Evelyn, unused to being admired by anyone in the family, much less Melissa, who so clearly preferred Catherine to her, blushed with pleasure. “Well, he is such a scion of fashion, I thought he’d want to know.”
All three sisters dissolved into delighted laugher. Catherine felt tears forming in her eyes, and she grasped her stomach in pain. “I need to stop,” she said, trying to breathe deeply and failing miserably. “I’ve got a painful stitch.”
But the laughter continued for several minutes longer. Only the entrance of Caruthers with the announcement that dinner would be served in one half hour silenced them.
“I better go dress,” Catherine said regretfully. It was the first time since they were children that she was reluctant to end an interview with Evelyn. “I don’t want to anger Mama further.”
“She has calmed down quite a bit. The bonnet was a brilliant stroke,” Evelyn assured her.
“It seems to have worked like a charm, but I would not have you think me calculating, my dear. I bought the hat on a whim, with no intention of smoothing mother’s ruffled feather. Indeed, if I’d been so clever, I would have bought her the Madame Claude original,” Catherine said, smiling. “Now I really must change.”
At the door, Evelyn put her hand on her shoulder and said with surprising gentleness, “You do realize, darling, that Lord Deverill is not going to give up. And after today’s escapade, he might not be in such a pleasant mood.”
At the mention of Deverill, Catherine tensed, clutching the bronze knob with white fingers. “No, I don’t suppose he will.”
Evelyn’s brows drew together sympathetically. “He assured me that he looks forward to seeing you tomorrow night at Lady Rivington’s ball.”
“Must I go?” Catherine asked.
“Yes, I don’t think you have sufficient funds to buy Mama enough bonnets to wrangle free of the engagement,” Evelyn said.
Catherine knew this was true. Her mother, who had abandoned all hope of seeing her matrimonially unsuitable daughter wed years ago, was now unable to accept that Catherine would not marry a personage so exalted as a marquess. If the irony of the situation weren’t so tragic, she would have laughed.
“Very well then, I shall go,” she conceded. At least at a glittering function surrounded by the ton, there would be little opportunity for a tête-a-tête.
“And you will be beautiful,” promised Evelyn, “and you will flirt with all the young bucks and you will have a grand time and you will show the Marquess of Deverill that you do not need his condescension and you will come home victorious and then, if you still want to, you can cry in my arms.”
Melissa, who was clever enough to fill in the details, even if no one explained them to her, said, “You can cry in my arms, too, if you want.”
Catherine was much moved by these displays of sympathy and released the doorknob to give her sisters a hug. As she wrapped her arms around Evelyn, she thought that perhaps the situation wasn’t all terrible. If she could hold her sister, with whom she’d been at odds for years, with so much affection, then perhaps Deverill hadn’t done her an entirely bad turn.
CHAPTER TEN
Betsy was putting the finishing touches on Catherine’s hair when Evelyn entered the room.
“Mama says we will be leaving in— No, you can’t possibly wear that,” she said, interrupting herself midsentence when she saw her sister’s dress.
Catherine, trying to keep her head still for the maid, asked Evelyn what she found wanting. “This gown just arrived from the dressmaker this very morning.”
“But the color, darling,” said Evelyn, looking stunning as usual in a white silk gown in the Grecian style decorated with pink rosettes. “You can’t possibly wear that shade.”
Careless of Betsy’s efforts, Catherine looked down at the dress. “What’s wrong with yellow? Yesterday, you said jonquil is one of your favorite colors.”
“Well, it is, though seeing it upon you, I’m no longer quite so sure.” Evelyn shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with yellow on a woman of different coloring, but on you, dear, it looks wretched. Or rather you look wretched.” Evelyn went to the wardrobe and examined her sister’s dresses. “Surely there is something here that’s appropriate, if not becoming.”
“But Mama picked out this dress,” Catherine protested. “She said it went with my eyes.”
