Belle of the Ball

by Pam McCutcheon

  Belle looked disappointed. “Aren’t you going to show me?”

  Definitely not. He wasn’t sure he should be anywhere in her proximity until he had himself under control once more. Ignoring Madame’s small, all-knowing smile, Kit said, “You don’t need me—it’s all right there.”

  “Oh, but I do need you,” Belle said with a small motion of her fan to his arm to stay his movements—a very feminine gesture that had just the effect she wanted.

  He swallowed hard. She learned quickly—and all too well. “I just realized—perhaps it isn’t such a good idea for you to be spending so much time in my company. . . .”

  “But why not?” she asked, disappointment showing on her countenance.

  “Your . . . intended may not like it,” he said desperately.

  “Oh, pooh,” she said with an airy wave of her fan. “He’ll never know—unless you tell him.”

  “Someone may talk.”

  “Who? Madame? Miss Keithley? I don’t think so.”

  “Of course we won’t,” Madame assured him, her amused expression showing that she knew he knew that and that he was grasping at straws.

  “But . . . your mother may find out, and then where would we be?”

  Belle waved that away as well. “Oh, she won’t. And even if she did, she thinks you can do no wrong. Besides, you promised to help me.”

  Kit didn’t remember agreeing to any such thing, but his own actions had condemned him. By taking on the task of improving Belle, he had made a tacit, unspoken promise. And he was a man of his word. “Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I shall show you the language of the fan.”

  But I’m not going to enjoy it.

  Belle’s lessons proceeded as promised, but she didn’t enjoy them. Kit did his part and dutifully taught her the language of the fan under Alvina and Madame Aglaia’s chaperonage, but it was less fun than she had hoped and more tedious than she had imagined.

  She learned to show pleasure, displeasure, curiosity, and a variety of other emotions with the fan, but none seemed to have a significant effect on him. Worse, she never saw that glint in his eye again—the one that showed he had some awareness of her as a woman. Instead, he drilled her over and over again until she swore she could perform the moves correctly and gracefully in her sleep.

  But once she was totally conversant with the proper movements and their meaning, they had realized that in order to be effective, others would have to learn it, too. So they devised a plan to put into action tonight at a musical soirée at Miss Keithley’s.

  Charisma and Grace watched her eagerly in her bedroom mirror as she dressed for the evening. “You’re so beautiful tonight,” Grace exclaimed.

  Belle laughed. She did look elegant in the new evening dress, and it was a becoming shade of dusty blue. “Not quite, but I shall endeavor to be interesting and hope it does the trick.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Charisma said with conviction. “I just wish we could go with you tonight to see your triumph.”

  “I do, too, but it was hard enough to get Mama to let me go.”

  Grace bounced onto the bed, completely disheveling the bedding. “However did you manage to convince Mama not to accompany you?”

  “Well, since Mama and Papa are still at odds because of what she did to us, all I did was tell Papa that I feared she would embarrass me.”

  Charisma frowned. “Do you think they’ll ever reconcile?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will,” Belle said with an airy wave of her hand. They always have before.”

  “But it’s been so long. . . .” Grace said with a forlorn look.

  “And Mama has never done anything so horrible before,” Charisma reminded her. “But Belle is right—they’ll come around.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Grace said. Then, regaining her usual sunny spirits, she asked, “What can we do to help you with tonight?”

  Belle smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm. “Would you like to help me choose a fan?”

  “Oh, may I?” Enthusiastic now, Grace searched through the assortment Madame Aglaia had sent over and plucked one out of the group with sticks of lightweight wood covered with blue silk and tipped with small white feathers. “Oh, use this one, Belle. It’s so pretty—it looks like a bird.”

  Grace fluttered it around the room but was so intent on flying her “bird,” she didn’t see the footstool. Naturally, she tripped over it, but Belle and Charisma, with the ease of long practice, were there not only to break her fall, but to keep her from breaking anything else.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Grace said as she righted herself and quickly inspected the fan that had hit the floor in her hand. “But look, the fan is all right.”

