“There, there, now, we must be careful of the pins!” Martha, realizing the danger to her creation, wedged herself in the middle of the fray. “You can change now, dear. I’ll stitch this up today and be ready to press it tomorrow. Saturday evening, mark my words, you will be the belle of the ball! And then I will be designing your wedding gown!”
Penelope giggled and reluctantly released her sisters, and then turned around so that the dressmaker could unbutton her ball gown. “I know! I mean,” she corrected, “I hope so!”
The Vanderbilts’ Christmas ball was a much-anticipated event of the season. Young Alva Vanderbilt and her husband, William, were newlyweds, and they opened their house to celebrate their own happiness as well as to extend their hospitality to their friends and neighbors.
The townhouse was gaily decorated with sprigs of holly and wreaths of laurel, while tiny bouquets of mistletoe nestled above in the kissing boughs. Gilt banisters lining the staircase were festooned with evergreens and bright red ribbons, giving them the appearance of candy canes. Chandeliers dripping with crystals lent a sparkling light to the festivities as servants crossed the black-and-white marble floor carrying silver trays of Champagne and tempting ices and cakes to refresh the guests.
“You all look so handsome!” Eve cried as she stood in the foyer with Penelope. Jennifer and Winifred handed their fur-trimmed cloaks to a servant, while their husbands, Gabriel and Charles, dispensed with their top hats and walking sticks. Jennifer, in a sumptuous ruby-colored gown, appeared festive and lovely, while Winifred was the picture of grace in emerald-green velvet.
The sergeant at arms gestured to Winifred and Jennifer, and then turned to the crowd.
“May I present Mr. and Mrs. Forester, Mr. and Mrs. Howe!”
The company applauded, acknowledging the couples. Jennifer and Winifred descended the stairs with their husbands while nodding to acquaintances. The women joined some friends near the fire, while Gabriel and Charles fetched drinks from a passing waiter.
“Jared!” Charles Howe shook the hand of his friend as he approached. “I was wondering where you were, old chap!”
Jared Marton laughed. Clad in a black suit with a white waistcoat, he looked every inch the successful dashing attorney that he was. Accepting a glass of Champagne, he took Winifred’s hand and kissed it, ignoring the sharp look his friend sent him.
“I wasn’t looking forward to this, I assure you.” He raised his head with a grin. “Debutantes and dances are not to my taste. My parents insisted I attend.”
“You are thirty-four,” Charles said dryly, “and won’t live forever. Perhaps it’s time you took an interest in one of our young ladies. There are many pretty girls in need of a partner.”
“You are with the most beautiful woman here, and alas, she’s taken. But perhaps Mrs. Howe will generously allow me a waltz?” He gave her a wicked grin.
Winifred laughed. “I would be happy to dance, Mr. Marton. But you are acquainted with my sister Penelope? I believe they are announcing her now.”
“Madame Eve Appleton …” The deep male voice resonated, breaking through the chatter. “And making her debut this evening, her niece Miss Penelope Appleton!”
A hush seemed to fall over the room as Penelope stepped forward. She was unearthly beautiful, poised on the marble landing beneath the twinkling lights, and more than one man looked to the heavens as he beheld her. The ivory satin gown gave her the appearance of a Christmas angel amid the darker velvets of the season. A string of simple pearls adorned her throat, and tiny diamonds added sparkle to a face that needed no embellishment. Her blond hair, gleaming in the chandelier light, was tied back with a black band that matched the one at her waist, letting her curls fall artfully around her cheekbones. Demurely, she held a nosegay of white roses and baby’s breath, while her dance card fluttered in enticing invitation from her gloved wrist. When she began to descend the stairs, the applause was thunderous.
“My God,” Jared breathed. Dumbstruck, he could do nothing for several seconds but gawk at the gorgeous creature before him as she walked gracefully down the stairs and was immediately thronged by men. He had met Penelope in the past, and like all men, had admired her beauty, but he’d merely thought of her as Winnie’s baby sister. Yet now, all grown up, dressed in a gown that could have come from Paris, she looked like Aphrodite herself.