Evelyn laughed. “I don’t see how it could. You don’t have yellow eyes.” She made a moue of disgust as she contemplated her choices, which were limited to varying shades of pink and light blue with the odd pistache tossed in. “No wonder you haven’t gotten married. All these years we thought it was you and your sullen nature, and now we discover at the eleventh hour that it was Mama’s fault all along. You can’t wear that dress or indeed any of these dresses.” She took out a pink afternoon dress and waved it in the air distastefully. “These are completely unsuitable. You look like a dead fish in pastels. Your complexion is too sallow. I wonder why I have never noticed before.” As she put yet another pink dress back on the rack, a red ball gown caught her eye, and she considered it carefully.
“Please, Evelyn, don’t tease yourself about it. I assure you that a few pastels are not all that’s standing between me and holy matrimony.” Catherine looked at herself in the beveled glass, admiring Betsy’s handiwork, particularly the strand of pearls that she had weaved in among the ringlets. As for the dress… She knew that it did not show her to the best advantage but neither did she know what her best advantage was. “What do you suggest?” she asked, realizing this was her sister’s specialty.
“I’ve never seen this one before.” Evelyn carried the red gown over to the dressing table. High-waisted with Spanish slashed sleeves of white satin, it was made of gossamer silk and trimmed with bands of lace, satin buttons and rosettes.
“That just arrived this morning as well. Do you like it?” Catherine asked with a glow in her eyes as she looked at the red silk gown. “Isn’t it gorgeous? I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything quite so beautiful. I confess I manipulated poor Mama to gain her permission. It cost a handsome sum, and she would have said no unless I had told her some whisker about red being Deverill’s favorite color.” She laughed as she recalled how quickly her mother’s opinion had changed. “Then she insisted that I must have it.”
“Well, then, why aren’t you wearing it tonight?” Evelyn asked.
“You will think me terribly poor spirited, but I was not in the mood to wear such a vibrant color,” she explained.
“Pooh,” exclaimed her sister. “That’s precisely the time to wear a vibrant color. Here”—she handed the dress to Betsy—“help her change gowns and I shall go down and warn Mama that it will be a few minutes more before you’re ready to depart.”
Betsy, who agreed with Evelyn’s assessment of Catherine’s wardrobe and had thought the same thing privately for years, immediately began unbuttoning the dress. Catherine submitted to this treatment with a reluctant sigh, for as much as she wanted to blend into the wallpaper tonight, she knew there was no way she could wear the yellow dress now. She would be more self-conscious in the simple gown than she would in the flamboyant one.
Evelyn returned to check on matters just as Betsy was fastening the last few buttons. “Heavens, darling,” she cried out, “you look magnificent.” She laughed happily and skipped over to her sister. “Turn around.” Catherine complied with this command with so little animation that her sister said, “My darling, someday we really need to teach you how to twirl.”
Catherine said nothing as she studied her appearance in the mirror, noting that her cheeks, for the first time, had that cherubic rosy glow that she found so attractive in Evelyn. It wasn’t only her complexion that benefited: Her eyes seemed to shimmer like topaz and her hair took on a rich, chocolate-brown cast. A practical woman, Catherine could scarcely believe that so meager a change as the color of a dress could make such a profound improvement.
“I like this much better,” she said sof
tly, trying to bite back a huge grin. For some reason, she felt that showing her true delight would be intemperate and immodest.
“Of course you do, darling. Nobody likes looking like a dead fish,” Evelyn said, tilting her head to the side as she inspected her sister.
“You don’t think the neckline is a little low?” Catherine asked, noting the look. “I think it’s a little low.”
“Pooh, that neckline is all the crack. But it does need something. Perhaps…” Her speech trailed off as she ran out of the room, returning a few moments later with a necklace in her hand. “Here, this is what you need.”
Catherine looked on in amazement as Evelyn fastened the pearl-and-ruby strand—quite her most precious possession, jealously guarded and worn on only very special occasions—around her neck. Overcome by the magnitude of the gesture, she swallowed a lump in her throat and pressed a kiss against her sister’s cheek. “Thank you very much.”
Evelyn smiled, clearly enjoying the sensation of bestowing her largesse, and said with satisfaction, “There, doesn’t she look perfect, Betsy?”
