“Isn’t my dress absolutely divine?” Sarah twirled twice, rising on her feet with the litheness of a ballerina. The dress, a soft pink silk and satin creation, was indeed lovely with its square neckline and no less than four flounces adorning the gauzy skirt. Emily was content to finger the beads trimming the skirt of her cream dress.
“You both look beautiful.” And they both did, each wearing their blond hair pinned up at the back, long ringlets hanging to their shoulders. For Sarah this was a much more sophisticated style than the viscountess usually permitted. Her mother must be feeling generous this evening.
But Missy was to discover the true purpose of their visit. Sarah lifted her skirt and accompanying petticoats, stuck her right and then left foot out, wiggling them all the while.
“Are my shoes not divine also?” Divine, the past week, was le mot du jour and one Sarah had been using ad nauseam. If she ate cake she liked, it was divine; a reticule she saw through a storefront window, divine. Everything she took a fancy to was divine and driving Missy divinely batty.
Missy admired the heelless pink, stamped kid leather shoes with the indulgence befitting an older, devoted sister, and gave Sarah a glowing nod of approval.
Sarah preened. Then her eyes widened as she appeared to take in Missy’s dress for the first time. “Has Mama seen your dress?” she asked in hushed, scandalized tones.
“Of course she has. It was she who selected it.” Missy chided in an attempt to dismiss the question but her heart picked up an anxious beat. Yes, her mother had purchased it for her but it had been Beatrice who had lowered the neckline—but only by an inch.
She glanced down at the lavender dress made of satin, trimmed en pyramid, and examined the tight bodice with a critical eye. The tops of her breasts were nicely displayed; not modestly but not immodestly either. Why, she’d seen proper young misses at Society events with a décolletage much more revealing than hers.
Shooting Sarah and Emily a brave look, she then turned back to the mirror where she made a show of smoothing nonexistent ruffles from her skirt, and probing the security of the ivory hair comb holding her mass of hair off her nape.
An impish grin crept over Emily’s face. “James will be here tonight.”
“And?” she said, but the mention of his name brought forth a flood of warmth all over her body.
“Nothing. I just thought it worth mentioning,” Emily replied, her green eyes dancing with anticipation. She then turned and glided elegantly from the room as if she hadn’t just been acting like a young mischievous child with a secret to tell. Sarah followed not far behind.
Missy directed her attention once again to her mirrored reflection. Lightly, she pressed a hand to her throat as if that could calm the frantic pounding of her pulse and quell the butterflies fluttering wildly in her belly.
It is only a small family supper, she repeated to herself. With one final check in the mirror, she departed and made her way to the ground floor. Her mother and sisters stood just outside the drawing room with Thomas, who looked exceptionally dapper in a navy blue jacket, waistcoat, and trousers, and an expertly knotted white necktie. He wore his hair precisely placed away from his face, truly appearing the masculine version of his mother just as Emily and Sarah were her image. It was she, with her dark hair and blue-gray eyes amid a sea of golden locks and green eyes, who was the changeling.
Thomas gave a low whistle upon spotting her. “I see I’ll have to sharpen my swords and clean my pistols tonight.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss on her cheek.
Missy smiled at his teasing. Her gaze then locked with her mother’s. Holding her breath, she awaited the very calm censure that was sure to come. Even in her rebuke, her mother was the essence of poise.
“Millicent, you look quite lovely.”
Missy blinked twice in quick succession. She wasn’t to receive an admonishment for the alteration to her gown? Perhaps her neckline wasn’t so very low. “Thank you, Mama.” she said, accepting the compliment with more gratitude than aplomb.
“All my girls look beautiful tonight.” Looking stunning herself in an evening dress of violet taffeta and a bertha neckline of lace, the viscountess’s gaze included all three of her daughters. At her mother’s praise, Sarah blossomed like a flower’s petal opening under the warm glow of the sun.
The knocker sounded. Within seconds, Missy heard James’s low baritone…and then another one of the feminine variety. To her knowledge, her mother had invited no one other than James, Alex, and Claire. Her friend had declined due to a previous engagement and Alex was in Yorkshire for a spell.
