Page 18 of Scandal Wears Satin (Dressmakers #2)

Had Mr. Brinsley Sheridan been a low, worthless, extravagant profligate, whose marriage was a skilful arrangement with his impatient creditors, we should have been the first to condemn and deplore the step which has been taken.

—The Court Journal , Saturday 13 June 1835

T hey danced.

It wasn’t what Sophy had expected. She’d been so fixed on her scheme and playing her part that she’d almost forgotten she wasn’t an actor in a stage drama but a lady attending a ball.

The music had started as Longmore was leading her away from his mother. In another moment, Lord and Lady Bartham began to dance, not with each other but with the partners etiquette dictated.

Then Longmore was saying, “Ah, the perfect excuse not to make polite conversation.” He led Sophy out among the swirling couples, and his arm went round her waist, and she caught her breath and said, “I’m not sure ... It’s been an age since I—”

“I’ll lead,” he told her in French. “Leave it to me, Madame. Trust me. ”

Moments later, he’d swept her into the waltz, and she forgot business and schemes and villains. For this time, there was only this man, and the motion of his athletic, confident body, as sure and thoroughly masculine in dancing as in everything else.

Round and round the ballroom they went, and it seemed she was floating among clouds of silks and satins, whites and pastels and vivid jewel tones and black and grey, all swirling about her, while rainbow stars sparkled among the clouds: emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls, and diamonds—above all, diamonds—glittering under another thousand stars in the crystal chandeliers.

It was like a fairyland.

How many such events had she attended, playing a maid? How many times had she described such scenes for the Spectacle ’s readers?

But always, she described from the outside looking in.

She hadn’t danced in ages, as she’d tried to tell him. Not since Paris. And then she’d never attended a gathering like this. She’d never before danced in the arms of a man she...

Loved.

She looked up and found him gazing down at her, wearing a hint of a smile while amusement glinted in his dark eyes: amusement and something else she couldn’t read.

“You naughty girl,” he said in French. “What did I tell you about the curtsey? And why did I imagine you’d pay me the slightest heed?”

“I had a reason,” she answered in the same language. It was much easier to converse that way than in Madame’s mangled English. French came naturally. Murdering the English language in a believably French style needed thought.

“You always do,” he said.

“Firstly, like a ballet dancer’s movement, it captivates the eye,” she said. “Secondly, it displays the dress in a way that no other movement can.”

“Even this?” he said. “Was it not designed to appear at its most enticingly beautiful during dancing?”

“You’re learning,” she said.

“In self-defense,” he said. “Like Clevedon.”

He looked away and she followed his gaze. Marcelline and the duke were dancing, and it had to be obvious to all onlookers why he’d broken a cardinal rule of his class and married a shopkeeper. It had to be obvious as well, that he’d married a woman who loved him. Marcelline wasn’t wearing her card-playing face. She was herself: a woman deeply, deeply in love with her husband.

She deserved her good fortune, Sophy thought. Marcelline had worked since she was a child. She’d made the best of a bad marriage to a charming philanderer of a cousin. And when the cholera had come and destroyed their world, everyone in it, and everything they’d worked for, she’d gathered what remained of her family and brought them to England, with a handful of coins and a ruthless will to succeed.

Sophy tore her gaze from her sister. “If you understand this much about the dress design, then you know my motives were ulterior,” she said. “It’s true that this and all our gowns are meant to appear beautiful at rest and even more so in motion. But I ask you to bring to mind my earlier mission—the one that took us to Hortense the Horrible. Do you recall?”

“As though I could forget,” he said. “Your mole, in particular, is deeply etched—or should I say permanently sprouting—in my recollection.”

“We went there so that I could see whether it was the same old Dowdy’s or something different and more of a threat,” she said. “I needed to see your mother’s dress because they’d do their best work for her. It was better than their usual thing, but it still couldn’t hold a candle to ours. But how to make your mother see this?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the curtsey,” he said.

“It didn’t occur to you,” she said, “that at the moment I was being introduced to your mother, she was surrounded by the work of Maison Noirot: Lady Bartham, Lady Clara, and I were all wearing Marcelline’s creations. Your mother couldn’t fail to notice the difference between what she was wearing and what we were wearing. It may take her a while to fully comprehend, but we’ve planted the seed.”

“Business,” he said. “The curtsey was business.”

“Advertising,” she said.

“You make my head spin, madame,” he said.

