Page 123 of The Ladies Least Likely
Instead of throwing him to the next stage of the gauntlet, though, she paused in a small space between the jostle of decorated, powdered, and perfumed bodies.
Ren took a deep breath, dragging air into his lungs, and tried to focus on something calming.
The glimmer of the candles in the chandeliers draped from the tall, plastered ceiling.
The floating melodies of the string quartet positioned between a bay of soaring sashed windows.
The tap of heeled slippers on the wooden floor as couples danced.
Harriette. Where other women smelled like hair powder and musty fabric and floral cologne doused over native odors, Harriette smelled of clean air, turpentine, and chalk.
“Fancy a reprieve?” she asked.
He searched her expression for signs of pity, contempt, or superiority, and found none. She watched him with a curious intensity, tracing each feature with her eyes as if she were thinking of light and lines and composition, painting him already in her head.
“I fancy leaving here altogether. Do you think we could? Run away?”
How he’d love to take her back to his dressing room, or better yet his bedchamber. Order his man to bring up food from the kitchens and a bottle or two of red wine, and pass the whole night talking with Harriette, hearing everything she had done with herself for eleven years.
Harriette near his bed was too much a temptation. Could he stand to be near her, burn like this, and know she was not moved in the same way?
Her lashes flickered, her expression growing veiled. “Your mother won’t allow me to see you again.”
“My mother can’t keep you from me,” he growled. He curled his fingers into fists to keep himself from reaching for her, as if he could hold her against him and not let anyone take her away.
That smile, that distracting pucker at the sides of her lips. He wanted to kiss each one.
“Why won’t they talk with you?” Ren burst out. His tongue felt enormous. “The others. They pr-pretend not to see you. Is it me?”
“Of course not.” She looked away, showing him a perfect profile. “It’s me. I am, as your mother observed, not good ton .”
“Why not?”
She was the most beautiful woman in these rooms, he could see that at a glance.
She held her head high and moved with an assured grace that commanded admiration.
When the movements of the other girls seemed affected, every gesture calculated for effect, Harriette was relaxed and at ease.
Serene in her own skin. He’d always admired her calmness, when he was so easily troubled or overset.
“Mmm. Let’s save that story for another time.
Whom should you meet? Lady Derby is happily married, and from the style of her robe, expecting again.
” Her eyes scanned the glittering crowd.
“The Duchess of Hunsdon is lately returned from the Continent, and she recently lost a court case over her late husband’s estate.
She’ll be in search of a new protector, but far too cold-hearted to be a match for you, Ren. ”
She swiveled, spotting a row of rout chairs set against a wall near one of the doors. “I wonder who that girl is? She’s been sitting alone ever since we came in.”
Ren spotted her, too. The only person with dark skin in a room of powdered and painted paleness, she sat with quiet dignity, watching the dancers. Her plain dress, wool not silk, and the turban wrapping her hair suggested she was someone’s dependent. Ren wondered at Harriette’s interest.
“But I suppose we should—” Harriette faltered and her face grew slack with surprise. “Lady Bess. Bessington. Your ladyship.” She dropped into a clumsy curtsey. He had never seen Harriette clumsy with anything. “What a most unexpected pleasure,” she said, her words rushed and overeager.
The stately matron before them was the pinnacle of ton and style.
Her wig, powdered a pale pink, glittered with rubies, and the rose silk of her gown peeked through cascades of elaborate embroidery and what might have been diamonds.
At the tip of one rouged cheekbone perched a black silk beauty patch in the shape of a tear.
Her reddened lips curved in a smile that was amused but not unkind.
“Miss Smythe. How pleasant to see you again. But where is your very interesting aunt? I do wish the Countess of Calenberg would show more of herself at these functions. I look forward to making her acquaintance.”
“You wish to know my aunt?” Harriette looked dazzled.
“But she is not here. Through some, er, remarkable oversight, Lady Renwick did not include my aunt in her invitation. Your ladyship, do you know the Earl of Renwick? Renwick, the Countess Bessington. She leads one of the more interesting salons in London, and her husband is one of the few Scottish peers in the House of Lords. You will be certain to encounter him when you take your seat.”
“You may call me Lady Bess, if we are to be friends.” Her ladyship acknowledged Ren’s bow, which was no less awkward than Harriette’s.
His foot felt as stiff as if it bore an iron shackle, and he didn’t trust his tongue.