  She flourished it at Belle, who took it and held it against her dress. The blue silk complemented the hue of her gown, so she said, “All right, Grace, the ‘bird’ fan it is.”

  The maid arrived to let Belle know her father was waiting, and Grace carefully hugged her. “Good luck tonight. Have fun.”

  “Yes,” Charisma added. “And remember everything so you can tell us all about it when you get home.”

  “I will,” Belle promised. Until recently, the girls had pretty much been inseparable, but with Belle’s metamorphosis and plan for revenge, that had necessarily changed so that Belle now did more and more things without her sisters. She knew that eventually they would all find lives of their own away from each other, but it still made her sad.

  But she couldn’t let those emotions spoil this evening. She shrugged off her melancholy and went downstairs to where Papa was waiting to escort her to the soirée. Mama was conspicuously absent—her way of letting her displeasure be known.

  But Papa filled in admirably, even complimenting Belle on her appearance. “Ye look lovely tonight, me girl.”

  Belle hugged him. “Thank you, Papa.” She was nervous about this evening and it helped to know she was looking her best.

  As he handed her into the waiting carriage to drive the short distance to Alvina’s, he asked, “Now, are ye sure ye want to mess with all this folderol? ’Tisn’t just to please yer mother, is it?”

  “Oh, no,” she assured him. Though she could understand why he asked. In the past, she had resisted any suggestion of dressing up and going out, hating to mess with all that folderol, as he put it. “I’m having fun, Papa. And Miss Keithley is so nice—she’s done so much to help me. I want to do this, and I’m sure I’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Well, I guess yer growin’ up, then,” he said with a hint of sadness.

  She hugged him, suddenly wishing things could stay as they were forever. But that wasn’t possible . . . or desirable, either. “I’m afraid so, but I’ll always be your daughter . . . and I’ll always love you.”

  The carriage stopped and her father said gruffly, “See that ye do.” But he gave her an extra hug as he escorted her out of the carriage to Miss Keithley’s door.

  Miss Keithley promised to see her safely home, and he left Belle, albeit a little reluctantly, in the woman’s care.

  Alvina smiled and drew her into the house. “Your father seems like a very nice man,” she said with a touch of inquisitiveness. Though Mama had tried her best to push her way into society, Papa had never entered into her sentiments, so few people knew him, except for those he worked with. As a result, people were curious about him.

  “He’s wonderful,” Belle assured her, then stopped to pet a tortoiseshell cat who had leapt up onto a chair to inspect her.

  “I’m glad you like cats,” Alvina said with a smile. “I know many people confine their pets when they have guests, but my two are part of the family, and I hate to shut them up. Besides, they like having guests as much as I do.”

  “I love animals,” Belle assured her. “What are their names?”

  “The one you’re petting now is Sheba, and the black cat at your feet is Cleopatra.”

  Belle bent to give Cleopatra some attention, too. “My, what grand names.”

  �
�They’re very grand cats,” Alvina assured her with a twinkle in her eye.

  A knock sounded, startling Belle, who suddenly remembered why they were there tonight.

  “Are you nervous?” Alvina asked.

  “A little,” Belle admitted, clutching her fan like a lifeline. It felt like a whole flock of tiny birds had taken up residence in her stomach, flying in agitated circles. A great deal depended on this evening. Was she up to it?

  She’d better be, for her time was at hand.

  Their first guest was shown into the salon and Belle relaxed when she saw it was Kit, then became nervous all over again. As Alvina went to check on her preparations, Belle felt suddenly very aware of Kit Stanhope. He was so handsome in his dark evening dress, with his fair hair shining in the lamplight and his lips looking so very inviting as he greeted her with a smile.

  Stop dwelling on his mouth, she told herself sternly. What was it about a simple pair of lips that could hold her in such thrall? She refused to dwell on it and raised her gaze to concentrate instead on another feature—his eyes.

