Flora hated wearing such ornate trappings atop her head, but at least, being tall, she could carry it off. Not so, short, chubby Amy, who now looked totally overwhelmed beneath the same headdress, subtly changed so that the plumes were pink instead of purple, and there were nine this time, so that their mother could be doubly reassured she had not broken any rule. "How can I even walk with these hoops and headdress?" asked Amy. "I fear I shall do my curtsey to the queen, lose my balance, topple over on my hoops and roll out the door."
"Disgraced," Flora laughingly replied, "ruined forever! Poor Lady Amy Winton, banished to the countryside, never to show her face in society again, and all because of bad curtsying."
Amidst peals of laughter, Lady Rensley entered the room and exchanged disapproving glances with Baker. "Girls, whatever are you talking about?" Her forehead creased with concern. "Being presented at court is no laughing matter. You should be grateful you are given the privilege—"
"Yes, Mama, we know," both her daughters chimed. Flora, knowing how her mother worshiped protocol and was naturally upset by her daughters' flippant attitude, hastily added, "It is indeed an honor. Amy looks fine and she'll do well."
Lady Rensley still appeared uneasy. "Just think of all the girls in England who would die for the chance to be presented at court but never will." She left the room muttering, "I vow, I do not know how I could have raised two such ungrateful daughters."
When their mother had gone, Amy laughed again. "Court protocol or no, this headdress and high waist and hoops really are ridiculous." She pulled off the garish headdress and handed it to Baker. "Take it out of my sight, will you please?"
She turned serious. "Despite this foolishness, the court presentation is well worth it." Her face wreathed in a smile. "I'm coming out, Flora. I'm a woman now, and not a little girl, at long last." Her face fell as, standing in her soft batiste chemise, she examined herself in the mirror again. "But look at how fat and ugly I am. What's the use? No man would have me."
"That's not so," Flora instantly protested, and most sincerely. "You've got lovely, soft gray eyes. Your skin is smooth as a petal, and you have hair that's a lovely shade of brown. So don't you dare say you're ugly."
"But I am." Amy ran her hands over her waist down her hips. "Look at how short and squat I am. Why am I not tall and willowy like you? You have a bosom, whereas I am flat. Your waist curves in like an hourglass, whereas mine—" she punched her fingers at her waistline "—I've the shape of a tree stump."
Unfortunately, her sister was mostly right. Flora searched for something positive to say. Amy's figure did leave a lot to be desired, and her face, although certainly not ugly, was a bit pudgy, a circumstance brought on by Amy's unfortunate extra weight. But beauty wasn't everything. "Amy, you're as pretty as the next. Besides, you're lively, and witty, and you have a sparkling personality. I'd wager you will draw suitors in droves."
Amy sighed. "I shall find a husband, all right. But it won't be because of my beauty. I shall have suitors, but for only one reason."
"Your dowry." Flora sank thoughtfully to Amy's bed. "Papa is most generous. I can't dispute the drawing power of a dowry, but still, I would hope you'll marry a man you love who loves you in return." She smiled gently. "Surely you'll find him." She felt a sudden ache in her heart for her sister, who was so beautiful in so many ways with her generous nature, her loyalty and bright humor. But most men, being what they were, could not look beyond surface beauty to see such things. Flora sent up a silent prayer that some worthy man would see in Amy all her virtues and fall madly in love with her. She smiled brightly. "Just stop worrying about it and simply enjoy the Season. We shall attend every ball, every concert, every soiree. We shall have a marvelous time."
"And what of you?" asked Amy. Aware she alone knew Flora's secret, she lowered her voice. "What will you do if Lord Dashwood doesn't come to London?"
"He will come." Flora lifted her chin with confidence. "I know something very special passed between us that day he and Lord...whatever-his-name-was came to call."
"Do you suppose he'll be at Almack's Wednesday night?"
"Surely he'll have a voucher."
Flora had spoken with a confidence she didn't feel. She had confided some of her feelings to Amy, but even her sister was unaware of the turmoil that churned within her whenever her thoughts focused on Lord Dashwood, an event which occurred more times than she cared to admit, even to herself.