He drew her into a turn that made her head spin, too. Then she forgot business. How had she ever thought the waltz was merely a dance? To waltz with him was like making love—a kind of tortured making love—touching but not caressing. Holding but not embracing. A feeling of growing urgency and heat with no way to relieve it, no climax possible.

She was close enough to feel the heat of his body and the way his breath came faster. It was so deeply intimate, like the feel of his hand clasping hers, his other at her waist. It seemed as though this was where she belonged and had always belonged. She wondered at the women about her, who could dance in this intimate way with men who weren’t their lovers.

How can I stop? she thought. How can I go back to my life without him?

Nonsensical questions. He and she played a game, and this love affair of theirs—if that’s what it was—was merely a happenstance. Only a complete ninny would turn it into a romantic tragedy.

She hadn’t time to be a ninny.

She had a job to do. And if she made a mistake, a young woman’s life would be ruined ... and take three women’s hopes and dreams and years of hard work with it.

Yet it was hard to stay detached and calculating while she danced with him.

When the music faded to a close, it was far too soon. Sophy wanted to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him witless and hold on to him because...

Because for a short time she’d known what it was to live in his world, rather than trespass in it. For a short time she’d known what it was to be special in that curious way her ancestors had been special: not because they were skilled artisans or inventors or brave soldiers or had in any way contributed anything of value to their fellow men, but because they were simply born special: aristocrats.

Above all, though, she’d imagined—believed—felt, even in her cynical, black Noirot heart—that she was special to him.

Maybe she was. But she knew how this story had to end.

Time to put an end to the tragi-comedy. Or farce. She wasn’t at all sure which it was.

Sometime later

L ongmore looked on while Madame proceeded to cut a swath through the gentlemen. At present he stood with his mother, who was watching her, too.

As was Adderley, on the other side of the room.

“Do you mean to let the other gentlemen steal a march on you?” his mother said. “I should not be too sure of her, if I were you, Harry. You might have been first out of the gate, as you would put it, but these others might easily make up time.”

For the moment, there was no one else about, except an extremely elderly lady—another of Grandmother Warford’s friends—who was profoundly deaf. For a time, they’d had to say everything six or seven times, as well as answer the same question at least that often, but at present, her head was sinking toward her ample bosom and she was snoring.

Even though no one could overhear them, he was surprised. He bent an enquiring look on his mother.

“Don’t give me that look,” she said crossly. “It only shows how obtuse you are.”

“I can’t help it,” he said. “The lady doesn’t strike me as quite what you’d choose for my bride—yet here you are, urging me on to the altar.”

“She’s nothing like what I’d choose,” his mother said. “Still.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Her English is atrocious,” his mother said. “She can’t have had a proper education.”

“Some people simply have no aptitude for languages,” he said.

“Apt or not, I’m not at all sure she isn’t a complete henwit,” she said. “But she is a handsome girl—”

“With a handsome fortune.”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“If she were penniless, you wouldn’t be urging me to chase her,” Longmore said. “And I don’t see what the hurry is about.”

He glanced at the dance floor, on whose fringes Adderley lurked, watching Madame. “Oh, but look, that’s Lady Bartham’s third son Madame is dancing with. It would be a great pity if he won the lady’s heart and her formidable fortune.”

“It would be a great pity if you lost any girl to that callow creature,” his mother said. “But do as you like, Harry. You always did. Your sister, too. I vow, I have been plagued with the most undutiful children. If she had only listened to me, she would not be in this wretched situation. Every day that passes, I like him less and less—and I despised him to begin with. Look at him. Two dances with Clara and he abandons her. When I think of the men she might have had. Oh, it is too much. And see, even he is ogling Madame. How dare he?”

“They’re all ogling her.”

“And you’re mighty cool about it, I must say.”

“I believe it’s the sort of thing one must get used to. She attracts attention wherever she goes.”

She watched Madame for a time, her brow knitting. “Do you know, Harry, she puts me in mind of somebody.”

The dance was ending and Longmore saw Adderley making his way to Madame.

“Oh, no, my fine fellow,” Longmore said. “Amuse yourself if you like, but not with my merry widow.”

“Why should he not?” his mother said. “She isn’t yours. You make no push to fix her interest.”

“He has no business trying to fix it when he’s engaged to my sister—not to mention that Madame promised this dance to me.”

“Don’t make a scene, Harry. Not here, of all places.”

“Mother, you cut me to the quick. I never make scenes.”