A large potted fern obscured her view of the front door but there was no mistaking the feminine twitter. James hadn’t come alone. The blasted man had a woman accompanying him. Missy swallowed, her hands fidgeting with the skirt of her dress. She felt rather than saw the stares of her sisters as they seemed to bore right through her. Her spirits took a steep dive off a rather high cliff. For the first time that evening, she regretted her decision to lower her neckline.
Thomas, her mother and sisters proceeded down the hall to greet the arriving guests, further blocking her view of James and the hitherto unknown woman. She peeked around the plant and Emily moved to the left to permit Missy a glimpse.
Blond and beautiful appropriately summed up her first impression of James’s companion. Her mind shied away from what other role she played in his life. She was voluptuous with a décolletage that made her own appear downright prim. Missy disliked her on sight.
A mere glimpse of James, though, started her heart in a mad staccato beat. Dressed all in dark brown, from his jacket, waistcoat, and soft wool trousers to his shoes, he epitomized male beauty. When his gaze swung to her, the sharp contrast between his dark locks and pale blue eyes held her captive for several heart-thumping seconds. Did he pause in his step and did awareness spark in his eyes, or was it all merely wishful thinking? She quickly broke eye contact.
Tipping her chin, she stepped out from behind the plant and proceeded down toward the group, a smile in place.
He greeted her mother and sisters affectionately, easily, breezing a kiss on their respective cheeks. When he turned to her, he smiled an artless kind of smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes.
“Missy, you look lovely.”
“Thank you,” Missy replied in her most formal tone.
James had to stop himself from allowing his gaze to drift to the white swells of her breasts, exposed by her stunning off-the-shoulder dress.
“And this must be Millicent—or rather Miss Armstrong.” Sophia’s voice jolted his thoughts from wandering down forbidden paths. He instantly turned back to her and brought her forward, his hand hovering beneath her elbow.
“Missy, this is Mrs. Sophia Laurel. Sophia, Missy is Lady Armstrong’s eldest daughter.” He looked at Missy and tried to remember her as a girl, with her thick braid and coltish figure, not as he saw her now. He didn’t want to see her as she was now. He kept his eyes trained above her breasts, ignoring the pulsing of his blood and the quickening in his loins.
“Good evening, Miss Armstrong. I see James addresses you as Missy but your mother calls you Millicent,” Sophia smiled, nodding. “Tell me, which do you prefer?”
“Miss Armstrong will be fine.” Missy said with unfailing politeness.
If it had been any other woman, Missy’s response would have elicited more a caustic remark than an amused smile. And it didn’t sit well with him that her obvious pique at Sophia’s presence there tonight was gratifying—not when he needed to discourage her feelings.
“Indeed. Well I insist you call me Sophia,” she said warmly. “James has always spoken of you in the fondest terms. Perhaps you’ve met my sister, Theresa Barlowe? She is currently enjoying her second Season.”
“I don’t believe I have.” Missy’s reply was no-nonsense prim.
“I’ll be attending the Laughton soiree as her chaperone.” Sophia tilted her head up to him. “Can you believe I am now old eno
ugh to chaperone, James?”
James smiled down at her. “Hardly.”
At twenty-seven, Sophia was too young to be a widow though she was certainly no innocent schoolgirl. But theirs was a familial relationship made stronger by her tragic loss. And although she was out of her widow weeds, Sophia herself admitted she would never love again.
“Will you be attending?” Sophia asked, directing her attention back to Missy.
“Yes, I believe so.” Again, Missy gave a short reply with no amiable verbiage.
His blue eyes fixed on the delectable curve of her lips and was immediately cast back to the hot, passionate moments, in the dimly lit library, where he had licked and nipped them into yielding softness and caressed her firm, plump—
He tore his gaze away and met Armstrong’s intent regard. His friend’s eyes narrowed, appearing thoughtful. James wondered how long he had been watching him. He wanted to look away but to look away would be an admission of guilt—the guilt of lusting after his sister, so he met his gaze and crooked his mouth into a self-assured grin. He quirked a brow in question as a man who hadn’t anything to hide would do.
