by Amy Jarecki
“Eau de parfum.” Pauline dabbed a bit behind her ears. “Mm. At least he has good taste.”
Inhaling deeply, Bria sampled the scent while she reached for the earl’s missive. “Oui, it is nice.”
“What did he write?”
“‘Please do me the honor of sharing my phaeton for a jaunt through Hyde Park this afternoon...’”
“This afternoon? Does he not realize you have a rehearsal?”
“Evidently not.” She set the letter aside. “I’ll send my regrets.”
“And thank him for the perfume.”
“That, too.” Bria watched Pauline place the bottle atop the small table between their beds, wishing Fordham hadn’t sent the gift. And the others as well, for that matter.
Pauline plopped back down and grasped Bria’s arm. “I sense your unease.”
“I do not want to be indebted to anyone.” She gestured to the gifts strewn across the bed. “It doesn’t feel right to accept all these things.”
“Where is it written a ballerina cannot receive a gift of appreciation from an admirer? Marie is showered with flowers and the like every night. Goodness, if you want to be a wallflower, you should have stayed in the corps with me.”
“You’re Florrie’s understudy now. It won’t be long until you’re a principal as well. I cannot wait to be there to see all the gifts you receive after your debut.” Guilt. That was why Bria didn’t want these things. It wasn’t right for her to receive so many gifts while the person who had been her best friend through thick and thin had not.
She selected the next missive, stamped with a blank. “Odd, this one bears only my name.”
“No sender?”
“Non.” She broke the seal and unfolded it. As she read, a sickly chill churned her stomach. “Not everyone enjoyed last night’s debut.”
“Mon Dieu, you look as if a ghost just crossed your path. Quickly, read it aloud.”
The parchment trembled between Bria’s fingers as she translated the English into French, “Miss LeClair, your dancing is disgraceful and unfitting for Britons. Take your immoral conduct and return to France. You are not welcome here.”
“Gah!” Bria crumpled the missive against her roiling stomach. “This invalidates every last complimentary letter I’ve received.”
“It most certainly does not.” Pauline snatched the parchment and crumpled it even more. “Who would write such a thing?”
In an instant, Bria went from sailing on a cloud to crashing into a stone wall. A letter like that was enough to drive a girl crawling under her bed to hide throughout the duration of the Season. No, not everyone would appreciate her dancing, but she didn’t expect to receive such a scathing personal strike. She dared lean over and peek at the missive again. “It isn’t signed.”
“Unbelievable.” Pauline scanned it as if she could read English. “Whoever wrote this is a coward. I’m throwing it out.”
Bria curled over, covering her face with her hands. Why did people feel the need to be so callous? Ever since the LeClairs died in Bayeux she had encountered bullies and browbeaters at every turn. There was no reason for it. What had she done that was so disgraceful? Shortened her skirts an inch? Dance with passion? Tears blurred her vision as she glanced to the complimentary missives and gifts she’d already opened. Why must one evil naysayer ruin the joy?
Pauline tore the letter, tossed it in the rubbish, then brushed off her hands. “We shall put those words of bitterness out of our minds and not think on them again.” Picking up the next missive, she resumed her seat on the bed. “Only a few more to go. Open this one. Providence tells me it will be far more pleasant than the last.”
Bria didn’t take it. “I think I’d rather wait.”
“Truly?”
“Oui.”
“I see.” Pauline tapped the missive on her palm. “You receive one bad apple and you’d prefer to brood for the rest of the day?”
“I certainly cannot make emotions rise and fall like a lantern wick.”
“Perhaps, but you can choose to look at the odds.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bria regarded her friend, waggling her eyebrows, blast her.
“You have received a dozen or so glowing missives, some with lavish gifts, and you are choosing to allow a solitary curmudgeon to ruin your entire morning. Not everyone is going to love you.”
“I know.”
Pauline shook the letter. “Then open this blessed missive or I’ll do it for you.”
