by Regina Scott
The matter was not entirely driven from her mind as she tried to procure a shocking gown for the ball. She had told Leslie the truth. Her sisters had chosen simpering colors like pink, sky blue, and pale yellow that Cleo felt did not do justice to her cinnamon coloring. The most she’d been able to do was suggest a few alterations when the seamstress came to tailor them for her. The few pence she had to spend, a quarterly allowance also granted her from George Carlisle, went for accessories like gloves, fans, and bonnets. But with two coins in her pocket, and the promise of more if she needed it, she should be able to pick any gown she wanted.
The problem, of course, was time. She had only two days before the ball. No seamstress could whip up a dress so quickly. She wracked her brain for a way around the issue, finally resorting to asking Kate about the matter.
“A gown ready by Saturday evening, miss?” the little brown-haired maid had mused. “You want one that just needs the fittings. A lady I heard tell of, well, perhaps lady is too strong a word, but she got her gowns ready-made from a clever woman who takes in gowns from the folks in need of blunt and fixes them like new. Might be she could help you.”
It turned out she could. When Cleo and Kate managed to slip away while Lady Agnes was visiting her niece, Cleo found any number of fashionable gowns at the establishment on a back street in the heart of the city. Most were nowhere near her size, but several were close enough that simple fittings would suffice. One was shockingly daring, with a neckline square cut across the top of her breasts and sleeves that were mere nothings at her shoulders. The apricot silk clung to her curves and swept gracefully to the floor in narrow folds. A deeper apricot satin ribbon just under her breasts further tightened a tiny bodice and left two long trails of sash down her thighs.
“I don’t know, miss,” Kate murmured while the rail-thin seamstress pinned the hem to Cleo’s shorter stature. “I don’t think her ladyship would approve.”
“Really?” Cleo asked, though she was certain the maid was right. For all the gown’s daring, however, the shade suited her coloring, and the price was low enough that she had money left from Leslie’s gold. She completed the fittings and made the woman promise to deliver the finished gown in time for Cleo to dress the next day.
When she donned the gown that Saturday, however, her misgivings grew. She’d never seen so much skin. Surely she’d passed beyond shocking to scandalous. Kate seemed to agree, if the tight set of her mouth was any indication. In the end, Cleo found a cream lace fichu and wrapped it around her shoulders, pinning it to either side of her décolletage and filling the gap above with her mother’s pearls. She could see her attempts at modesty ruined the line of the dress, but at least she did not feel naked. With a bandeau around her curls, she hoped she looked passable. It remained to be seen whether Leslie would approve.
Unfortunately, her extra care in dressing made her late going downstairs. Mr. Cowls had to point her to the sitting room, where her godmother and Leslie were already waiting. Cleo only made it to the doorway before stopping in shock.
Leslie was splendid.
His black hair shone in the candlelight. His slender frame hung with an expertly cut double-breasted velvet coat of a deep blue with silver filigree buttons. A sapphire in a silver setting sparkled from the folds of his pristine cravat, which was tied in a complicated fold. His waistcoat, peeking out above the coat, was a black satin embroidered with silver veining. His silver-grey satin breeches and white stockings were taut over muscular legs. Seeing her staring, he quirked a smile.
“You look like a—” she started.
“Barbarian,” Hector squawked.
Cleo jumped even as Leslie compressed his lips in an obvious attempt not to crow with laughter.
Lady Agnes blinked. “Did he just speak?”
“He certainly tried,” Leslie proclaimed, striding to the cage. “Pity we couldn’t tell exactly what was on his mind. Good lad, Hector. That’s enough for tonight. Wouldn’t want to overdo it your first time.” He snatched the cover from the top of the cage and blanketed the bars.
“What are you up to?” Lady Agnes demanded. “I distinctly heard him speak.”
Leslie whirled to offer her his arm. “Now, now, Godmother, we wouldn’t want to be any later than we already are. You can scold me tomorrow.”