Armstrong merely smiled a thoroughly frustrating smile. James quickly returned his attention to Sophia.
“—sure to introduce you. I’m sure you’ll find you have much in common.” Sophia said. Missy nodded, appearing less than thrilled at the prospect, but the smile fixed on her pretty pink mouth never wavered.
“Missy would very much like that,” the viscountess said, appearing at his elbow while directing a rather pointed look at Missy. She turned to Sophia. “And I would enjoy meeting your sister as well.”
With the weight of her grief and jealousy threatening to choke her, Missy fought the urge to run. To disappear upstairs and into her bedchamber.
She hated him. Hated, hated, hated him. He was worse than a rake, he was cruel and without conscience. When would she learn? How foolish she had been. She’d gone from a foolish young girl to an even more foolish woman. Claire was right, she’d wasted three perfectly good Seasons, ones she could never get back. Silly, silly, foolish, incredibly stupid girl is what I am.
Looking down at her dress, the ridiculousness of the situation overcame her. This had all been for him—for James. He had kissed her and touched her in ways she had never allowed any other man, only to treat her like some infectious disease for more than two weeks. And now he had the nerve to bring his latest trollop to their home—to her mother’s dinner table.
Emily’s tug on the lace of her sleeve snapped her from her tormented thoughts. “Who is she?” her sister mouthed.
“Mrs. Sophia Laurel. Were you not listening?” she practically snapped, endeavoring to keep her voice low. As if by mutual consent, both girls had hung back, lagging a distance behind as the others proceeded ahead of them to the dining room.
“Oh don’t be silly. You know what I mean. Is that his lady ‘friend’?” Emily stressed the last word.
Just hearing the words caused her eyes to sting, and a tightness to form in her chest. “How on earth should I know?” This time her voice rang loud enough to draw the attention of the five pairs of eyes in front of them. She gave a tight smile and continued on ahead of Emily—dread in every step.
For supper that evening, the viscountess had done it up brown. Missy could not remember the last time they had larded pheasant, wild duck, turtle soup, lark pudding and game patties at home—in one sitting—unless her mother was hosting a supper party. Unfortunately, the grand spread was utterly wasted on her. She picked through the contents on her plate, only nibbling on the few things that managed to make it to her mouth. When she spoke, she did so almost exclusively with her mother and sisters.
Conversation around the table became quite animated when Mrs. Laurel broached the topic of the gold robbery, an event that had held all of London riveted to their papers since mid-May. Everyone was eager to give their theory of who they thought the culprits might be. Only she remained silent throughout the discussion. Not that anyone took notice of the small fact.
It also appeared Mrs. Laurel had an interest in politics, as she expressed her delight in the new Prime Minister. Thomas and James begged to disagree, both having no use for Lord Palmerston’s political views. Another lively discussion ensued, with the three participants raising points and counterpoints against the other. Missy fumed in silence. So the woman was intelligent as well as beautiful; yet another reason to dislike her.
“Oh, Mama, this is absolutely divine.” Sarah’s eyes lit up when the footman appeared with dessert. “Missy, it’s your favorite, strawberry ice cream.”
Missy forced a smile as the footman placed the dessert tray on the table. “Hmmm, yes, but I fear I can’t eat another bite.”
“How is that? You’ve hardly touched a thing on your plate.” James was quick to point out.
“Luncheon was quite filling,” she said, her voice icily polite.
“I never believed I’d ever see a day when you would turn down your favorite dessert. I remember once, you were ready to wrestle me for it,” Thomas teased.
“I suppose I did many silly things as a child. Much has changed now that I’ve grown.” Missy glanced at James. He stared at her, and something dark and dangerous flared briefly in his eyes.
“Then you are very much like me,” Mrs. Laurel said, seeming oblivious to the simmering undercurrents, content to chatter on. “When I was a child, I quite adored strawberries. My mother said my appetite for them would send us to the poorhouse. Now, I have no taste for them at all.”