Sighing, Bria took it. Perhaps she was being overly sensitive. But how did one shrug off such slander to one’s character and pretend to be unaffected? She examined the seal. “Oh my goodness.”
“What is it?”
“This one’s from Baroness Calthorpe. She’s the lady who spilled wine on my dress.”
Pauline clapped a bereft hand over her heart. “Someone spilled wine on you? And you didn’t tell me about it?”
Bria cringed, glancing at the soiled dress now draped over her trunk with the stain hidden. “Forgive me. You were asleep when I arrived home last eve.”
“Good heavens, what happened?”
“Nothing untoward aside from the wine...” And I kissed the Duke of Ravenscar. Avoiding Pauline’s eyes, Bria read the missive, which, thanks to Pauline’s insistence, did help raise her spirits.
“Did the baroness soil your gown on purpose?”
“Heavens no. She accidently bumped her father’s glass.” Bria shook the parchment. “Listen to this:”
“Dear Miss LeClair,
Please allow me to say how much I enjoyed La Sylphide. Your performance was brilliant. I have never seen a ballerina dance with more grace, style, and passion. Once more, I must apologize for ruining your gown at the soiree. In recompense I have established a credit of twenty pounds in your name at Harding, Howell and Company on Pall Mall. They carry all the best ladies’ accoutrements in London with fans, gloves, ornamental items, and haberdashery of every description, including silk, muslins, laces and the like. They even have a line of perfumery.
I trust you will find something to suit your fancy.
Sincerely,
Charlotte Calthorpe”
“Twenty pounds?” Pauline plucked the missive from Bria’s fingers and waved it like a flag. “That’s more than my entire year’s pin money.”
“Mine as well, but I’m guessing it won’t go far at a fancy shop on Pall Mall. Isn’t that where all the wealthy buy their things?”
“It is and, moreover, I think you might need to be a member of the gentry to venture into that part of London.”
“Nonsense.” Pulling the letter from her friend’s fingers, Bria refolded it, wondering if there was any truth to Pauline’s claim. She wouldn’t want to visit a high-end shop only to be turned away. How dreadful would that be? It would embarrass her to her toes. Had Lady Calthorpe considered such a thing?
Last night, the baroness had been pleasant and inquisitive. For a moment, Bria thought she might have met Her Ladyship before, but how could she have? She’d never been to England, and certainly wasn’t familiar with the woman’s name...and the baroness’ father was a duke. Aside from Ravenscar, Bria had never encountered anyone as important as a duke. In fact, she knew little of and, after last night, was decidedly ill at ease among nobility. Which is another reason why I am averse to Lord Fordham’s invitation to ride through Hyde Park.
“Well, you certainly won a great many admirers with your debut.” Pauline picked up a pair of exquisite doe leather gloves. “Do you mind if I borrow these?”
“Why not? Take them. You deserve them more than I do.” How could Bria say no? If it weren’t for Pauline, she would have withered on the vine living among so many thorny and competitive dancers. And this morning, she had been given so much while her dearest friend, the nicest person she knew, received nothing. All the gifts had been unexpected—a reticule, a bonnet, posies of flowers, three gold sovereigns, not to mention the perfume from Lord Fordham. Moreover, she’
d been invited to balls, soirees, and teas. In all, it was overwhelming.
“Miss LeClair?” a knock came, though by now she recognized the delivery boy’s voice.
Pauline sniggered. “He’s climbed the stairs so many times, the poor lad is going to be sore on the morrow.”
“Perhaps we should have taken a room on a lower floor.” Bria hastened to open the door.
The boy looked up at her with enormous blue eyes. “The Duke of Ravenscar is waiting, miss. And he has a carriage outside.”
At the mention of the man who hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d practically begged him to kiss her, Bria’s stomach fluttered. Trying not to blush in front of Pauline, she knit her brows. “Did His Grace say why he is here?”
Squirming, the lad turned one foot inward. “Said something about a modiste, and he gave me a coin to make you come quickly.”
“Oh, did he now?”
“Yes, now come.” The lad beckoned with a wave of his hand.
