by D. L. Carter
“We can go later,” cried Maude, “but we must go to Countess Greylin’s.”
“Why ever for?”
“Because she is dear friends with two of Almack’s patronesses and they are sure to be there.”
“Almack’s.” Millicent groaned, rolling her eyes. “My dear, you cannot be serious.”
“Why ever not? Do you not think we are worthy of Almack’s?”
“You are too good for that place. I am too good for that place. There are mudlarks along the banks of the Thames too…”
“We shall go to Greylin’s,” declared Felicity, “but, Mr. North, it would be better that you did not. If the girls are to have a chance to impress the patronesses with their style and sophistication they cannot do so when you are wittering on and joking about.”
“I cannot think why you should want to go to that place. Do you not receive sufficient invitations? Are you not welcomed by the Duke of Trolenfield and his sister?”
“You are right, Mr. North; we have nothing to complain of,” said Mildred, “but it would be nice, when we are old and grey, to be able to bore our grandchildren with tales of our come out, and if we can include Almack’s in the list of our adventures, we shall be happy.”
Millicent groaned and covered her face. “Do what you will. I have work to do.”
“Mr. North, I do wish you would not refer to work,” said Felicity, rising. “It whiffs too much of trade. Say rather that you are consulting with your man of business.”
Millicent thought for a moment of the laundry and floors they had scrubbed, the food they had prepared, but refrained from reminding her mother of their time as servants.
“I do not have a man of business.”
“Then you should get one. Consult with that nice Mr. Simpson when next he comes to call about how to get one. Come girls, we should choose your gowns for tonight, then rest.”
The ladies of the house withdrew leaving Millicent scowling at an empty room. It was, perhaps, a good idea for the girls to come out from under Lady Beth’s social wing and establish their own circle. It might be a ring or two down from such rarefied heights, but more suited to Millicent’s pocket and their mother’s connections.
It also would probably be good for Millicent to put the story about that she must go and see to some of her properties. While Felicity might fuss about work, any sensible male of the ton would know that tenants must be supervised or the rental incomes would decrease.
She could put it about that she was leaving town for a few days only, then decide if it were worth her while to return. The season had but a few weeks left to run. Felicity, or Mildred, rather, could manage the house quite well in Mr. North’s absence.
Rising, she retreated to her study to create a list of problems. For the better part they were niggly things that could be dealt with by letter. None of them justified leaving in the middle of the season. Well, that was neither here nor there. She needed an excuse; this would do. She did not need to state what the “great emergency” was that drew her away from the season’s entertainments.
A knock at her door shattered her concentration. Merit paused at the door, a half-opened paper wrapped bundle in hand.
“Ah, sir. The ladies inform me that this dress was added to their purchases in error.”
“Really?” Millicent accepted the bundle, turned down a corner, then blushed. It was the gold-brown gown she had bought to create the illusion of a mistress.
Merit, seeing the blush, nodded and dropped his voice to a confiding murmur.
“In future, sir, it would be best to have the modiste deliver items for other ladies directly to them. It does not do to let your lady relatives find you are purchasing clothing for … ahem … from the same modiste they themselves patronize. They tend to be put out.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“And the lawyer, Mr. Johansen, has called again. Are you in?” Merit offered the card on his salver.
“No. Why is he calling?” Millicent accepted the card and was scowling at it when Merit continued.
“Will you be going out this evening, sir?”
“Oh.” Millicent tightened her grip on her bundle. “Well, the ladies are … that is, they will need the carriage. I … have not decided. I may.”
The look Merit bestowed upon her could only be described as sympathetic.
“So Mrs. Boarder informed me. However, a gentleman cannot always be in the company of his family. If you wish a note taken around, with the parcel, I can send one of the footmen. Though you may not be aware of the way things are managed here in London, generally it is wise to take one’s butler into one’s confidence. I shall need to know your lady friend’s name and address to better serve you.”
Millicent tightened her grip on the bundle.
“No, thank you, Merit. I shall deliver it myself and take care of any necessary communications. After the ladies have departed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Merit vanished and Millicent sank back, eyes closed.
Her butler thought her a scattered and inexperienced virgin. Male virgin. Gossip was that she was a shameless, what, catamite? Her best friend was afraid to appear in public with her unless she possessed a mistress that everyone knew about.
If her life became any more complicated, she was going to go screaming mad and retire to either a nunnery or a monastery, she could not decide which.
Maybe she should have accepted the advice Shoffer offered on how to choose a mistress. Except then he might continue to ask her about her success in that field. Would know if she had created an agreement with the woman he had suggested. A heated blush filled her face. It did not bear thinking on. Even a false mistress was too much of a complication.
Package in hand Millicent retreated to her room and prepared to toss the damned thing into the back of her armoire; but, then she halted. The dress was particularly fine and did not deserve to be treated so shabbily.
Alone in her room Millicent unwrapped the parcel, held it up, and admired the image of herself draped in soft, glowing silk in the pier glass.
Felicity was right. It was not a color that would do for her sisters, but for the late Millicent, it would have been perfect. Millicent, dead as far as the world was concerned for the last ten months, had not attended a ball, nor worn a dress this fine, nor danced with a duke. And that would never happen.
