The gold dress was thrown over her head, pinned at the waist where it was too large, and removed. Measurements were taken. Clothilde arrived and proceeded to unpin Susannah's hair.
"Ils sont beaux!" said Clothilde, who turned out to be Bridget's sister, as she assessed the curly mane. Nevertheless, she attacked it ruthlessly with a pair of scissors, rubbed it with scented pomade, then pinned it back up. Then the gold dress was thrown a second time over Susannah's head and fastened up the back.
By that time, it seemed that she had been in the shop for hours. But Bridget assured her that only three-quarters of one had passed.
The thought of Ian cooling his heels in the front room for three-quarters of an hour was enough to send her speeding out to join him. Bridget stopped her.
"Do you not want to look in the glass?' she asked, sounding scandalized. Thus reminded, Susannah realized that she did, very much, want to look in the glass. When she did, her mouth fell open.
The young woman who looked back at her was a vision in gold. The lustrous satin gleamed under the bright lights. Cascades of blond lace fell over her hands and trimmed her skirt in wide flounces. Above the square, low-cut neckline the top half of her breasts swelled lushly and were the first detail of her altered appearance to catch her eye. Susannah would have found such a display embarrassing if every other lady in the shop had not worn her gown so. Still, it was all she could do not to cover up the vast expanse of creamy flesh with her hands.
"You do not think it is too low?" she inquired of Bridget, who was hovering anxiously.
"Non, madame, it isle dernier cri!"Bridget assured her. "Look, the hair! Is it not exquisite?"
Thus adjured, Susannah looked and was amazed. Clothilde had piled her hair high on her head in a jumble of loose curls, making her appear taller and slimming her face at the same time. Her square jaw looked almost oval, while the gold of the gown brought out gold flecks in her eyes. Her hair gleamed gold too, with the help of Clothilde's mysterious pomade.
"And the waist, it is so small! Derne will be in raptures! Though of course he already knows what that crow's gown concealed!" A knowing titter accompanied this.
At the thought of Ian seeing her thus, Susannah felt a rush of shyness. She was not ready to go before him clad so. To her own eyes she was very fine, and of course Bridget and Clothilde would tell her what it was in their best interests to say, but how would she look to him? Above all things, she would hate to appear ridiculous in his eyes. The phrase "mutton got up as lamb" arose to haunt her.
"Come, my lady, we must amaze Lord Derne," Bridget tugged her out toward the front room where Ian waited. She stumbled once, unaccustomed to heels of such dizzying height, but caught herself as she set eyes on Ian, lifting her chin and straightening her spine. However ridiculous she might appear, she would face him with dignity.
He watched her, rather idly, as she approached him, his eyes flicking over her in a cynical way that made Susannah long to lift her hands to cover her exposed bosom. Bright flags of color rose to fly in her cheeks at his expression. How dare he look at her like that! Then she saw that he had not yet realized who it was he ogled so.
"Voilà,my lord!" Bridget said, and Ian's eyes lifted to Susannah's face. She watched them widen, watched them run swiftly, almost disbelievingly, over her again as he rose to his feet.
"My God," he said in a curious, shocked tone as his gaze touched on her piled hair, her dainty slippers, the cascades of blond lace that covered her hands. "My God, Susannah, you're a little beauty! Whoever would have guessed it?"
40
"Ian! Derne, is that you?" The sweetly feminine voice in no way prepared Susannah for the dazzler who rushed past her to cast herself on Ian's bosom. Ian, taken by surprise, had no time to do more than say "Serena!" before the woman was in his arms. A perfectly manicured hand threaded through his black hair to pull his head down for her kiss. Her other arm was flung around his neck.
To his credit, Ian was looking rather desperately at Susannah out of one eye even as Serena was kissing him like the lost love of her life. Which, perhaps, he was.
"Ah, madame, you must not mind. She is just a little— history, yes? From before the marriage," Bridget murmured consolingly even as Ian put his hands on Serena's waist and bodily moved her away from him.