Day and night she thought of him, fixating on his handsome face with its teasing little smile, his commanding presence, those London-tailored clothes that fit to perfection over his broad shoulders, slender waist, and long muscular legs. She'd even tried to picture Pemberly Manor where he lived when not in London. She'd never seen it but had heard it was known far and wide for its size and beauty. The estate wasn't Dashwood's yet—his cousin was still alive—but he would inherit some day. Often she tried to picture what Lord Dashwood's life at Pemberly Manor was like—his horse, even his dog. Or did he even have a dog? What was his bed chamber like? She tingled at the thought of it. Oh, yes, surely he had a bedchamber, and a bed...
He is lying beside her, looking down at her as she lies in her diaphanous gown beneath him. "Darling, how beautiful you look with your gorgeous hair spread across your pillow." He raises a thick strand of her hair, presses it to his lips and with a shaking voice whispers, "My dear wife—how I must get used to saying it. I'm the luckiest man in the world, and I promise you I shall always be faithful."
"You mean you'll never have a mistress?"
"How could I when I'm madly in love with you, my darling, and will be until the day I die."
She gasps with pleasure as he runs his hand slowly along her thigh and bends to kiss her full on the lips...
"Flora, are you listening?"
Flora quickly removed herself from Lord Dashwood's bed. "Of course I'm listening. Almacks. Next Wednesday night. I'd wager my best ball gown he'll be there."
* * * *
Lord Dashwood did not appear at the first ball at Almack's, nor did he appear anywhere at all.
A week went by, then two, then three. Committed to another Season, Flora went around with a gay smile on her face, pretending she was having a wonderful time at all the events she and Amy attended. But her only true enjoyment came from seeing Amy's awed reaction as she plunged into the glittering excitement of her first Season. Just as Amy predicted, the dandies did not swarm around, not in droves anyway, yet neither was she a wallflower. Flora suspected, though, that more than one of her sister's suitors was attracted more to her dowry than her charm and beauty.
Flora kept smiling on the surface, but underneath she ached with an increasing inner pain. She hadn't realized how much she'd pinned her hopes on Lord Dashwood's coming to London. In truth, the thought he wouldn't come had never crossed her mind. But as the third week of the Season came to an end, she faced the fact that she might not ever see him again.
For a while she made excuses. Perhaps duties on his cousin's estate had kept him away, or perhaps he was ill, or perhaps...but why fool herself? If he'd wanted to see her badly enough, he would have come to London, no matter what. Since he had not, doubtless he had met someone else. Her heart twisted at the thought. She hated being brutally frank with herself, but that might well be the case.
So here she was, stuck for another Season, going through the motions, not enjoying herself at all, except through the excitement of Amy's first Season.
At the beginning of the fourth week, Flora was standing on the sidelines at Lady Hemple's ball, thoroughly bored, when a strong male voice beside her said, "So we meet again, Lady Flora."
She turned. "Why, Lord...Lord—?"
"Lynd," he said, smiling easily down at her.
"Oh, yes, of course, Lord Lynd," she replied, hardly aware of what she was saying. Her pulse raced. Here was Dashwood's good friend who lived on the neighboring estate. They had been in Brighton together. Had they come to London together, too? Thank heaven, she was
wearing her prettiest ball gown tonight. Oh, she must know, and quickly.
"So are you enjoying the Season thus far?" he asked.
It was the most mundane of questions, yet when she looked into his inquiring brown eyes, she caught a genuine interest, as if he really cared whether she was enjoying the Season or not. Even beyond that, there was something about the way he looked at her that was sharp and assessing, as if there was much more he wanted to ask her than her opinion of the Season.
"I am having a lovely time, Lord Lynd, and you? Have you been in London long?"
"Just arrived."
His answer flooded her mind with questions. If he'd just arrived, had Lord Dashwood just arrived, too? Was he at the ball tonight? How could she ask without giving herself away? She wanted desperately to shift her gaze from Lord Lynd so she could scan the room, but that would be the height of impoliteness. She searched for something of interest to say. Forcing herself to keep her gaze directed into his eyes, she recalled his enthusiasm for four-in-hand. "Well, Lord Lynd, judging from our previous conversation I am compelled to ask, did you drive your own coach to London, or did you allow your coachman his task?"