Lady Agnes rose slowly, frowning. “Exactly why should I be scolding you?”
While he waited for his godmother to join him, he offered Cleo his other arm. “I’m certain we can think of something. Coming, my dear?”
Still somewhat dazed, Cleo accepted. He bent his head closer to hers. “Stop staring, Sprout,” he hissed. “You asked for sartorial splendor, remember?”
Cleo had no time to respond, for Lady Agnes had stepped up to take his arm.
“Your sisters,” she told Cleo, “have atrocious taste in clothing. I wish you’d let me buy something more fitting.”
“I’d say this particular gown fits Cleo rather well,” Leslie countered.
Their godmother snorted but said no more about it as Leslie led them to the entry. He did not offer additional comment either. Just as well. She wasn’t certain what to say anyway as they took their wraps and walked down to the waiting carriage. She could not seem to reconcile her prankish partner with the stylish gentleman beside her.
“This will do nicely,” Lady Agnes proclaimed as he handed her into the closed carriage. “I didn’t know you owned such a fine carriage.”
Cleo glanced at the brown-lacquered sides and gold trimmings. Everything gleamed in the light of the lanterns on either side of the driver’s box.
“I didn’t purchase it,” Leslie said beside her. He put a hand on her waist, and she stiffened. But his touch was light and gentle as he helped her up the little stair to the seating compartment. “It was my father’s.”
She could hear the sadness in his voice and felt her heart clench. This was the kind-hearted Leslie she knew. She watched as he climbed into the carriage, but nothing in his smooth movements betrayed any emotion.
“Not much of a debater, your father,” Lady Agnes ventured as he seated himself opposite them and signaled his driver to move off. “Far too much a gentleman to ever disagree with me. I hope you don’t intend to follow in his stead now that you’re the marquis.”
Cleo thought she saw him grimace, but in the uneven light from outside, she could not be sure.
“Certainly not, Lady Agnes,” he assured her. “I shall be only too happy to disagree with you, on any number of topics.”
Lady Agnes shook her iron grey head. “Tease. You’re up to something, I can tell. Might as well admit it, for I shall find you out, mark my words.”
Cleo stiffened, wondering just how much her godmother saw, but Leslie merely chuckled.
“Why, Lady Agnes, I am honored you would think me such an ingénue. I assure you, any secrets I have would not be worth your time. By the by, have I told you how fine you look this evening?”
He was avoiding the topic, and rather charmingly, Cleo thought. Unfortunately, their godmother did not seem to agree.
“You have,” Lady Agnes declared. “Twice. That evasion will not suffice. However, I will settle for hearing you compliment Cleo.”
Cleo put on a bright smile, even though she wasn’t certain he could see her clearly. “That is hardly necessary,” she put in hurriedly. “I am certain Leslie has other matters of more interest to discuss.”
“On the contrary,” Leslie replied, leaning forward as if to convince her of his sincerity. “Let me be the first to compliment you, for I surely will not be the last. Your beauty outshines the stars.”
Cleo felt herself blush at the warmth of his voice. Lady Agnes barked out a laugh.
“Is that what you young men call a compliment these days?” she demanded. “Unoriginal and uninspired, I call it.”
“Lady Agnes!” Cleo scolded.
Leslie sat straighter. “You challenge me, madam. Very well.” His voice deepened, mellowing as he continue
d.
“She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspects, and her eyes.”
Cleo swallowed, heart jumping in her chest even as a slow heat spread up her face.
“Ha!” Lady Agnes declared. “Byron. You’ll not get off that easily.”
Cleo started to shake her head, afraid of her own reaction should he persist. But Leslie seemed to know he had gone as far as he dared.
“Nor will you,” he told his godmother. “Anything more I have to say to Cleo will be said in private. And now, madam, unless I am very much mistaken, we have arrived.”