Mrs. Laurel’s unwitting defense of her vexed her more than she cared to admit. It would be infinitely easier to dislike her if she wasn’t being so kind. Perhaps that was why Missy felt the overwhelming urge to lash out. “I pray you are not trying to draw some sort of comparison between us, as it’s obvious we are not a thing alike.” The insult tumbled from her mouth before she could squelch it. She feared her own expression displayed the same shock rippling around the table.
Chapter Nine
There was silence, and then there was a third-rate horror show complete with dropped jaws and wide eyes. This, Missy acknowledged, was the latter.
She opened her mouth twice to say something, anything to erase the looks of censure from her mother and brother, and the one of discomfiture on Mrs. Laurel’s face. Missy could not bring herself to face James’s fury.
“Your rudeness toward Sophia is inexcusable. You will apologize this instant.” James issued the order between gritted teeth, his blue eyes flaming.
Missy had been about to apologize, profusely, but the anger in his voice and his presumptuous manner sparked her own ire. He was the one responsible for all of this; the wasted efforts on her dress, the misery of the meal, all of it.
“James, it is quite all right,” Mrs. Laurel said, laying a calming hand on his arm.
If Missy had been inclined to violence, she’d have slapped her—and then wrenched her hand from his for daring to touch him with such familiarity.
“No, it is not all right. You will apologize to Sophia.” His tone brooked no refusal.
“You would have me apologizing to one of your women.”
Missy heard several audible gasps and a fierce hiss. The hiss came from James.
“Millicent Eleanor Armstrong, you will apologize to both Mrs. Laurel and James at once.” Missy had never heard nor seen her mother this angry before, and it was a rare occasion when she strung her three names together. Hers had not been a gaffe but an affront of the worst sort.
Stricken with embarrassment, Missy turned to Mrs. Laurel. “My remark was unwarranted and thoughtless. I beg your forgiveness.”
“There is really no need to apologize, Miss Armstrong. My cousin can be very supercilious when he chooses. He was the same way as a child. You would be wise to ignore him during those times, as I have always done.” Mrs. Laurel regarded him the way in which a sister would her brother.
His cousin? Mrs. Sophia Laurel was his co
usin? If the floor below her had opened and swallowed her whole, she would have been imminently relieved. She hadn’t thought it possible but she’d just discovered a whole new depth to her misery.
“Thank you, you are most kind.” She managed to sound fairly articulate despite the jumble of her thoughts. Turning to her mother and brother, she asked in a cracked voice, “May I be excused?”
Her mother gave a curt nod and Thomas continued to watch her, his expression impassive. She refused to look at James.
So with the full weight of six pairs of eyes bearing down on her, Missy made an undignified dash to salvation.
Some hours later, a soft tap broke the silence of her bedchamber. Missy, dressed for sleep, sat cross-legged on her bed, her journal open on her lap and her humiliation forever immortalized in black ink. Snapping the book shut, she fully expected her mother to enter, coming to blister her ears as she so richly deserved. She was more than a little surprised when the door opened to reveal Thomas. Once he had surmised that she was properly attired, he entered, closing the door softly behind him.
This was even worse than she imagined. Rarely did her brother have cause to speak to her in a serious manner and his stern expression told her it was serious indeed. Trepidatious, Missy waited.
“I see you’re not asleep as yet.” He approached her bed, his footsteps muffled by the plush Axminster carpet. He continued to stand, the top of his blond head touching blue gauze of her canopy.
“I know what you wish to say—”
Thomas held up a hand to forestall her. “I am not here to scold you so put your mind at ease.” His mouth lifted in a half smile. “I’m here to tell you this will pass.”
He finally lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. But she did, and so did he.
“Your feelings for Rutherford.” His tone was understanding, solicitous.
Missy shook her head in quick denial, her mouth poised ready to do the same. But the look on his face stopped her. She closed her mouth. He knew her too well, had loved her too long. Any denial would be met with rightful disbelief.
Beverley Kendall Page 12