He lifted an eyebrow. "Ah, so you remembered my passion for four-in-hand, if not my name." She started to apologize, but he equitably continued, "I did indeed drive up from Kent by myself. Left my coachman at home."
"Do tell." He had caught her interest with his mention of four-in-hand. "Even in this foul weather?"
"It could be worse," he lightly replied. "I assure you, I'm not as bad as some. Did you know there are certain members of the ton who revel in being amateur coachmen? They drive the public stagecoaches with unflinching regularity, in all weathers. They delight in the opportunity of associating with professional coachmen, no matter what the sacrifice."
"I know just how they feel," she enthusiastically replied. "I would be mounting the box, handling the ribbons, bowling along the highroad, too, if it weren't for my...uh, gender." She had almost slipped and said that forbidden word sex. She had the feeling he wouldn't have minded, though. He appeared unshockable. She liked that in a man. Lord Lynd, she repeated to herself, setting the name indelibly in her memory. She would not forget it again.
"There is no good reason why a woman could not drive a coach and four," he was saying, "provided she had the strength and was in good health." He smiled, as if he'd just pictured something. "Although I can hardly picture you touching your hat to the passengers, just as your regular coachmen do, or even..." Lord Lynd looked briefly around the room. "I see a young man or two in this very room who would not even disdain the tip of a shilling or half crown."
He had sparked her interest, although lately her mind had been on other things and she hadn't thought much about four-in-hand. "You intrigue me, Lord Lynd. I understand perfectly. If ever I come back in another life, I should like to be a coachman."
He nodded in agreement. "I, too, although I doubt I would go as far as one of our Four-in-Hand members, Mr. Akers."
"Pray, what did he do?"
"The fellow was so determined to be looked upon as a regular coachman he had his two front teeth filed."
"But why?" she asked. She stopped looking for Lord Dashwood out of the corner of her eye. Lord Lynd had her full attention.
"It's a matter of spittle," Lynd said, mischief in his eyes. "I shall not go further. Far be it from me to offend your delicate sensibilities."
She glanced around to make sure none of the chaperones overheard before she firmly declared, "Blast my delicate sensibilities. Rest assured, I shan't faint over spittle."
"Akers had his teeth filed so he could expel his spittle between them, in the true fashion of our most distinguished stagecoach drivers."
She burst into laughter, her first of the night. "Much as I'd love driving four-in-hand, I'm not sure I would go to that extreme."
An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps you shouldn't. As enchanting as I find you, I might be a tad put off if I saw you spitting between your filed front teeth."
"Then, alas, I fear I must forgo the filing," she replied with a light laugh. Lord Lynd really was amusing. She'd hardly noticed him before, but now...she looked up into his craggy face with the crooked nose—well, only slightly crooked—and decided he wasn't bad looking by half, and most interesting, too, with a wicked sense of humor.
"Good evening, Lady Flora"
Lord Dashwood.
Flora’s knees went wobbly. She had to catch her breath. She snapped open her fan and inhaled a big gulp of air, anything to disguise the dizzying constriction of her heart at the sight of him. "Why, Lord Dashwood, how delightful to see you again."
He held out his arms to her. "Shall we dance?"
"I would love to." On a cloud of bliss, without a backward glance, she floated into his arms. The orchestra struck up a waltz as they started around the dance floor. As they danced, he gazed into her eyes, as if she were the only girl in the world. "I've thought of you many times," he murmured. "Would have come to London sooner, but certain matters delayed me."
"Oh, have you not been here?" she inquired, all innocence. "Pon my soul, I have been so wrapped up with the Season, I didn't notice."
"Then it appears I have my work cut out for me." He bent scandalously close. "Take notice, Lady Flora. From now on my chief goal will be to make you notice me." He squeezed her hand and looked deep into her eyes. "Surely you have not forgotten Brighton."