He didn’t hurry across the room and he didn’t push anybody out of his way. Lord Longmore didn’t need to. All he needed to do was wear a certain expression, and people hastily moved out of his way.

W hen Longmore reached them, Adderley was leaning in much too close to say something to Madame.

“So sorry to interrupt the tête-à-tête,” Longmore said. “But this dance is mine.”

“I believe you’re mistaken,” Adderley said. “Madame has promised the dance to me.”

Madame looked in bewilderment from one to the other. Then her expression became chagrined. “This is too bad,” she said. “You must pardon me, Lord Add’lee. Lord Lun-mour speaks correctly. It was this dance I promised to him. My abominable memory—I beg you to forgive. But you will have the next one.”

“Next is supper,” Longmore said. “Since this is the supper dance, I have the privilege of taking you in. To sup.”

“ C’est exact ,” she said. “I forget this.”

“How easily you forget,” Longmore said.

She shot him an unfriendly look, then turned a more affectionate one upon Adderley. “I shall see you after the supper, Lord Add’lee. If I am not too greatly fatigued.”

Adderley bowed and left, still smirking.

Longmore watched him go before turning back to Madame. “You expect to find my company fatiguing?”

“That is not what I say,” she said. “You turn my words the wrong way.”

“And your gaze as well?” he said.

“I cannot comprehend you,” she said.

“I noticed the glance you cast his way. I’ve never claimed to be a genius, but I reckon I know a flirtatious look when I see one.”

“And why should I not flirt?” she said. “Why have we this disagreement again and again? Have I the collar around my neck, like a dog? I am not your dog on the leash, Lord Lun-mour. I do not belong to you.”

Dream on , he answered silently.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But the gentleman belongs to my sister—as I have pointed out to you. Again and again.”

“This is monstrous. Of what do you accuse me? To steal this man from your sister?”

“The other day you seemed to think he needed to be stolen.”

She waved this aside. “I was angry, and some things I said were foolish things. But only a little time ago, I met your mother, who was so amiable to me. And your sister has forgiven me my little error. Why should I wish to distress them? Here I am a stranger. Alone. No one protects me. I have only my friends to guard me, and I am glad to make friends.” Her mouth turned down.

“I’m glad for you to make them, too,” he said. “However, when you grow too friendly—”

“No! I was only amiable.” The blue eyes flashed at him. “I flirt with him a little, in the way all the women do. I do not see why you must tell me I am wrong to do this. You have not said even one word of special regard for me.”

“I said three, as I recall,” he said quietly. “What more do you require, madame?”

Pink tinted her cheeks and spread downward, under the diamonds encircling her neck and dripping over her bosom. “I believe you play with me,” she said.

“Is that what you think?” he said. “That I’m toying with your affections?”

“You seem to think it is a great joke.”

“Is it not?”

Tears shimmered in her eyes, and in that moment he knew they weren’t playing—or if they were, they danced on the very edge of truth.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is. Hilarious. Ha ha.”

She turned away in a flurry of satin and lace, and made her way, hips swaying, chin aloft, across the ballroom.

S ophy had scarcely turned her back on Longmore when Lord Adderley loomed in her path. “I thought you’d promised this dance to Lord Longmore,” he said.

“It seems I am fatiguée ,” she said. She snapped open her fan and waved it briskly before her face. “And too hot.” He’d think her heated reaction was to him. “I have lost my humor to dance. I have lost my pleasure in this ball.”

“As have I,” he said in his English-accented French. “And you know the reason.”

She eyed him over the top of her fan. “Do I?”

“Have I not told you?” His voice became low and throbbing. “Have I not laid my heart bare to you? Every word I’ve written to you is torn from my heart. You know I’m in agony. Why do you torture me?”

She looked about her. “You are indiscreet. Someone will hear.”

“We must settle this,” he said. “Every day you change your mind.”

“Every day!” she said. “How many days has it been? Days, milord. Not years or even months or weeks. A few days. A few letters.” Ah, yes, she’d answered his. She’d given him reason to hope and reason to despair. She’d encouraged him while seeming to push him away or seeming undecided. But she’d taken care never to write anything undecided enough or rejecting enough to cause him to give up. “You must not press me.”

“I haven’t time to wait,” he said. “If you mean to trample on my heart, do it now. Kill my hope, but do it quickly, for God’s sake, and put me out of my misery.”

She moved away. He followed her.

“You hurry me,” she said. “A woman should not be hurried in affairs of the heart.”

“I knew my heart the instant I met you,” he said. “I knew we belonged together.”

