a single step toward her, drawing out her anticipation.
“I wish we had the whole night,” he said. “I would take your clothes off one piece at a time. First the dress.”
Another step closer.
“I would kiss your neck and your shoulders. Then I would take off your petticoat.”
Another step. If they had both stretched out their arms, their fingertips would have touched.
“I would kiss your beautiful breasts and then I would turn you around and unlace your stays so I could hold your breasts in my hands and you would moan and lean back against me.”
Another step. Cecily wanted to move closer to him, but she could not make her feet work.
“Then o
ff with the next layer of clothes so I could taste your skin.” He thought for a few seconds and then asked, “What else would you have on?”
“Pantalets.”
The prince smiled. “Those things that cover your legs but nothing else?”
Cecily nodded.
“Are you wearing those now?”
Cecily nodded again. She couldn’t speak.
“Show me.”
She didn’t pause to think about it. She would have done anything he asked of her. She reached down and pulled her skirt up, inch by inch, catching her petticoat and chemise along the way, exposing her pantalet-covered legs to view. She stopped just short of the tops of the pantalets.
The prince took another step toward her. “Higher.”
Cecily lifted her skirt all the way to her waist, so that the prince could see the ribbons that held the pantalets up and tied around her waist.
“Now I can give you your gift.”
He stepped toward her and suddenly Cecily felt like a mouse being stalked by a cat. She took a step back and felt a bedpost behind her, solid and unyielding.
Cecily thought the prince would kiss her when he reached her but he merely smiled and sank gracefully to his knees.
His hands reached around to squeeze her bottom and he pressed his mouth against one of her legs.
“Cecily?”
Amelia’s voice called Cecily back to the little bedroom with the floral wallpaper and the complete lack of mystery.
“What on earth are you thinking about?”
“Planning,” Cecily said. “Just planning.”
Chapter Five
Perry lounged against the mantle on one end of the long, narrow drawing room. At the opposite end of the room, a dandy emulating Beau Brummel’s simple and elegant style lounged against the other mantle. Or at least he seemed to be lounging. Perry doubted the man could work his way into any truly comfortable position in clothes tailored so exquisitely that they appeared to be a second, and very restricting, skin. Perry preferred to have a bit of room to move around in, though he knew it would never do to look too comfortable. He was glad he could not afford a tailor as skilled as this dandy’s tailor obviously was.
Perry and the dandy exchanged an occasional disdainful look but there was also a spark of understanding when their eyes met. They both wore the same practiced look of boredom. In between them the Weldons’ guests milled about, eyeing each new arrival and appearing to pass judgment with an approving nod or a whispered comment to a friend.
Perry sighed. With each house party he attended, it became easier to convey an air of boredom. What wore him down was playing the role of the entertaining, likable fool, the role that he had to remind himself was his bread and butter until he could find his way out of his financial difficulties—a prospect that had seemed exceedingly unlikely until his father’s old friend had approached him and proposed a bit of well-paid espionage.
He wished to heaven that he had been able to drag George along with him, but George was in Bath in earnest pursuit of a comely widow. It wasn’t often that Perry found himself in a social situation in which he wasn’t acquainted with a single one of his fellow guests, but here he was now, among strangers except for the woman of his dreams, whose presence seemed to leave him speechless.
Off to his left, Perry caught sight of a very young gentleman approaching him with an air of cheerful determination. Perry descended further into his cloak of disinterest to warn the boy off, but not quickly enough. With more than a touch of resignation, Perry put on a social smile and shook the hand that had been thrust at him.
“Wilfred Weldon, at your service, sir. My father sent me to greet you. He’s got a mare foaling and can’t leave her side ‘til he’s assured himself that all will be well. Wants me to tell you he’s honored you accepted his invitation.”
Perry raised his eyebrows. What honor was there in having a ne’er-do-well fop living off your hospitality for three days?
“My father and yours go way back, mine tells me,” Wilfred continued, undeterred by Perry’s lack of response. “Says yours saved his hide more than once when they were at Eton.”
That explained how his employer at Whitehall got him the invitation. Perry’s father, employer and host were all boyhood friends. He was pleased to have at least one small mystery solved. Now all he had to do was expose a spy.
Wilfred was looking expectantly at him.
“I hadn’t realized they’d known each other,” Perry said hastily, “though I had wondered at the invitation.”
“Wondered? What’s to wonder about? My friends in London have told me all about you. Surely any hostess would be happy to have you. You don’t know how much my friends and I admire you.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Let me tell you, as soon as I come of age and have some money to call my own, I’m going to pay a call to your tailor and have some proper clothes made.”
Perry winced. The boy’s evening clothes were above reproach.