Desire, hot and urgent, throbbed in his blood, but what he felt was more than simply appreciation for her looks. He wanted her, all of her, totally and completely. It didn’t matter that she was ridiculously young. It didn’t matter that she was the sister of his good friend Winifred. It didn’t matter that he would have tons of competition for the fabled beauty, or that she was notorious, being an Appleton. Nothing mattered except that he make her his own, regardless of the cost.
“Jared?” Winifred lightly touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
“I think your baby sister has made another conquest,” Charles joked as Jared shook his head, as if trying to rid his brain of an enchantment. “You’d better get in there if you hope to secure a dance,” he advised his fellow lawyer. “She’s surrounded by beaux. I wouldn’t be surprised if her card was already full.”
“We’ll see about that.” Purposefully, Jared rebuttoned his glove and squared his shoulders, as if preparing for battle. He didn’t care if it was one swain or a thousand—this night would not pass without him securing a dance. He strode purposefully through the crowd, directly toward the girl who was causing such a stir, ignoring the comments and inquiries all around him like the buzz of a thousand hornets. Penelope Appleton had certainly made an impact on the staid New York society.
And on him.
Penelope’s lips parted in shock and she paused as she saw a man approaching, parting the sea of black coats like a knight charging into battle. Neville Johnston was entreating her to taste a sugared plum, but she couldn’t even move to respond. It was him. Their eyes locked, and neither one of them could look away. Her heart beat so loudly that she wondered if others could hear it, and she had to force herself to take another breath as the heady emotion flooded through her.
It was him. Jared Marton was the dark-haired stranger in her dreams! Penelope knew it instantly. Why had she never noticed how handsome he was, that his eyes were a compelling deep green, his chin firm and square, his mouth a sensual promise? He really was a magnificent specimen of a man, she mused, even though he was known as a rogue and one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Wealthy to boot, he was popular with the ladies, though he seemed to have no intention of settling down with just one. He enjoyed women, had a zest for life, and was used to having his own way.
This man was her destiny.
She couldn’t stop the shiver of excitement that raced through her.
Read on for an excerpt from Megan Frampton’s
What Not to Bare
What Not to Bare:
Dear Ladies:
Your usual columnist has departed for more fashionable shores, leaving you in my somewhat less-than-capable hands. But let me assure you that my primary concern is to keep you fashionable, no matter how many puce prints and overflowing bodices I need to examine in the course of my work.
Let us tackle the first topic right away, then, shall we?
Yellow.
A lovely color; the color of sunshine, butter, lemons, daisies, buttercups; also the color of jaundice and yellow fever, but those are not germane to our discussion.
Yellow, my ladies, is not a color to be wielded lightly, no matter how bright it is. In fact, its very brightness should deter you from wearing it. Bright, bright yellow looks good on no one. Let me repeat: BRIGHT YELLOW LOOKS GOOD ON NO ONE.
If you must wear yellow, make it the palest shade possible, and do not wear it if you have a sallow complexion. You will just look ill, not fashionable, and gentlemen will naturally stay away.
Unless you wish the gentlemen to stay away—and we cannot fault you, can we, they can be most unpleasant at t
imes—wear only the most particular shades of this most lovely color.
Thank you,
The Fashionable Foible
Chapter 1
“Write your column?” Charlotte looked at her friend in disbelief.
“It is only for a few months while I am with my sister; the way she’s acting you’d think women had never had children before. And during the Season, too! How inconsiderate can one sister be?” Emma rolled her eyes as though to express her feelings, but her tone belied her exasperation—Emma loved her older sister and would do anything for her. Even leave London in the midst of the Season.
Charlotte, on the other hand, wasn’t leaving anywhere until she got some food. The Davenhams’ evening entertainment included all of their daughters, one of whom had enacted a precise tableaux inspired by Gibbons’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. All six volumes.
Charlotte had contemplated eating her shoe around the Roman conquest of the Franks.