"But where have you been, my love?" Serena asked plaintively, her slender hands grasping his coat sleeves. Her eyes running over him, she added, "And why are you dressed like a—a provincial? 'Tis not like you, Derne, you who are always top of the trees!"
"I journeyed to the Colonies, for reasons which I won't go into here. I was sorry to leave you without a word, believe me. But I've brought someone back with me whom you should meet."
"Derne is unbelievable. He is so bold as to introduce his mistress to his wife!" murmured Bridget in an aside to Clothilde, who had just joined her. Susannah heard, and her gaze sharpened. Though she had not needed Bridget to tell her that Ian and this woman had once been considerably more than friends. The way she touched him, the timbre of her voice calling him love, the fondness in his eyes when he gazed down at her said that without words. It did not occur to Susannah until later that she was not, in fact, Ian's wife. As she watched the shameless creature clinging to her man, she felt like a wronged spouse.
Ian turned the woman to face her. Susannah took one look at the exquisite, lily-white face beneath piled hair that was black as midnight, at the huge dark eyes and rosebud mouth, at the tall, lush figure displayed to perfection in a dark green gown that was even more low-cut than the gold one she herself wore, and knew that in any contest of beauty the other woman would win hands down. Even Mandy could not compete with this.
"Susannah, this is Serena, Lady Crewe. Serena, this is Susannah—my wife."
Susannah did not miss the slight hesitation in his voice before he called her his wife. She guessed, had he not already perpetrated the deception upon Bridget and Clothilde, he would have been more truthful. After all, he would not want to make Lady Crewe think that he was no longer available to warm her bed!
"Your—wife!" Serena's mouth popped open, and her eyes widened as they moved swiftly over Susannah, who spent an instant giving thanks that at least she was not still clad in her Sunday black. While she could not begin to compete with the other woman's breathtaking looks, at least she need not feel completely inferior. Susannah lifted her chin, cast Ian a darkling look, and held out her hand.
"How do you do, Lady Crewe?" she asked quietly.
Serena, too, glanced at Ian. "Such a charming accent," she purred, just touching Susannah's hand with the tips of her fingers before letting her hand drop. "A Colonial, did you say?"
"I am from the Carolinas," Susannah replied, disdaining to let Ian speak for her. The woman detested her already, that much was plain. But of course, Serena considered that Susannah had stolen her man.
"Charming," Serena murmured again, and turned back to Ian. " 'Tis always good to renew old acquaintances, is it not?"
"Sometimes," he said, and smiled at her. To Susannah's fury, Serena placed a hand on his arm, went up on tiptoe, and whispered something in his ear. He smiled again, shook his head, and whispered something back.
"Ah, Madame la Marquise, will you take the blue dress with you as well? The alterations are made. And I can have the rest within a few days."
Bridget's attempt to distract Susannah's attention was kindly meant, Susannah realized as she nodded her assent. But she didn't miss the kiss Serena bestowed on Ian's cheek in parting, or the pat of his hand on her behind. Bright color flamed in Susannah's cheeks, and the glance she sent his way as they left the shop was sizzling.
"If your tongue isn't burning from all the lies you've told, it should be," she said to him with a snide smile as he stowed her parcels in the carriage. Disdaining his hand, she scrambled into the carriage on her own, nearly coming a cropper as her heel caught on the threshold. But she recovered without disgracing herself and was seated with back ramrod straight and head held high whe
n he swung inside.
"And just what lie in particular are you referring to now?" he asked almost too politely as he clucked to the horse and set the carriage in motion. Deftly he drove into the teeming traffic, but Susannah never even noticed how he squeezed between a milk cart and a barouche with scarcely an inch to spare.
"The one about me being your marchioness. Clearly Lady Crewe was upset to meet your wife." Susannah placed a faint emphasis on the last word.
"Serena is an old friend."
"Oh, yes. I can just hear you describing me in that fashion one day."
"There is no comparison between you and Serena. All right, so Serena was my mistress. I told you I'd had women. Serena was one of them. She's in the past."
"She doesn't look like she wants to be in the past."
"Susannah," he said. "You're a very jealous woman. Fortunate for you that I like it."