Millicent cast the dress onto her bed. She was no fool and had no wish to hang for the crime of stealing her late cousin’s name, fortune, and life.
It was time to leave London, but she was going to entertain herself on her last evening here on her own terms. She could go and make one last splash as Mr. North. Be as entertaining as some hostesses required. Be seen publically without the duke. Be remembered as the ton’s favorite fool.
But she would not.
Be damned all of them. The rumor going around suggested not only that Mr. North was attracted to the Duke of Trolenfield, but had acted on that attraction. Her stomach burned as she paced in her study. The hell with them. How could they taint the love that she held for Shoffer in that way? She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes of tears of rage and loss.
Shoffer would never, ever think of his friend Mr. North in that fashion but … she paused and pressed a fist against her chest … but under these ill-fitting clothes was one deeply unhappy woman who hungered for an opportunity to experience that love. If she left now, like as not, she would carry a torch lifelong for the duke. He had never seen her as a woman and had not had the opportunity to snub her, as she deserved. If he had, maybe in the fullness of time her heart would heal. Her chin firmed and tilted up. But, perhaps, he would not. In that beautiful gown upstairs Millicent Boarder would be the equal of any lady of the ton – if she could remember a lady’s graces. Her lip twisted. Well, probably not, but like Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters, she would like to hazard her chance at winning the heart of the prince.
The duke had stated his intention of honoring Lady Algrieve’s Venetian masque
with his presence. And hence, would go Millicent.
She smiled at her folly even as she charged up the stairs. Like as not she would be a wallflower at this event since there would be no one to provide an introduction. Even so, to wear a soft gown and gloves again was beyond temptation. This was her chance, possibly her last chance, to be a woman. To dance and to flirt. Possibly to be admired.
Possibly with Shoffer.
Oh, God, please let it be Shoffer who danced with her!
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes even as she acknowledged that impossible hope.
There was no way of knowing if she would catch his eye for even an instant. More likely, she would huddle behind a potted plant with the other wallflowers and watch him dance and flirt with shameless widows and other accommodating women.
Perhaps she should not go.
Clenching her hands into fists so tight her nails dug into her palms, she stood and scolded herself. She was no coward. At no time this year had she drawn back from any action in the defense and support of her family.
This she would do for herself!
In future, during the season, Mr. North would stay at one of his country properties. Felicity and the girls, now established with friends amongst the hostesses of the ton, would be able to go about without his governance.
Mr. North and family had been invited to Lady Algrieve’s Venetian Masque, but Felicity had ruled it inappropriate for her daughters, as such events had bad reputations, but for Millicent, tonight it was ideal.
* * *
It took all of her self-control to be calm during an early supper with her family and it was with relief that she waved them off in the carriage with a vague promise to join them later. No sooner had the door shut behind them then Millicent was off, pounding up the steps to her bedchamber.
Trying to get into the dress without assistance was difficult, but soon enough she was gowned and facing herself in her mirror as a young woman for the first time in a year.
The modern fashions for high waists suited her much more than her smaller sisters. The glowing silk brushed over her hips enhancing their curves and outlined the length of her legs, a smooth waterfall of shimmering gold.
The only problem was the bodice. There was very little fabric and it was cut oddly so that her breasts were not concealed in the slightest. What fabric was there existed to embrace each breast, highlighting them, enfolding them as gently as gloved hands. In fact, the cut of the tiny bodice lifted them up as if on a platform and put them on display for the admiration of the crowd as if they were buns in a bakery window. Millicent stared at her silhouette turning this way and that in front of the mirror. The bodice was so tight she could not even wear a chemise under it. Compared to her masculine clothing, she was very nearly naked!
But in no other costume had she ever appeared voluptuous.Was that not just wonderful? She clenched her fists and rested them on her hips. A fashion that flattered her had waited until she was no longer a woman to appear.
Damn it.
Maude might have gotten away with the current fashion for short hair, since once properly cut her gold hair curled naturally, but Millicent’s hair was straight as a bone, brown and dull and with no time to play with curling papers. Her shoulders sagged. That was it; she could not appear in public dressed like this. Then she froze, remembering Maude’s panic when she had cut her hair. The wigs Felicity had demanded were still boxed up in her room waiting to be returned to the barber.
Millicent hurried down the corridor to her mother’s room, cursing the unfamiliar restrictions of a skirt. The wigs took a while to find since Felicity had buried them in the back of her traveling chest. Of the Grecian-styled blond wigs, one was more natural appearing in color, style, and configuration. It took a few minutes to work out the arrangement of hooks, tapes, and strings that combined to hold a wig in place, but finally Millicent lowered it onto her head and stared at herself in the pier glass.
Astonishing. She actually looked fetching. The pile of hair, curled, beribboned, and dignified that had been too much when worn on Maude’s smaller, rounder frame looked very well when worn by the taller Millicent. She ran smoothing fingers over the wig, settling it straight, looked herself in the eye and smiled – a slow feminine upturning of the lips that the dowager duchess would have approved.