“Give me a moment.”
“But—”
Bria shut the door and dashed to the dressing table. “My hair is a disaster.”
Pauline picked up the brush. “No one’s mistress, did you say?”
“Hold your tongue!” Her hackles bristling, Bria stamped her foot. “Absolutely not. The duke promised to replace my gown and now that I have the credit at Harding, Howell and Company, I will not need his help.”
“Mm hmm.” Pauline sniggered. “So, why am I putting up your hair?”
“Because I cannot go downstairs looking like an alehouse wench.”
Twisting Bria’s long rope of tresses into a chignon, Pauline reached for a hairpin. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. You dined with him. His mother invited you to her mansion.”
Bria held up her finger. “She invited all the principals.”
“That’s because it wouldn’t have looked proper for her to have only invited you.”
“Oh, please.”
“And now he’s downstairs waiting to take you to the modiste? He’s a duke—an important man with many responsibilities. Not to mention the magnate who built our theater. Something is afoot with him. Mark me.”
Bria clapped her hands to her face to hide her flushing cheeks. Goodness, she couldn’t say a word about the kiss. He didn’t care about it. She had asked him to humor her. That was all. Nothing more. She must stop thinking about accursed kissing.
His Grace had told the lady’s maid he was merely congratulating me. Even if it was a lovely, unforgettable kiss. Impassioned, bone melting...
She glared at herself in the mirror.
It meant nothing to him.
How could she think it could possibly have meant more than the granting of one wish—at most, an expression of appreciation? Dance was her master. Nothing else.
“I’m going thank him for his generosity and tell him to go away.” After rouging her lips, Bria headed for the door.
“Don’t forget your cloak,” said Pauline, “or your gloves...or your bonnet.”
“I do not need them.”
“Yes, you do.”
Not listening, Bria followed the boy down to the entry. Not surprisingly, Florrie was making a nuisance of herself, batting her eyelashes at Ravenscar. As usual, the dancer wore a low-cut gown, stood with her shoulders back, displaying what cleavage she could. Obviously, she was wasting no time laying claim to her targeted duke.
Pocket watch in hand and tapping his foot, His Grace looked anything but amused.
As soon as he looked up, he grinned, blast him. The man must stand in front of the mirror and practice his smile. Such a mien was too irresistible for anyone of the female variety. “Ah, Miss LeClair. It is lovely to see you this morn.” He grasped her elbow and brushed past Florrie who stood gaping like a jealous lover snubbed.
Bria shot an apologetic grimace to the dancer while trying to tug her arm away. “Thank you for your concern, Your Grace, but I am perfectly able to purchase my own clothing.”
“Nonsense,” he said, squeezing his fingers and practically dragging her outside. “We are going to the modiste. It is all arranged.”
The coachman opened the door to a shiny post chaise.
Before stepping on the stool, Bria was finally able to draw her arm away. “But I need—”
“Your cloak and gloves, my lady,” said Pauline with a teasing curtsy. Bless her, she knew there’d be no stopping Ravenscar, especially with his determined grinning.
“Thank you.” Bria blew her a kiss. “You are so dear to me, my friend.”
After tipping his hat, His Grace offered his hand and helped her inside where he then sat opposite. “I never care to be alone in the presence of that woman again.”
“Florrie?”
“The one who played Effie in the ballet.”
“I see. But she has the pedigree you were so interested in. Her father is a choreographer for the Paris Opera and her mother a famous soprano.”
“I don’t care if she’s the daughter of King William.”
Bria ran the curtain tie-back through her fingers—heavens, it was made of gold silk. “That’s quite a shame, she will be disappointed.”
“Does she make a habit of engaging noblemen in conversation?”
“Only those who might be interested in...” Bria couldn’t say it.
“Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Did you see this morning’s headlines?”
“I haven’t.”