"What?" She blinked at him, caught by surprise at his response. He grinned, moved his hands, and the carriage turned right in a motion as smooth as silk.
"You look beautiful sitting there spitting at me like a she-cat. All I have to do is look at you, and I lust. I'm going to take you back to the hotel and take off that delectable dress and make love to you until you don't have the energy to be mad at me anymore."
The image he conjured up made her blood heat, but she was determined that he would never know it. Sticking her nose in the air, she said, "I don't feel like making love to you at the moment."
"Susannah." He said her name very softly. "Now who's lying?"
As they pulled up in front of the hotel at that moment, Susannah had no chance to reply. When they reached their room, she eyed him warily even as she kicked off the high-heeled slippers that were starting to hurt her feet.
"Shoes pinch?" he asked sympathetically. She said nothing but gave him a narrow-eyed look. He sighed.
"Witch," he said. "Come here."
"No." She unwrapped the blue dress that was nearly as lovely as the gold one she had on and stowed it in the wardrobe. In stocking feet and shirtsleeves now, he came to stand behind her.
"Nice," he said approvingly as she took out the silk underwear and folded it away.
She closed the wardrobe door just as his arms came around her waist from behind.
"You're beautiful," he whispered. "I want you." His mouth slid down the side of her neck. The hot, stirring contact made her pulses jump, but she jerked her neck away. To her surprise, as she turned her head, she found that she could see their reflections in the cheval glass that stood beside the wardrobe. The image of the two of them together was so arresting that she couldn't tear her eyes away.
She looked very small against him despite the pile of gold-touched curls on her head. She also looked quite lovely, and arrestingly feminine. He stood dauntingly tall and well-muscled behind her, and the soft white linen of his shirt clung to his broad shoulders that dwarfed her own. His glossy black head was bent to her neck as he kissed it again, and watching his mouth move over her white flesh even as she felt the wet slide of his lips was arousing in a way she had never before experienced. His strong arms were wrapped around her waist, and her golden skirt concealed his legs. Her stillness as he ran his mouth over her neck must have attracted his notice, because he glanced up then, followed the direction of her gaze, and then his reflection smiled knowingly into her eyes.
He turned her to face the mirror more fully. Then, still standing behind her, he began to unfasten her dress. Susannah could only watch, mesmerized, as he stripped her garments from her item by item, until finally she was naked. She felt like the worst kind of voyeur as she stared at herself in the glass. She was naked and quivering as he pulled her back against him, while he was still clad in his breeches and shirt. The contrast made her quake.
"No, don't look away," he said when she would have done just that. "Watch."
Unable to help herself, she did as he bade her. Her mouth went dry as she gazed at her own body as though it belonged to someone else, gazed at the full white globes of her breasts tipped by nipples the color of brown sugar and engorged with wanting, gazed at her tapering rib cage and flaring hips and shadowy navel and the sable nest of hair between her thighs. Her legs were very pale against the stark black of his breeches, and her abdomen was very pale, too, against the swarthiness of his wandering hand. He held her with one arm about her waist, pressing her back against his body, watching her watch herself in the mirror as he caressed her. His eyes smoldered, their hot depths searing her as she met them in the glass. Susannah stared into the hard, handsome face, then dropped her eyes to her own image as his hand slid up to fondle her breasts.
He stroked her gently, his long fingers tender as they touched her, his eyes aflame now as he watched her lips part as if she had difficulty drawing in air. She glanced from his face to his hand on her swelling breasts, and suddenly a wild hot ache spiraled to life inside her and she moaned. The sound that emerged from between her lips also seemed to come from the wanton in the glass, and watching even as she experienced such pleasure was the most erotic sensation in the world. The hand that had been grasping her waist slid down between her legs, and she discovered something even more erotic than that. He played with her, and she let him, and watched while he did it, and when finally he pulled her down to the floor and unbuttoned his breeches and guided her atop him, she watched that too. She watched as her hair tumbled down and her body trembled and flushed and hoarse little cries emerged from between her parted lips. She watched as he drove into her, giving her a shivering ecstasy that caused her to arch her back and dig her nails into his chest as though she would hang on for dear life. She watched the wanton in the mirror and knew her for herself. This naked, shivering, ungodly woman was the guilty secret the minister's prim daughter had kept hidden inside herself for so long.