As soon as you heard of my great fortune.

A servant approached, carrying a tray laden with glasses of champagne. She shook her head at the servant and continued toward her destination.

“We cannot talk in this place,” she said. “Too much activity. Too many people. Another time we will meet.”

“They’re going in to supper,” he said. “There won’t be a better time. And there won’t be another time. I must know tonight. You promised me an answer tonight.”

“You are too impetuous.”

And she’d done her best to make him that way.

“Madame, for me, time is running out.”

“Ah, yes, you are to be married.”

“That is for you to determine.”

“I cannot abide the thought of taking you away from that pretty girl,” she said. “To break her heart? I am not that kind of woman.” While they talked, she never paused but walked on, at a leisurely pace, letting him follow.

“Break her heart?” he said. “She barely tolerates me, as well you know. You’ve seen. All her family despise me. If it were not for one foolish moment, I should be free. And then I should wait and wait for you to make up your mind.”

“One foolish moment? And how do I know I am not another foolish moment for you?”

“What proof do you want?”

They’d reached the French windows, which stood open to let air circulate through the ballroom on this warm night. Beyond lay a small terrace, bordered by a stone railing. Some light from the ballroom cast its glow over the terrace. To the left, one part of the railing stood in shadow. Beyond the terrace, lanterns lit the gardens. So romantic. She smiled to herself.

She stepped through the French window and walked to the shadowy part of the railing.

“What proof?” he said again

“I will not have an affair,” she said in a low voice. “I was true to my husband. I am not a wicked woman. I will not be your mistress. I am not the courtesan.”

“I don’t want a mistress,” he said.

Naturally not. Mistresses were expensive to keep.

She said nothing.

“My intentions are honorable,” he said. “I can prove it.”

She glanced up at him.

“I can,” he said. “Come away with me—now—tonight. We can be in Scotland in less than two days—and we can be wed as soon as we get there.”

“To elope?” she said. “You would do this?”

“Why not?” he said. “Sheridan did it not long ago. And unlike him, we needn’t worry about being pursued.”

She put her hand to her heart and turned away from him.

“Madame?”

She shook her head. “No, stay away. I must think. This is not what I thought. I was not prepared.” While she spoke, she made a few quick, covert adjustments to her dress. “I never dreamed you would go so far,” she said. “To run away with me—it will anger your friends. This means disgrace for you, perhaps.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “If I have you, nothing else matters. Madame, I beg you.” He set his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. She didn’t resist. He drew her into his arms. “Come away with me.”

“No!” she shrieked. “No! Stop! Help!” As she cried out in French and English, she pushed him away. When she did so, the bodice of her dress slid down, exactly as it had been designed to do, revealing the expensive blond lace of her chemise and a bit of one of Marcelline’s elegant Venetian corsets.

At the same moment, right on cue, a small crowd spilled out onto the terrace, Lady Clara in the lead.

Adderley jumped away from Sophy as though she’d broken out in boils. “What the devil?” he said. “What is this?”

“It’s quite obvious what it is,” Lady Clara said. She marched up to him and slapped him. “You brute. You false, despicable brute.”

“For shame!” someone in the crowd said.

“You disgust me,” Lady Clara said. “I will not marry you. The world may think what it likes of me—but I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

Adderley said, “But I didn’t—”

“For shame!”

“Disgraceful!”

Other voices chimed in, to the same effect.

Marcelline made her way through the bystanders and went to Sophy. “ Ma pauvre dame! ” She glared at Adderley. “ Quel monstre! ”

Adderley said, “But I never—”

“Beast!” someone cried.

“Brute!”

“What the devil is going on?” Longmore broke through the crowd. He looked at Sophy. He looked at Adderley. He started for Adderley.

Clevedon pulled him back. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t dirty your hands.”

“Not worth the effort,” someone called.

“Let him rot,” said another.

“Not on my terrace,” Lady Bartham said. She stood in the French window. Beside her stood Lady Warford. With the light of the ballroom glowing behind them, they looked like avenging angels.

“Lord Adderley, I must ask you to leave,” Lady Bartham said. “And you are not welcome to return.”

L ongmore knew what he was supposed to do.

“Don’t on any account hit him,” Clevedon had counseled, and all the Noirot sisters had agreed with him.

This was Clara’s moment, they’d all said. Let her do it. Let all those who’d judged her see.

And so Longmore had let Clara slap Adderley.

But the cur was slinking away, and flames danced in front of Longmore’s eyes.