  Hmm, those cool blue eyes were too assessing, too knowing . . . too disconcerting. It was safer to focus her gaze somewhere in between . . . like his nose. Yes, that was better. Patrician-looking though it might be, a nose was much less intimidating than eyes, much less dangerous than lips. A nose was . . . safe.

  “Miss Sullivan?” Kit said with a quizzical smile. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she said, though she kept her gaze from straying from the area of safety.

  He fingered his nose in puzzlement. “Is there something wrong with my nose?”

  Feeling herself flush, Belle looked away. “No, of course not. You look wonderful.” Magnificent, even. Then, to change the subject, she asked, “How do I look?” and turned slowly for his perusal.

  Kit nodded as she turned. “Very nice.” He commented favorably on her hair, the style of her gown, and its color.

  Belle supposed she should be gratified, but he was treating her more like a horse under inspection than a prospective flirt. If he tried to check her teeth, she swore she’d bite him.

  Annoyed, she wondered how in Sam Hill she could get him to fall in love with her so she could spurn him if he persisted in treating her like a filly for sale. She wanted to stamp her foot in frustration, but it would ruin the whole image she was trying to project

  “Whose neck is that, I wonder?” Kit asked with amusement in his tone.

  “What?”

  “The way you are abusing that fan, I thought you might have a particular person’s neck in mind . . . ?”

  Belle suddenly realized she had been unconsciously opening and shutting the fan with unwonted force. Closing it once more with a snap, she laughed nervously, then slapped him playfully on the arm with it, albeit a little harder than she had intended. “No, of course not. I’m just nervous.”

  He winced. “Well, perhaps you should find a way to calm yourself before you break the fan . . . or my arm.”

  She couldn’t help it—she tittered out of pure embarrassment. Oh, dear. He must think her a simpering fool. With her face overly warm now, she snapped the fan open to use it for its more mundane purpose—cooling her face—and saw a small white feather waft loose and float down to the carpet.

  Sheba pounced upon the prize, and Belle wondered whether to acknowledge the small incident, but decided to pretend it didn’t exist to avoid further embarrassment.

  Unfortunately, more white down caught her eye as she realized there were three tiny pieces of fluff on Kit’s sleeve. Oh, no. She must have deposited them there when she whacked him on the arm.

  Calculating quickly how to remove them from his pristine black jacket without calling attention to her faux pas, Belle moved closer to him and said, “I just need a little time to get over my nervousness. I’m sure I’ll be fine soon.”

  With a reassuring and rather firm brush of his arm, she swept the feathers off his sleeve . . . only to see Cleopatra leap up to swat at the three tufts as they wafted slowly down.

  Mortified, Belle quickly drew Kit’s attention away. Between Grace’s handling and her own mangling of the poor fan, it was no wonder the feathers had come loose. She just hoped it would survive the night and their plan without shedding too much or looking too bedraggled.

  She didn’t have much time to worry as Alvina returned and the other guests began arriving. They had all been carefully chosen for this evening to fit in with their plan—just enough people to spread the word about Belle’s transformation, but not enough to intimidate her in her first public appearance as the new, improved Belle Sullivan.

  And as she made the rounds of the small party, she was gratified to hear quite a few compliments, especially from George Winthrop and Harold Latham. She had hoped they would find her attractive and become smitten so she could exact her revenge, but they were acting a bit odd—as if she were somehow their protégée. They even seemed to be taking credit for her blossoming.

  The situation seemed to amuse Kit, but it annoyed Belle. How could she make them fall for her if they treated her like a favorite niece whom they patted on the head and sent off to play? She would just have to find a way to change their attitude.

  As the evening progressed, Belle tried to keep her use of the fan strictly controlled, but she used it naturally as she spoke and found herself shedding feathers everywhere. Unfortunately, the cats followed her everywhere as well, no doubt looking upon her as the source of the new fun toys or wondering when the bird in her hand would light somewhere within reach.