The carriage bumped to a stop and then shook as Leslie’s groom sprang down to open the door and let down the step. Leslie alighted to hand them both down, Lady Agnes first and then Cleo. As Cleo took his hand, he leaned closer to whisper. “Don’t let her tease you, Sprout. You look divine. And if you need to hear more love poems to prove it, let me know.”
She smiled as she stepped away from him, feeling absurdly pleased. Her pleasure was short lived, however, as they joined the crowds entering the stately town house. First one of the waiting footmen stripped off her cloak, leaving her suddenly chilled despite the summer night. Then Lady Agnes began her usual complaining.
“I don’t know why Lady Baminger insists on having these balls,” she said as they were jostled through the entryway and funneled toward the receiving line just beyond. “She only has the one small ballroom on the main floor with that ridiculous music room of hers. She ought to have done with it and rent Almack’s.”
Cleo was more than a little afraid that her godmother would say the same as they moved up the line to be greeted by their host and hostess. Lord and Lady Baminger were far more impressive than their ballroom. The tall, thin, dark-eyed lord nodded down his long nose at Cleo but went so far as to begin an argument with Lady Agnes, which seemed to please them both to no end. The equally tall but far more substantial Lady Baminger was more welcoming, until she laid eyes on Leslie.
“Good evening, Lord Hastings,” she intoned, refusing to do so much as offer her pudgy, ring-encrusted hand for him to bow over. “I want you to know you are welcome here tonight only because of your connection with Lady Agnes DeGuis. I have not forgotten last year’s debacle.”
Cleo tensed as Leslie cast her a quick glance. “I was certain you would not, madam. I assure you, the memory is indelibly etched in my mind as one of the worst moments of my sorry existence. That you are willing to forgive for my godmother’s sake is testimony to your high moral standards.”
Lord Baminger coughed into his hand, shoulders shaking. His wife sent him a quelling look before returning her frown to Leslie, who stood waiting patiently like a Christian about to face the lions for his faith. Cleo held her breath.
“I trust, sir,” she said, “that there will be no repeat of last year’s behavior?”
“Upon my honor,” Leslie promised, executing a deep bow. “I shall be the complete gentleman. And may I add, Lady Baminger, that your magnanimous reception only proves the tales told of your long-suffering patience.”
Lord Baminger choked. Lady Agnes tapped Leslie on the wrist with her fan even as Lady Baminger showed signs of thawing and Cleo let out her breath with relief.
“She is hardly ready for sainthood,” her godmother snapped. “Now, come along, Cleo, before Leslie drowns in the butter boat.”
She hustled them away from the door before Cleo could see how their hostess would respond.
“The evening had better improve, Sprout,” Leslie whispered in her ear as they made their way into the ballroom.
“What,” she whispered back, “didn’t you find flirting with a dowager amusing? You do it so well.”
He only grunted. Cleo bit back a giggle. A moment later, her breath caught in her throat.
Major Cutter, in full regimentals, stood framed by the doors of the music room on one side of the dance floor. The gold braid on his deep blue jacket shown as brightly as his pomaded hair in the candlelight. As Leslie moved them in his direction, the major’s face broke into a smile, for all the world as if he had been waiting for her. All thought that he had set his cap for Eloise Watkin vanished from her mind. Her heart hammered uncomfortably in her chest, making the high waist of the gown entirely too tight under her breasts. Leslie put a hand against the small of her back. The pressure was amazingly reassuring.
“Courage, Sprout,” he murmured before removing his hand to thrust it at the major. “Evening, Cutter. I believe you know my lovely companions?”
Major Cutter bowed. “Lady Agnes, you look younger each time I see you.”
Lady Agnes snorted but said nothing. Her look to Leslie said exactly what she thought of this chance meeting.
“And Miss Renfield,” the major continued, allowing his eyes to roam over her and setting her heart to pounding even faster, “always a pleasure.”
He took Cleo’s hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss against her knuckles. She wondered whether her legs could possibly support her.