He picked up a paper beside him on the bench and smiled. Again. Were young ladies permitted to tell dukes not to smile? Before she could ask, he cleared his throat. “The Times says, ‘LeClair dazzles and shocks in the most acclaimed ballet of the century’.” He traded one paper for another. “And the Gazette says, ‘Exotic romp through Scotland, LeClair’s dancing is nothing shy of scandalous’.”
A stone sank to the pit of Bria’s stomach. “The Gazette didn’t sound complimentary.”
“On the contrary. People will be queuing around the theater for tickets to see something exotic, bordering on scandalous.”
“I hope you are right.”
“I am.” He stared at her as if there were nothing else in the carriage at which to look. Why not read the next article from the paper still in his grasp—anything but staring directly at her with those shocking blue eyes? But it seemed he’d done his reading for the day and was more intent on smiling and looking far too tempting. His lips glimmered with moisture, pursed in a very self-assured expression, and every bit as kissable as they had been last eve.
Bria glanced away. “I don’t like being referred to as scandalous. My dancing is art. There is nothing shameful about it.”
He set the paper aside. “I agree.”
Perhaps she ought to change the subject. “So, as I tried to say before you all but abducted me, I am perfectly able to purchase my own clothing.”
“Last eve, you said you had no money for a new gown.”
Not ready to tell him about the twenty pounds from Lady Calthorpe, Bria thought up her next best excuse. “Once I receive my wages—”
Ravenscar held up his palm, stopping her mid-sentence. “I said I would replace your gown and I am a man of my word. Please allow me to fulfill my promise.” He pinched a bit of her skirt between his fingers. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that I have now seen you in three different dresses, each of which is...” He waved the cloth like a flag, his lips twisting as if he’d stopped himself from saying something crass. “Dash it, my servants are better clothed.”
She batted his hand away. “I beg your pardon. This dress is nearly new.” It wasn’t. After paying an investigator in Paris, Bria hadn’t enough coin to buy any dresses in the past year, but she wasn’t about to own to it. “We wouldn’t, by chance, be venturing past Harding, Howell and Company, would we?”
One black eyebrow shot up. “Our first stop—to purchase material, then on to my mother’s
modiste.”
Bria smoothed her skirts where he’d pinched the fabric. Perhaps she would be allowed in the shop after all. “It is very thoughtful for you to be concerned about my wardrobe.”
“That’s better.” He sat back with a discerning eye.
“Though it isn’t necessary.”
“I deem it is. It is in my interest to see that you present favorably to society.”
“Do you think if I go about town in pretty dresses people will like me better?”
“It has nothing to do with what other people like. Well...not exactly. Polite society expects a certain decorum. There are rules. Boundaries which mustn’t be crossed. I’m sure my mother’s soiree last eve is only one of many parties to which you will be invited and you, as the theater’s diva, must play the part both on and off stage.”
“I suppose you’re right. Only this morning I received a number of invitations. So many I couldn’t possibly attend them all.”
“To where, may I ask, have you been invited?”
“Ah...” Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so hasty to boast about the pile of missives she left on her bed. “I haven’t even opened all the letters yet.” Bria drummed her fingers, trying to recall. “There’s a luncheon at Vauxhall, a tea hosted by Lady Eloise, and Lord Fordham asked me to go riding in Hyde Park with him this afternoon—”
“Fordham?” The duke pounded his fist on the bench. “That brigand.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“Of late I wonder. I would steer clear of the earl if I were you. He has a reputation as a rake.”
“I see.” Bria sniggered. “Perhaps he should ask Florrie to go riding.”
The duke chuckled. “Your sense of humor is delightful, Miss LeClair. I shall suggest Miss Bisset to him right after I tell him to stop badgering you.”
“I hardly call an invitation to go for a ride in the man’s phaeton badgering.”
“You don’t know Thomas Newport. His invitation was only a precursor to spirit you alone so that he can take liberties.” Ravenscar tugged down his cuffs. “You’ll find propriety in England is far more rigid than it is in France.”
“Oh? Can you give me an example?”
“First of all, riding in Fordham’s phaeton would draw a great deal of—ah—attention.”