Flora was so stunned with delight her facade of indifference instantly fell away. For a moment she could not speak over the lump of excitement that formed in her throat. Finally, willing her voice not to shake, she managed, "Of course I haven't."
He pressed closer still. Surely by now the chaperones would be noticing this flagrant breach of propriety, but she carefully didn't look their way to find out.
"My sweet Aphrodite," he whispered in her ear, "my powerful enchantress, I remember every moment of Brighton."
In her flummoxed state, feeling his body close against her, she could only think to say, "Oh, really?"
Completely composed, he answered, "In Euripides' Medea the chorus sings, 'May you never launch at me, Lady of Cyprus, your passion-poisoned arrows, which no man can avoid.'" He pulled back and gave her a smile so oozing with warmth and charm she thought she might swoon on the spot. "You see what you've done to me?"
She started to answer, but he pressed a gentle finger to her lips. "No, not a word more tonight, my sea goddess. I cannot bear such loveliness. I must leave."
The music stopped. His face became impassive as he pulled away, led her back to Lady Rensley, bowed and departed.
She wanted to cry after him, But aren't we going to dance again? but contained herself and managed to remain silent as she watched his massively broad shoulders disappear.
There was a stir in the crowd. Flora watched curiously as a beautiful woman, dressed to the nines, more or less floated into the ballroom, escorted by two of London's leading dandies. "Who is she?" Flora asked.
"She's the Countess Marie-Elizabeth de Clairmont," Lady Constance Boles volunteered. "From France, although I hardly need tell you that." From behind her raised fan, Lady Boles continued, "Her mother was a mistress to the king before she married The Duke de Clairmont. After, too. And then—" she lowered her voice to a hissing whisper "—she was guillotined in 1793. The Revolution, you know."
Flora refrained from an annoyed, of course I know, as Lady Boles warmed to her task. "Can you imagine? Such a dreadful thing. So was her husband, the Duke. Both of them, off with their heads."
"That is most unfortunate," Flora remarked, ignoring the obvious relish in Lady Boles's voice. "Then how...?"
"Their daughter was smuggled into England as a small child. The poor thing is penniless, of course, although I hear there's a fortune waiting for her—left by her father, the Duke—if she can ever get her hands on it."
"She certainly doesn't look penniless," Flora observed as the countess conspicuously
waved her oversized white plumed fan and gayly tossed her head, causing gold tassels to dance as they dangled from her gold and white crepe turban. Clusters of diamonds dripped from her ears and circled her neck. Her sheer yellow gown was a masterpiece of undress, with an exceedingly wide V neckline which displayed a vast area between her ample, well-rounded breasts and a good part of each breast itself.
"She may be penniless, but she does have certain resources, which she puts to good use," Lady Boles snidely remarked.
Amy giggled. "The countess had best not lean over too far, or her resources will fall out of her gown."
"I admire her audacity." Flora suppressed a smile and glanced down at her own bodice, cut low, but modest compared to that of the countess. "If she's looking for a rich husband, I'm sure she'll do well."
Flora spent the rest of the evening in a daze, thrilled beyond belief over Lord Dashwood’s attentions, yet totally confused. Once, she saw him approaching the countess. She felt a stab of jealousy but reminded herself the dandies had been swarming around the Countess de Clairmont all evening. Some were even richer than Lord Dashwood would be some day, so it stood to reason if the countess was fortune-hunting, Dashwood would not be at the top of her list. So it was nothing to be concerned about, Flora told herself. Still, she wondered what they were talking about.
* * * *
Countess Marie-Elizabeth de Clairmont's eyes lit upon Lord Dashwood, who had just approached and begged her current companion for an introduction. The plumed fan waved even faster as she tilted her head to one side, fluttered her long eyelashes, and gave him a dazzling smile. "Mon Dieux! I have just met zee most handsome man in London."
Dashwood bowed in his usual gallant fashion and kissed the countess's hand. "I am honored that one of the most beautiful women in London has chosen to flatter me."
Lady Flora's Fantasy Page 5