“No more of this black and white and buff my father insists on,” Wilfred continued with a glance over his shoulder. “And don’t try to tell me you’re keeping your tailor a secret. He won’t thank you for it.”
Perry cleared his throat. “How long ‘til you come of age?”
“Two and a half years,” Wilfred said proudly. “I’m nearly there.”
“All right, then. We’ll see how things stand in two and a half years. I suspect I may have switched tailors by then.”
“Oh don’t say so, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it if I were you.”
The background chatter died down and Perry could have sworn he sensed a change in the air. Wilfred turned around and Perry looked up from the dumbfounded expression on his new admirer’s face. All eyes were directed toward the new arrivals standing in the doorway, their young hostess and her cousin. Lady Weldon, looking nothing short of magnificent in emerald green and peacock feathers, beckoned to them, introductions commenced and the room was once again filled with the buzz of voices.
Perry had to turn around to keep himself from staring at Cecily. She walked with her head held high and she seemed to have grown several inches since he had spoken to her in the garden. But it wasn’t her height or her transparent attempt at icy superiority that had caught his attention. It was the swell of soft skin exposed by her low-cut gown that was making it hard for Perry to remember who and where he was. He was certain that if her dress slipped just a fraction of an inch, he would have been able to glimpse the dark aureole around her nipple.
“I say,” said Wilfred, who apparently felt no compunction about staring. “What the devil do you suppose Cecily’s up to?”
“Casting for a husband, no doubt,” Perry replied more sharply than he intended.
Wilfred gave him a quick look, then returned his gaze to the room at large.
“More likely to scare them all off with her nose so high in the air. Besides, Cecily’s not interested in husbands. Least, she never was before.”
“Little girls all grow up,” Perry said, resuming his attitude of boredom. It felt like putting on a mask or a comfortable old coat in which he could conceal himself.
“But Cecily grew up years ago and if I’m any judge of things she grew up a bit odd.”
Perry concentrated on maintaining an appearance of extreme disinterest, though every inch of him was silently pleading with Wilfred to continue.
“Now tell me,” Wilfred said. “Can you picture that silk-clad creature shearing a sheep?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Shearing a sheep. You’re the first soul I’ve told about this. My aunt swore me to secrecy and I’m not ashamed to admit, I’m terrified of the woman. When I was a lad visiting my Aunt and Uncle Bettencourt, I saw Cecily shear sheep. Of course, they only let her shear the smaller ones, but even those fought like titans. Cecily held them down, though, she practically sat on them, and she sheared away with the best of them. I wouldn’t get near the creatures myself and I told my uncle so. I ha
dn’t a scar on my body and I was determined to keep it that way. Those shears are sharp, you know, and what with the sheep kicking and wriggling, well, who’s to say what might happen? But old Cecily, she doesn’t care about such things, which is why I’m so puzzled, you see. What’s a girl who cares nothing for looks or husbands doing in a getup like that? Though I must say, she looks a damned sight better than I ever would have expected she could. Never had any idea I had such a good-looking cousin. Just shows you what the right clothes can do for a person.”
Perry searched for a reply but it seemed that Wilfred had said everything there was to be said on the subject. Appearing not to expect a reply, Wilfred contentedly watched the other occupants of the room, an amused little smile lingering on his face. Perry followed suit and was trying hard to ignore Cecily when he saw the man he was supposed to be spying on enter the room with his wife on his arm.
Henry Bettencourt gave every appearance of being in bountiful good spirits. His face beamed with some personal satisfaction that Perry could only guess at and he moved with a gait that was as close to a swagger as his stout frame could approach. Perry’s eyes narrowed as he watched his quarry. If his employer suspected rightly, perhaps Bettencourt’s good mood was due to some recent communication from one of his contacts. Perhaps he had even received a payment for services rendered or information delivered.
Perry saw the instant Henry’s eyes lit on Cecily. Henry went red from his unfashionably tied cravat to the bald spot on the top of his head. He turned to his wife and appeared to sputter angry words, though to do him credit, he did at least sputter quietly enough that nobody around him appeared to notice. He took two determined strides in the direction of his daughter before his wife grabbed his arm and led him out of the room with a minimum of fuss. It all happened so quickly that Perry thought himself the only witness to the scene until Wilfred chuckled beside him.
“I gather old Uncle Henry wasn’t given the opportunity to approve of Cecily’s gown beforehand. I suppose it does show a bit more skin than I’d want a daughter of mine to be displaying, but speaking as a cousin, I can’t object in the least. What do you say, Perry? I may call you Perry, I hope. I know your friends do. Could you ever object to a woman’s skin being exposed? Young skin, that is,” Wilfred added with an expressive shudder.
Trinidad West Page 5
