James Beauclaire! I was with James Beauclaire!
Adele’s heart thumped hard against her ribs as she left Helene at the foot of the stairs so she could hurry up to her rooms. She counseled herself to forget the whole thing, to give over her excitement. She reminded herself that the whole incident was entirely indecent and scandalous.
But herself would not believe it. Herself only thought how delicious it was.
Of course, he hadn’t known it was her when he held her for so long. Her skin still tingled with the memory of his strong arms around her and his solid chest against her back, and his thighs . . . his thighs underneath hers. His eyes had been bright with the silver reflection of winter snow as they looked at her and laughed. The purr of his voice in her ear lit a fire inside like nothing she’d ever felt.
Of course, he’d see her in her dress at the ball, and then there’d be another memory. This one would be much colder, much sadder. Adele bit her lip and glanced along the empty corridor. Maybe, just maybe, if she hurried, she could get to her room before she was spotted. There was still a chance she’d be able to convince Bridget that . . .
“Adele! Merciful Heavens, where have you been?”
Adele’s aunt, the widowed and perpetually harassed-looking Mary Kearsely, burst from her apartments, her long-suffering maid trailing behind her with a gold ribbon in her hands. Adele opened her mouth to reply, but Aunt Kearsely had already waved her words away. “Oh, never mind, never mind. Bridget! Here is Lady Adele at last. Get her ready. The gown is all laid out,” Mrs. Kearsely said. “You’ll be wearing the yellow.”
Adele’s heart plummeted. “But Aunt, I thought I might perhaps wear the green. It’s only . . .”
“The green is entirely out of date, and you’ve already been seen in it. The yellow is the first stare of fashion. Madame Flaubert made it to my precise specifications. You know we have to cover . . . well, your flaws.”
You mean my hips. And my waist. And my bosom.
Adele felt her chin tremble, but Aunt Kearsely wasn’t even looking at her anymore. “Ah! Now here’s your sister. At least one of you is punctual!”
Patience might be two years younger than Adele, but she was also three inches taller and fashionably slender. Which was to her advantage, because it meant she could make even the shell pink ball gown she’d ordered look lovely. The color was fine, but the skirt was a full bell of silk made stiff by no fewer than three rows of blue beaded lace. The same lace overwhelmed a swooping neckline that might otherwise have been daring. As it was, the cut only emphasized by Patience’s swanlike neck adorned with a chain of pearls with a blue topaz set neatly in the middle. More blue beading at her sleeves and hem drew attention to her white wrists and the tiniest hint of well-turned ankles encased in gold stockings with sapphire flocking.
“So beautiful,” murmured Aunt Kearsely, touching the corner of her eye. “The image of my poor, dear sister.”
“Well, Adele, what do you think?” Patience snapped open her fan of dyed lace and turned about. “Will I do?”
Only if you remake that entire dress. But no one would notice, because this was Patience, and she was popular and beautiful, so whatever she wore would be considered beautiful as well. “Of course you’ll do, Patience,” answered Adele through clenched teeth. “You always do anything you want.”
Her sister frowned, trying to work out if she’d just been insulted. Aunt Kearsely heaved an enormous and despairing sigh.
“Oh, go get dressed, silly girl. And no more arguments. I’m already exhausted.”
Left with no choice, Adele walked into her rooms, trying not to feel like she was heading to the guillotine. The dress was indeed laid out on her lace-covered bed, and it was indeed the first stare of fashion. It was also buttercup yellow, with five tiers of white rosettes around its hem, a broad white sash that tied in an enormous bow in the back, a ruffled, translucent white capelet to drape over her shoulders and décolletage in a manner that was supposed to be both modest and daring. It might even have worked, if it hadn’t been for the lace ruff that would fasten right up under her chin.
This is was what James Beauclaire, who’d held her in his arms and laughed with her in the darkness, would see when he walked into the ballroom. Of course the rest of the world would see it, too, and then . . . and then . . .
“I am sorry, m’lady,” murmured Bridget.
“It’s not your fault.” It had been made clear that if Bridget valued her place, she would not ignore Mrs. Kearsely in the matter of her niece’s clothing. Adele’s aunt was relentlessly determined to uphold the Windfords as leaders in every aspect of society, whether in fashion or lavish entertainments. It is what my poor, dear sister would have wanted, she said frequently, speaking of Adele’s mother. Along with, I’m doing this all for you and your sister, Adele, so that you will have the best possible futures.
No matter how Adele begged, she’d never once been able to shift her aunt’s opinions. She might have attempted open defiance, but Aunt Kearsely controlled the housekeeping money. Marcus gave their aunt an allowance and left it to her to dispense appropriate sums to Adele and Patience. Which meant that while Adele had pin money, she did not have enough to purchase her own gowns.
“We’d best get you ready,” said Bridget softly. “I’ve brought up some rolls and cheese, in case you’re hungry.”
“Thank you, Bridget. I am rather.”
So, Adele ate the soft rolls spread with farmhouse cheese and let the salty, comforting morsels distract her as Bridget bustled about, settling her chemise into place, lacing the bright yellow gown, tying the enormous white sash, hooking the stiff ruff closed around her neck. Then of course there was the coup de grâce. As per her aunt’s careful instructions, Bridget piled Adele’s blond hair high on her head in a fashionable mass of tiny ringlets.
Adele looked in the mirror at the plump, sad, pale girl with the mountain of honey gold curls on her head and the ridiculous ruffles of starched lace pressed up tight against her chin.
Say adieu to Beauclaire, Adele instructed that girl softly. You shall not meet again.