“That she does, miss,” agreed the maid.
Catherine indulged one last look in the mirror before saying shortly, “Very well, then, what are we waiting for? Betsy, could you hand me my pelisse? Evelyn, I expect Mama is pacing impatiently downstairs. Shall we go?” She offered her arm.
“Yes, darling,” she said, taking it. Then, in perfect sympathy, the two sisters went downstairs to find their mother.
Upon their arrival at Lady Rivington’s ball, Evelyn stayed close instead of wandering off as she usually did, much to Catherine’s surprise. “I am going to be right here, darling,” she said, laying a comforting hand on her sister’s elbow, “the entire night so if there is anything you need, you just let me know. And if I see you-know-who barreling down upon you, I shall simply intercede and discuss sleeve lengths ad nauseam if I must. Don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get through this together and show him in the process that he can’t toy with the Misses Fellingham and get away with it.”
Listening to this speech, with its touch of high drama, Catherine had to hide a smile. Her sister certainly relished playing the part of Lady Savior, but her concern was sincere and Catherine could not fault her for her histrionics. The way she had responded so readily to her need made Catherine wonder if perhaps she, as well as Freddy and Melissa, had underestimated Evelyn. Maybe she behaved so poorly because she knew none of them held her in high esteem. If she could never get their good opinion, there was no reason to try to earn it.
Catherine gave this theory several more minutes’ consideration as she surveyed the room to see if Deverill had arrived yet. They themselves were frightfully late, and the flood of people arriving had slowed to a trickle. Mayhap he wouldn’t come after all.
These optimistic thoughts were interrupted by Evelyn, who wanted to introduce her to a tall man in an olive waistcoat. He had a vaguely familiar look about him, and Catherine didn’t doubt that she had met him previously, as she had most members of the ton. She simply couldn’t say when or where.
“Catherine, may I present Lord Claire,” Evelyn said at her most gracious.
Although she knew she looked well in the red dress, Catherine still felt like her usual awkward and insecure self and wanted to demur whenever Evelyn introduced her to someone new. But her sister was trying so hard to ensure her enjoyment and she couldn’t bear to disappoint her, so she made a particular effort to laugh and flirt.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said cheerfully, offering her hand and smiling when he kissed her gloved fingers.
“Lord Claire has simply the most divine pair of matched chestnuts in all of London, and I am dying to take them for a ride,” Evelyn explained, batting her eyelashes with such practiced ease that Catherine despaired of ever having her sister’s grace and poise.
“I am at your disposal,” he said with a bow. “Name the day and I shall take you for a drive in the park. It would be my absolute pleasure.”
Evelyn pouted charmingly, her lower lip pronounced. “Pooh, Lord Claire, I didn’t mean as a passenger.”
“My sister is an admirable whip,” offered Catherine, grateful to have something to add to the conversation.
“Is she? And what about you, Miss Fellingham?” he asked.
“Who do you think taught her?” she answered boldly.
Lord Claire laughed and asked Catherine for the next dance. She accepted happily, and when the orchestra struck up a minuet, she went out on the dance floor on the arm of the handsome lord.
Despite her anxiety about Lord Deverill’s appearance, Catherine found herself having an enjoyable time. Whether by her sister’s design or Lady Courtland’s machinations, she was quite in fashion that evening. Her dance card was quickly filled, and although she recognized quite a few names as beaux of her sister, others she knew were not.
She shared one dance with Lord Winter, who approached her this time. “My dear Miss Fellingham, you look enchanting this evening,” he said as he led her out onto the dance floor.
Catherine blushed with pleasure. Lord Winter wasn’t as handsome or accomplished as Deverill, but he was friendly and pleasant company and he seemed genuinely to like her. Catherine thought he would do very well as a suitor and quite possibly as a husband if it came to that. They talked throughout the dance, and Catherine marveled at how comfortable she felt with him. It was easy, she realized, to like everyone when it felt as if everyone liked you.