“And may I say you look especially lovely tonight,” he murmured as Lady Agnes looked toward the dowagers’ circle across the room. “Surely Lord Byron had you in mind when he wrote his famous lines,
“She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspects, and her eyes.”
Cleo stared at him. Leslie took her hand out of the major’s grasp and transferred it to his own.
“Imitator,” he muttered under his breath.
“Save me a dance, Miss Renfield,” the major called as Leslie led her to safety.
Chapter Eight
O
h, but Leslie was impossible! Cleo stamped into her bedchamber and yanked off her long gloves. She barely let the maid loosen her stays before excusing Kate for the night. She must have spoken more firmly than she intended, for Kate scampered out wide-eyed. It was just as well. Cleo was entirely too furious to want anyone at her side.
How dare he spoil her evening! He was supposed to be her ally, but she could scarcely look for an opportunity to do something shocking when Leslie kept her so busy. Worse, every woman present seemed to have developed a tremendous lack of propriety where he was concerned. They simpered and flirted and flaunted themselves before him so that she was forced to stay by his side for fear Lady Agnes would suspect that their courtship was a charade. But even her cold glare and possessive grip on his arm had not deterred them. He was supposed to be courting her, and not a single woman in the room seemed capable of realizing it.
To make matters worse, Eloise Watkin had been in attendance, and in rare form. Cleo had been forced to watch while she had no less than two sets with Major Cutter, setting tongues to wagging. Eloise had gone so far as to commandeer Leslie for a waltz of all things, as if she knew Cleo could not dance it. The smile on his face while whirling the beauty around the floor had been far too knowing, Eloise’s far too smug.
“Are you enjoying yourself, my lord?” she’d asked when he’d returned to her side near where Lady Agnes sat in the dowager’s circle.
He’d quirked his smile. “Thoroughly. And you?”
Her only response had been to stalk past him and accost the nearest male she knew, the older brother of a classmate, all but begging him to dance with her.
She had hoped after that impassioned introduction, Major Cutter might request her hand for a dance, but she had watched while he partnered three of her classmates, including an adoring Marlys Rutherford. When the dashing fellow finally strolled up to inquire as to which dance she had been so gracious to bestow on him, she’d shyly pointed to the next dance on her card. But Leslie had been so reticent to relinquish her hand that the major had promised he would bring her back immediately.
“I take it you and Lord Hastings have reached an
understanding?” Major Cutter asked when the pattern of the dance brought them close enough for conversation.
“Not yet,” Cleo assured him, unable to say more about the matter. She had glanced to where Leslie was supposed to be conversing with her godmother, only to find that no less than four young ladies clustered around him, fans waving so rapidly in their excitement she wondered he did not immediately catch the ague. He seemed to know she was watching, for he raised his head to wink at her. She’d very nearly missed a step, and Major Cutter had been forced to pause to allow her to catch up.
She threw herself down on the stool before her dressing table and dragged the bandeau from her curls. Why was she so furious with Leslie? She’d been the one to insist he dress better than usual. Of course, she’d hardly suspected how very splendid he’d look. Neither had the other ladies, she thought, for Leslie had seemed rather surprised by his sudden notoriety. She couldn’t even say she was angry that he’d flirted with her. Theirs had been a teasing relationship from the first.
She had to be honest with herself. She wasn’t angry with Leslie for quoting Byron before Major Cutter, she felt cheated because he had quoted the poet-lord better. His voice had been warmer, his admiration more sincere. In an unexpected test of manly ardor, Major Cutter had come off a poor second. And nearly every other woman in the room had recognized it before she had.
She let her head fall into her hands. She could not remember ever feeling so confused. Had her sisters’ machinations succeeded in turning her into a mindless drone that she suddenly found every other man less dashing? That she was willing to entertain the notion of actually courting Leslie instead of pretending?
No, she could not be swayed from her course so easily! She could not let them dictate to her.