  Good grief, with her feline escort and shedding fan, how would she be able to carry out her part of the plan? With exasperation, she surreptitiously fanned another loose feather out of sight and saw Kit approaching her with a glass of punch.

  “I thought you might be parched,” he said and handed her the punch with one hand as he deftly snatched a piece of loose fluff from the air with the other, then placed it in his pocket as if it were a perfectly ordinary occurrence.

  Belle accepted the punch gratefully, wondering if she should ignore his action with as much aplomb as he had just shown, but as she opened her lips to speak, she gestured with the fan in her hand and a small feather landed on her lip.

  Well, this is impossible to ignore. She couldn’t very well stand there with a feather sticking out of her mouth and pretend it didn’t exist. Fleetingly, she considered swallowing the evidence, but that was just too disgusting to contemplate.

  She raised her gaze to Kit and saw him watching her dilemma with unholy amusement in his eyes. “Having a fowl time of it, are we?” he drawled.

  Oh, who was she fooling? Snatching the feather from her mouth and tossing it to the cats, she wailed, “I’m molting. . . .”

  He let out a bark of laughter. “I know.” But he didn’t seem to be able to say anything further as he struggled to hold his mirth in check.

  “What shall I do?” she whispered fiercely. “I can’t go through with the plan looking like I’ve just had a dust-up with a flock of chickens.”

  He grinned, setting his cool blue eyes alight with humor. “Er, if you would allow me?” She nodded in resignation as he removed one piece of down from her hair and another from her shoulder. Then he added in a low tone, “Miss Keithley and I noticed your . . . predicament, and she’s gone to get you another fan.”

  “But how will we make the switch? Surely everyone’s noticed the fan I have.” How could they miss it?

  “All you have to do is follow my lead . . . and don’t swish it about so.”

  “All right,” she said with a sigh and let the fan dangle down to her side, resolving not to use it again. “What are you going to do?”

  But Belle never learned what he had planned because Sheba, finally seeing her prize within reach, leapt up to knock the fan out of Belle’s hand. It went flying just like the bird it resembled . . . right into Cleopatra’s pouncing paws.

  Belle couldn’t help it—she let out a surprised
scream, which unfortunately drew everyone’s attention. In horror, Belle watched as the cats briefly fought over their prey, then ripped it in two. With a triumphant growl, Sheba sat glowering at the assemblage over her severed half while Cleo made off with the other. Stunned silence reigned as Cleopatra darted over to Alvina and laid the mangled fan at her mistress’s feet.

  Belle knew she should be mortified, but the cat looked so absurdly proud of herself, she couldn’t help it—she burst into laughter.

  And the tension in the room suddenly disappeared as everyone followed suit. “I’m so sorry,” Alvina said, though her eyes were twinkling merrily. “Let me replace it, please.”

  “There’s no need,” Belle said with a laugh. “Just give it a decent burial.”

  Everyone laughed again. Thank heavens the amusement was at the situation and not at her expense.

  “No, I insist on replacing it,” Alvina said. “Just a moment.”

  Alvina signaled a maid to deal with the fatally wounded fan, and as she rushed off to find a replacement, Kit whispered, “You handled that very well.”

  Belle rolled her eyes. “Thank you, but I hope that wasn’t the plan you had in mind.”

  “No,” he said with a devilishly charming grin. “But it worked admirably. Now no one will question Miss Keithley providing you with a new fan.”

  Alvina came back with a pretty painted one, sans feathers, and whispered to the two of them, “Now seems like a good time, don’t you think?”

  Belle gulped. “I guess so. . . .”

  “You’ll do just fine,” Alvina promised her, patting her hand and drawing her into a small group that contained the most notorious chatterbox in town—Millicent Mattingly.

  “My dear, that was so amusing,” Miss Mattingly gushed in a piercing tone without a trace of condescension. “I vow, you will become the talk of the town.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Belle demurred. Not that way, anyway. And since she seemed to have most everyone’s attention, she deliberately looked at Kit and opened and shut her fan with a snap.