Catherine tried to remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much at a social function and came up blank. For years, going to balls, even the most glittering ones, had been a dreary obligation. Perhaps had she been more outgoing and not so insecure during her come-out, her first season could have been like this.
“Catherine,” said Evelyn excitedly, “you look splendid on the dance floor. I swear you are the most beautiful woman here tonight.”
She laughed at her sister’s obvious ploy. “Doing it a bit brown, aren’t you?”
“I would never condescend to you with overflattery,” Evelyn promised before plying her with more compliments. “Truly, I need to watch over my beaux more carefully lest you steal one from me.” Seeing that this statement reminded Catherine of Deverill, she quickly added, “Unless, of course, we are speaking of Mr. Oscar Finchly. In which case, pray tell me how I can help you arrange the theft.”
Catherine laughed at this quip, as she herself wished someone would come and secret away the oily Mr. Finchly. “Your generosity overwhelms me, my dear.”
“Of course it does,” she said, her smile dimming as she spotted the gentleman in question. “Speak of him and the devil appears.”
Turning her head, Catherine saw Finchly approach and resolved to return her sister’s goodness with a charitable act of her own. “I’ll handle him,” she announced. “Since I shall be otherwise engaged, could you please relate my regrets to Mr. Figston for missing our dance?”
Before Evelyn had a chance to respond, Catherine dashed over to Mr. Finchly, displaying an undue amount of haste to anyone watching. Utilizing the charms she had seen Evelyn employ earlier, she batted her eyelashes in what she hoped was a coquettish fashion and smiled. “Good evening, sir.”
Finchly greeted her politely, but his expression remained blank and she could tell that he had no idea who she was. “I believe we’ve met before but perhaps you don’t remember me. I am the other Miss Fellingham. I believe you’re acquainted with my sister Evelyn.”
Now he smiled and a calculating look entered his eye. “Yes, of course I remember you. You’re as lovely as your sister. Beauty clearly runs in the Fellingham line. Where is that sweet child? Pray would you lead me to her so I can make my hellos to her as well?”
Although the request was worded as a question, his tone made it seem like a command, and for a moment, Catherine felt outmaneuvered, as she was fairly certain that he knew not only where her sister was but that she knew it as well. At that momen
t, the music began and she decided to brazen it out, no matter how unpleasant. “I would love to lead you to my sister but first you simply must dance with me. They are playing a cotillion, which is quite my favorite, and I would be wretched if I had nobody with whom to dance it. Would you please be so kind?” She fluttered her eyelashes again, feeling utterly ridiculous and fully expecting someone to come over and ask if she had something in her eye.
Catherine could tell that Finchly wanted to deny her, but whatever manners he had came to the fore and he reluctantly, if not graciously, consented to be her partner. She would have sent a conspiratorial smile to her sister, who was just then being led onto the floor by Mr. Figston, but she feared she would start giggling if she made eye contact.
The dance with Mr. Finchly was equal parts uneventful and unpleasant. He didn’t talk much and neither did she, but she found that he had the unfortunate habit of breathing heavily in her ear, as if from considerable exertion. There was also the rather indecent way he examined her décolletage, staring down at her neckline and telling her that her “jewels” were “splendid” with a sly smile. When he rudely left her on the edge of the dance floor, rather than escorting her back to her mama, she felt only relief at being out of his presence.
“Finally, my dear, you are free.”
Catherine jumped at the sound of Deverill’s voice and twirled around to find him standing directly behind her, looking extremely intimidating and handsome in a black cutaway-style coat over black breaches and a white waistcoat. For a seemingly endless moment her mind went absolutely blank and she could think of nothing to say—no clever rejoinder, no pithy remark. She couldn’t even pull together enough words to excuse herself from his presence. All she could do was stare up at his attractive face, annoyed that he was as devastating as always. She didn’t think it was unreasonable to have hoped he had grown grotesque overnight.
Aware that she had to get hold of herself, she closed her eyes for a trice and took a deep, calming breath. When she opened them again, Deverill was still there and he was still looking grim.
Miss Fellingham's Rebellion Page 17