And just as she was about to sit down at the table with her small plate of food, her best friend Emma had bustled up, grabbed her, and informed her she would be writing Emma’s fashion column while Emma was away from London.
This, Charlotte knew, was the most ludicrous idea ever imagined. Even worse than Miss Davenham’s Viking song. Who knew those fur-clad Northern Europeans could be so … jolly?
“But, Emma,” she replied, spreading her hands out to indicate her gown, “I know nothing about fashion. Less than nothing. Look,” she said, pointing to her shoes. “I somehow thought purple slippers would go perfectly with my yellow evening gown.”
“Not to mention those red squiggly things wandering randomly through the fabric,” Emma said, touching one of the offending stripes “And that yellow! It looks like jaundice! What were you thinking?” Emma had never been shy about offering her opinion of Charlotte’s use of color.
Charlotte groaned. “I was thinking it looked lovely! Instead, when I came downstairs, my mother’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish, and she made me come into the ballroom five minutes later than she did so no one would think she had anything to do with my gown.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Emma, I have no fashion sense. Less than none. I am negative in the fashion-sense area.” She swallowed. “You have heard the nickname I’ve gotten, haven’t you? The Abomination.”
She’d almost come to believe her own words. If only so many hadn’t discussed—at length—just how rich she was, she wouldn’t have to indulge her most far-fetched visions of dress.
But they had, and so she did. Hence her reputation, which kept nearly everyone but Emma safely away. And Emma did not wish to marry her, thank goodness.
Emma patted her arm in sympathy, and Charlotte felt momentarily guilty at fooling her friend. Her friend with the loose tongue. “I am sorry. But,” Emma continued, “I don’t care.” Charlotte stopped feeling guilty entirely.
She spoke in that decisive tone Charlotte knew only too well. It meant Emma’s mind was made up, whether she’d decided to hatch a chicken egg in her bedroom, ask the Prince of Wales to marry her, or run for the title of Most Beautiful Emma in London.
That last one had the best chance of happening, since so many young men of the ton were enthralled with Emma’s blond tresses, limpid blue eyes, and deliciously tiny figure. Plus, she was named Emma, so that was a good start.
Nothing like Charlotte’s own brown hair, equally brown eyes, and a figure her mother euphemistically referred to as “healthy.” Which was in danger of being less “healthy” if she didn’t get something to eat soon. Not to mention her name, which always sounded to her like an elderly aunt who smelled of old mint, unlike Emma’s, which rang like a gentle tinkling bell in one’s ears.
“Fine, then. When do you leave town?” Charlotte plunked her plate on the table and sat. Damned if Emma was going to make her miss her dinner.
Emma took the chair next to hers and beckoned a footman over. “Could you bring me a chocolate ice, please?” Perhaps that was how Emma kept her trim figure—she just skipped the main course and went straight for the treats.
The Davenhams were wealthy—and not shy about showing it—so they always provided the most decadent refreshments at their parties. Keeping ices cold for several hours was an impressive way of demonstrating the depth of one’s bank balance. It was a tactical move, since the Davenhams did indeed have so many daughters to marry off. And it would take a lot of ice to get a gentleman to take on the history-minded Davenham. She rather looked like some sort of prehistoric snow dweller, Charlotte thought. Perfect for an ice enthusiast.
“I leave tomorrow. And normally I have a few columns in reserve, but I got behind. You’ll have to start writing it immediately.” Emma picked up her spoon and took a delicate bite of the ice. As though she hadn’t just blown Charlotte’s world apart into little, fashionable bits.
“Immediately?” Charlotte shrieked, albeit quietly. As loud as her clothing was, Charlotte had no wish to draw attention to herself. Plus, she knew her mother would spend an extra half an hour in addition to her normal lecture at the end of the evening if Charlotte caused people to stare. More than her outfit warranted, that is.
“Yes. That is why I insisted you come to the Davenhams tonight, so I could help you with what you need to do. It’s really quite simple.”