He wondered what about this glamorous lady intimidated Harriette, who, he guessed, was otherwise daunted by nothing.
Harriette pressed her hands together, giving her ladyship a look mingled with adoration and apprehension. “ Would you be friends with me, Lady Bess? I seem to be persona non gratis here tonight.”
Ren moved closer to her, his protective instincts stirred. Lady Bessington merely smiled.
“Your…connection with the recently departed Graf von Hardenburg seems to be much envied,” Lady Bess said. “And much talked about, I’m afraid. He was considered quite dashing, and you did seem a particular favorite of his.”
A hot bolt of jealousy shot through Ren. It was a sharper pain than the various manipulations the good Dottore Scarpa had performed on his foot. He felt a sudden urge to locate this foreign count and strangle him.
Harriette shook her head. A bit of powder wafted free from her hair, settling on her shoulders. “The Graf von Hardenburg was lately in London on a diplomatic mission from Prussia,” she explained to Ren. “I met with him to try to find out more about my mother’s family, since she has told me nothing.
“I think the count took an interest in every young lady who came into his purview,” she remarked to Bess. “But I did a lovely pastel for him to take back to Prussia with him. For his wife.”
Lady Bess chuckled and moved her fan lazily before her chin. “I think what excited talk, my dear Miss Smythe, were the very titillating sketches of the count that circulated through all the London bookshops.”
“Ah.” Harriette’s eyes shifted guiltily over the room. “I suppose everyone here read that gossip paragraph in the Morning Intelligencer identifying me as the artist.”
“Were you?” Ren blurted, shocked.
She met his eyes, a shadow moving through hers.
But as always, she was forthright with him.
“Yes, I drew them. I should have told you at once, Ren. Those sketches have made me notorious. I’m not at all the person to help find you a bride.
” She bit her lip, leaving a groove in the natural berry-red.
He wanted to kiss it away. “Your mother was right,” she said unhappily.
His mother was wrong. Anyone who wanted to keep him from Harriette was wrong. “How notorious?”
“Enough that anyone with the pennies to do so bought as many as they could.” Lady Bess’s black silk patch crinkled as she smiled broadly. “I myself own several. I don’t doubt the fame will increase your commissions, Miss Smythe.”
Harriette’s mouth fell open at this and she stared at Lady Bessington, speechless, hopeful, and a tad undignified.
“Countess Bessington. How lovely to have you in my home.” Ren’s mother bore down on them, a buccaneer determined to board a stately galleon. “I take it you and Renwick have been introduced?”
“Welcome back, your lordship,” Lady Bess said to Ren. “We are all very interested to hear what you think of us.”
Ren answered this with an incline of his head. He didn’t trust his mouth to speak. His mother neatly cut Harriette out of the group, and the butler stepped up beside her to block her from the rest of the room.
“Miss Smythe,” Lady Renwick said, disdain lacing her voice, “perhaps you will come with Dunstan and identify the rather disturbing persons who are currently occupying our mews. I’m afraid I will have to call the watch on them if they don’t depart soon.”
Harriette’s shoulders stiffened, her chin lifting. Ren recognized what his mother was doing: casting the unwelcome guest out on her ear.
Fight , he urged Harriette, wanting to see that small avenging goddess with her slingshot emerge. He wanted confirmation that beneath the gloss and sophistication she was still his Harriette, a tiny warrior who neglected to comb her hair.
“Those will be my friends,” Harriette said. “Employees of the Countess of Calenberg. Men of impeccable character. They are waiting to take me home.”
“They have informed me they are ready to take you now,” Lady Renwick said, with nothing pleasant in her tone. Lady Bess floated away, looking above their heads to study the artwork as if she heard nothing of the exchange. “Dunstan?”
What was he doing? He was the one who had to fight for Harriette. “I w-w-w-wish for Rhette to st-stay, M-mother,” Ren stammered.
“You’ll never meet someone suitable with her hanging about your neck,” Lady Renwick said sharply. “See to your guests, Renwick, and tell your friend goodbye.”
“I’ll see myself out,” Harriette said defiantly.
“I’ll take you.” Ren slipped a hand about Harriette’s arm. She was as slim and strong as he remembered. He limped beside her as Dunstan, without appearing to crowd her, steered Harriette toward one of the open double doors.
“You may go, Dunstan,” Ren said once they were at the top of the broad marble stairs swirling down to the ground floor. “Attend your mistress.”