41
Over the next two weeks Ian showed her London. He took her to Astley's Amphitheatre, and to a street fair, and to view the wild beasts at the Exchange. She saw mummers and minstrels, a roaring lion, and a bawdy farce that made her laugh even as she blushed. He took her driving down Bond Street, where she was much amused by the sight of fashionable beaux on the strut, as he termed it, and to the museum where she was able to view what he described as a very good copy of Venus, which put her to the blush, and to Winchester Cathedral, the majesty of which awed her. The world he showed her was so removed from the world in which she had grown up that she could scarcely believe they were on the same planet. As she thought that, she was once again aware of a pang in the region of her heart and a desire, quickly stifled, to go home.
He told her about the ball. He spoke of it in a very casual way at first, which made her suspicious. He was very casual only about things that mattered a great deal to him. With a little effort, she managed to pry out of him the information she needed to make sense of his manner —on the upcoming Wednesday, his mother, the Duchess of Warrender, would be holding a grand ball to kick off the season at her town house in Berkeley Square, to which she had just removed. Ian meant to attend. Susannah had no intention of letting him go alone.
Her wardrobe had arrived the previous Tuesday, but none of her dresses suited her so well as the gold and so Susannah decided to wear that. She felt some qualms about being introduced to Ian's mother as his wife when she was not, but considering the alternative she again did not object. Besides, under the circumstances it was doubtful that any formal introduction would occur. Did one introduce one's wife to the mother who had tried to murder one?
Ian acted as lady's maid for her—he wanted to hire one, but to that Susannah objected strenuously; she had done for herself all her life and had no intention of changing that now—and very creditably, too. At least all her hooks were fastened and her hair felt secure in its new curly style on the top of her head. Just that afternoon, he had presented her with a fan with creamy ivory sticks and a charming meadow scene painted on white silk. It dangled from a ribbon at her wrist.
Ian, of course, was
so handsome she could hardly take her eyes off him. He'd been fitted for a new wardrobe, and his ball dress was especially magnificent. He wore a long-tailed coat of midnight blue, a white silk waistcoat with an extravagant design of birds and flowers embroidered on it, and a pair of black breeches so tight that he joked that he feared to sit. His white silk stockings were clocked with gold, and his shoes had red heels. He'd been wearing nearly identical shoes and stockings when he'd been sent to Newgate, he informed her, and he had managed to retain them for exactly one day. They'd been stripped from him while he slept, and he'd been lucky to replace them with the shoes of a prisoner who had died. Susannah, both fascinated and appalled as she remembered his awful brogues, had begged to hear more of his experiences in the notorious prison, but he was in the process of tying his neckcloth (a weighty matter for a gentleman, she'd discovered) and thus could not converse without the danger of ruining its delicate folds.
The street leading to Berkeley Square was thronged with carriages. All of fashionable society seemed to be going. By the time the carriage had been driven away by a coachman Ian had hired for just that purpose and they were making their way through the crush of people ascending the stairs, it was nearing midnight. Susannah, having learned that London kept very different hours from Beaufort, was not much disturbed when the watch called the hour.
She was, however, disturbed about the prospect of the ball itself. Never had she attended such a grand affair—it made the Haskinses' party look paltry in comparison— and she had not the slightest idea of how to go on.
"Stick close to me," Ian advised when she whispered her concern to him. Susannah, who could have hardly done anything else with her hand tucked firmly in the crook of his arm, thanked him for the advice.
Ian was greeted on all sides with much exclamation, and he patiently explained again and again that he had been in the Colonies (he didn't explain exactly how he had come to make such a visit) and had brought back a bride. By the time they reached the door, where a portly butler, who looked far more like Susannah's idea of what a marquis should be than Ian did, sonorously announced the new arrivals, Susannah felt as if she'd been introduced to half of London.
Nobody's Angel Page 31