Simple if you have a sense of style, Charlotte thought. Even now, Emma couldn’t help but look beautiful—her gown, a pale-cream color, was accented with pink ribbons just under the bosom. If Charlotte had worn it, she would have added several dozen more ribbons, preferably in varying hues, her favorite pair of red gloves, and perhaps some feathers in her mousy-brown hair.
She knew she looked garish, but even beyond wanting to keep certain types away, she just … liked looking that way, despite her mother’s despair. Perhaps because of her mother’s despair? Her mother had long ago washed her hands of Charlotte, sartorially at least, since she could only control so much of what her daughter did.
Besides, Charlotte reasoned, as she always did when she ran through the argument in her head, she wanted to be liked for who she was, not what she wore. Or how much money she had. Which, thanks to her favorite (and now late) great-aunt, was a substantial sum.
That Charlotte hadn’t yet found a husband—even with as much money as she had—was her mother’s Cross to Bear, something she reminded Charlotte of daily. And sometimes nightly.
But no matter how much her mother begged, Charlotte couldn’t resist an item of clothing if it was loud. Preferably screaming. Dressing as she did was a type of disguise, a protection against anybody who might try to infiltrate her defenses for the wrong reasons.
Her mother didn’t understand Charlotte’s explanation, didn’t understand Charlotte at all, but she was determined to Bear her Cross until her daughter was wedded.
While Charlotte waited for someone to brave her defenses, so she could be certain she was loved for herself.
Meanwhile, Charlotte attended every event her mother asked her to, knowing full well that the man who would seek her out for herself was an unusual, special man.
Because she was an unusual, special woman.
Who liked to wear unusual, special clothes.
“And then you turn in your article every Thursday, by two o’clock at the latest. I can send the address ’round to you tomorrow,” she heard Emma say. “Have you even been listening?” her friend asked in an annoyed tone.
“Uh … well,” Charlotte began.
“Marchston!” her mother said in a voice loud enough to silence the room, holding her hand out to a gentleman who’d just arrived. Charlotte’s eyes slid over to see whom her mother was speaking to, and then she felt her knees buckle. And her toes tingle. And a slow curl of something swirling through her body. And it wasn’t her dinner.
This was quite possibly the most boring evening he’d spent since he’d had his first drink, David thought as he walked into the room. The same dull people gossiping about other dull people, the same pet
ty intrigues and scandals only obfuscating the inevitable ennui that enveloped every member of Society within a few years.
No wonder he’d bought a commission so many years ago. Yes, there was the threat of dying, but at least he wasn’t bored. After he’d gotten injured, he and his bad leg had been assigned to India, where he’d handled delicate negotiations between the government, the company, and the local princes. Not to mention breaking more than a few hearts.
When his leg had healed enough for him to return to England, he’d discovered he’d rather stay, having found something that kept his boredom entirely at bay.
It was unfortunate for him, then, that the most recent heart he’d broken had belonged to a very important general’s wife. Coming back to England had been his only choice; that had been made very clear.
So he’d donned his knee breeches, stuck a neck pin into his cravat, and strolled right back into the same dull environs he’d left ten years ago. All of it had changed, and yet nothing seemed different.
The Countess of Jepstow was still here, wearing the result of ten years of pastries, and a tired feather bobbing from her hair like a becalmed sail. The warm look she gave him was a familiar one; he’d been getting such looks from ladies since he had turned eighteen and grown to over six feet in height.
“My lady,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it, barely grazing her skin with his lips. She tittered and squeezed his fingers as he met her gaze.
“And so the rogue has returned. It is wonderful to have you back. London has been such a bore since you left.”
I can see that, David thought. “Surely not with you here, my lady.” His reply was automatic. Ladies flirted the same way the world over, no matter what color their skin or what rank they held.
“You are too kind, my lord,” the countess said, eyeing him as if he were a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s. She glanced over his shoulder and narrowed her lips into a thin line. “Oh, of all the—”
Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance Page 27