In all honesty, she did not just look feminine, she looked wicked! Taking advantage of her mother’s cosmetics she layered a little color on her cheeks and lips and was ready to go.
Millicent caught up her sister’s spare evening cloak and reticule, collected a little money and her key from her room, pulled the hood up over her head and started downstairs, pausing from time to time to see if any servants were about.
She waited, crouched at the turning of the main stair until the footman was summoned below for supper before scuttling out her own front door.
Out on the street, she discovered that her fashionable neighborhood was a different world for an unaccompanied lady at this hour of the night. A female servant hurrying on some private errand glared at her before putting her nose in the air and stalking past. The hackney driver who stopped in response to her hail sneered at her and demanded payment in advance, adding – “You do business in me cab and I wants me cut!”
Millicent ignored the assumption she was a hackney whore (five shillin’ round trip, g’vner – sightsee, screw, and shilling tip for driver), tossed him a coin, and requested to be let out a short distance from her destination. She had chosen to arrive after the receiving line was finished and so needed only present her invitation to a bored under butler. At this time of the evening, and at this type of an entertainment, there was less supervision of the proprieties. A woman arriving unattended did not so much as raise an eyebrow. The assumption was she was a married woman escaping a more conventional party to indulge in a little naughtiness.
Her evening gown attracted no comment. Not all who were there chose to wear costumes. Instead she was directed toward a table bearing a selection of masks. With what she hoped was a feminine giggle – she was out of practice after all – she selected a gold embossed papier-mâché mask that went well with the color of her dress and breezed into the party.
Drink was flowing freely and more than one guest had over-imbibed. Voices were shriller, laughter louder, and no one was obeying the rule regarding the amount of distance between bodies during the waltz. Some had taken license to appear in public in costumes hardly decent. A portly man dressed only in thin bedsheets with a bunch of grapes hanging from a belt about his waist, had his arms about two ladies whose skirts did not reach the floor, nor even their ankles.
She stood for a moment at the top of the staircase leading down into the ballroom. Of Shoffer there was no sign. Damn the man. He had probably changed his mind and gone to some event with Lady Beth and after she had gone to such trouble with her toilette.
Then again, she could hope that he had not yet arrived. She closed her eyes for a moment and dismissed her dismay at his absence before gazing out across the ballroom. She was here to dance; that was the important thing. She was here to celebrate her womanhood once before the ton. The Duke of Trolenfield be damned, she was going to have fun.
Millicent barely made it down the steps onto the dance floor before she was approached by a cavalier, who bowed and requested the honor of a dance.
Millicent did not hesitate. Her hand was on his shoulder and his arms about her waist and they were inscribing sweeping curves across the dance floor in an instant.
Whereas more respectable parties permitted only three waltzes, it seemed this orchestra knew no other music. After the cavalier, Millicent waltzed with a pirate, a gentleman in a domino, two Roman soldiers – one after another – and a person in the smelly remains of inherited, unwashable Tudor garb.
Sending her last partner off in search of refreshments, Millicent escaped through French windows onto a broad, but barely lit patio. Steps down into the gardens were lit by paper lanterns, but t
he expanse of the gardens had only scattered illumination. Millicent ran her fingers under the uncomfortable weight of her wig and closed her eyes as the cool air flowed onto her overheated scalp.
“It appears your cicisbeo has lost you,” observed a voice in the darkness as her last partner wandered past inside the ballroom, a cup of something in each hand.
A familiar voice. A voice she heard nightly in her dreams.
Shoffer.
Millicent snatched her fingers out of her hair and turned, searching the patio, heart pounding in her throat.
Draped in a domino cape, Shoffer was almost invisible in the darkness. Seeing her panicked gaze he stepped forward to bow. He wore a plain black mask, with an air of reluctance, Millicent thought, and conventional dark evening clothes instead of a costume.
Millicent dropped a hasty curtsy, thankful for the mask that concealed her own features. Now she had just to attract him. Convince him she was experienced and willing.
Millicent cast another glance at him. He did not recognize her. In fact, if she were not mistaken – the dim light and mask made it difficult to be certain – he was not looking at her face, but at her bosoms neatly displayed on their shelf of golden brown silk.
The thought set her to the blush and had her drawing a deep breath. Shoffer’s matching inhalation confirmed it. She could feel her loins heat and nipples tighten, and her lips curved.
Shoffer, beloved Shoffer, was admiring her breasts.
* * *
Timothy Shoffer, by the Grace of God and King, Duke of Trolenfield was not in a good mood.
Yesterday, Beth was less than pleased to be dragged off to Almack’s, particularly once she was told that her friends, the Boarder girls, and their charming and silly cousin still would not be there. Shoffer did not expect his sister’s intransigence. He insisted they attend Almack’s, as a demonstration of Beth’s superior, improved social skills, but they were there a bare hour before Beth demanded to leave. She wanted to go to whatever social event North and the Boarders were gracing. Told that the family was staying at home that night she near demanded to go there instead. It was necessary for Shoffer to sit with his furious sister in the ducal carriage for another hour and explain the necessity of weaning themselves from that family – a frustrating endeavor since he could not explain the reason. Hinting at rumors of unspecified crimes only aroused her ire.