He started after Adderley. He’d not gone three paces when he heard Madame’s voice, shaky and tear-clogged. “Lord Lun-mour.” He turned. She stood, her sister’s arm about her shoulders, her beautiful dress disordered. Tears streamed down her face. “Please return me to my hotel.”

The sight of the disordered dress turned his mind black with rage. All he could think was murder, and he almost said, “Clevedon will take you.”

But the great blue eyes held him.

He dragged in a lungful of air and let it out. He returned to her. “Of course, madame,” he said.

He picked her up and carried her—through the ballroom, past a lot of gaping and whispering aristocrats and on through the corridor and down the stairs and out of the house.

He held her, her face buried in his shoulder, while a carriage was hastily commandeered to transport them.

Within a very few minutes, their host’s carriage arrived. He quickly bundled Sophy into it.

When they’d turned a corner, and were well out of sight of Bartham House, he said, “That went well, I thought.”

She had been slumped against him, teary and trembling.

The trembling stopped and she sat up and drew out the world’s tiniest handkerchief and briskly wiped away the tears. “Nearly perfectly,” she said.

“Nearly?”

“You were not supposed to go after Adderley with murder in mind,” she said. “You were not supposed to go after him at all. I explained that to you. We all explained it to you. It would diminish the effect. Have you forgotten how it goes? He assaults your what-you-call-it.”

“My aunt,” he said, turning his gaze to the window. He was an ass sometimes, a great ass.

“If you hit him, the matter is settled, the problem is solved. We didn’t want it settled that way. We wanted him shamed, the way he’d shamed your sister.”

He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. “I know.”

“But you forgot,” she said. “One can’t forget things like that. You very nearly spoiled it.”

“He touched you,” he said.

“For three seconds,” she said.

“He saw your chemise.”

“One inch of it.”

“And your corset.”

“Another inch. And so did everybody else. That was the point.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m a man in love, and a man in love doesn’t think in a rational manner.”

There was a silence in the carriage.

From outside, the clip-clop of hooves and the clack of wheels were plainly audible. He heard voices in the distance. A bell tolled somewhere.

“Something must be done about you,” he said.

“You already did something,” she said. “Several times. In two different hostelries. Employing a variety of maneuvers.”

We make love.

“I think I have to marry you,” he said.

S ophy felt a sob welling painfully in her chest. She willed it away.

“Two proposals in one night,” she said. “The blaze of diamonds must fry men’s brains.”

“That’s what I like about you,” he said. “So romantic.”

She turned to him. “Well, it’s a joke, isn’t it? On us. And if I don’t make a joke I’ll cry. I’ve cried quite enough tonight.”

“That was make-believe.”

“I don’t really know the difference,” she said.

“And that, strangely enough, is another thing I like about you. In any event, like you or not, my mother wants me to marry you.”

“She wants you to marry Madame, you mean.”

“She finds you passably attractive, although not very intelligent. But she will assume that makes us compatible, since I’m nothing special in the brains department.”

“You can’t marry Madame,” Sophy said. “And you can’t marry me.”

“Then what do you propose we do?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well, think ,” he said. “You got my sister out of a situation everyone else deemed completely hopeless. Surely you can devise a scheme for us. You must. Don’t you have a cunning plan to make my mother love you?”

“In time, I might lure her to Maison Noirot,” she said. “I might persuade her to tolerate me as her dressmaker. But making her love me is out of the question. Only imagine how she’d feel.”

“Feelings,” he said.

“She’s a woman,” she said. “She’s a mother. Try to put yourself in her place: Clevedon married my sister instead of her daughter. Then you decide to marry me—the sister of the woman who ruined her cherished plans and who is therefore at least indirectly responsible for Clara’s difficulties.”

“Is it so important that my mother love you?” he said.

You don’t understand , she wanted to cry. My family has done nothing but destroy families. For generations. I’m not good. I’m not virtuous. I’m a knave. But I don’t want to be like that.

She said, “Your parents will cut you off. It’s the most powerful weapon they have. Perhaps the only weapon.”

“Then I reckon I’ll have to take up quarters over the shop and let my wife support me,” he said.

“Harry,” she said.

He met her gaze.

“You know that’s absurd,” she said. “You’d hate it. Are you aware that Leonie holds the purse strings? Marcelline and I are not good with money. That is to say, we’re good mainly at spending it.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he let out a sigh. “We’re doomed,” he said. “In that case...”

He pulled her into his arms.