Marie Beauclaire was beginning to regret saying yes to milady, and to James.
It was not that she regretted taking on the task of milady’s dresses. The dresses were going beautifully. Against expectation, James’s new heiress had taste that came close to being French in its excellence and sophistication. She was also unexpectedly willing to listen when Marie suggested alterations to her designs. Even more unexpectedly, when presented with the bills, milady paid, and paid in full.
No, it was her stupid, sentimental yielding to her brother’s curiosity that she regretted. Her foolish agreement to carry that first note between James and milady led to endless questions of “How did she look?” from him and “What did he say?” from her. Any hint that they might easily meet in a park or some private, friendly home was met with sound rejection. They had made a bargain. They would keep it.
“But Marie, how . . .” she muttered in imitation of James’s eager interrogation as she carefully stitched the beading into the latest skirt. “But Marie, what . . . Ow!” she cried as her needle jabbed her finger. She popped the wounded digit instantly into her mouth, while she smoothed out the skirt to see if any blood had marred the shimmering white fabric.
This, she decided, was the limit. One made allowances for foolish brothers and silly clientele, but not when their distractions made one clumsy and in danger of ruining good silk, most especially when there was no time left to order more before the ball.
Something must be done.
***
“They’re here!” Madelene ran into the green parlor where Adele and Helene were sitting with Helene’s latest lists. “The gowns have arrived! Miss Sewell is having them taken upstairs.”
Both girls dropped the papers they held and hurried after Madelene. Adele’s heart was in her mouth. Of course she had seen much of the progress during her frequent visits to Mademoiselle Marie’s little workroom, but there was so much beading and tucking and trimming to be done, work had gone on until the very last moment. It was only three hours until Mrs. Wrexford’s ball. Three hours until the season began and they would know if there was even a possibility that their plans for transformation would succeed.
Three hours until she would know if she and James might have a chance.
All the girls had arranged to spend the night at Miss Sewell’s. Aunt Kearsely had demurred. Adele was presuming too much on Miss Sewell’s time, she felt. Adele was spending too much time with Lady Helene, and this Miss Valmeyer, what were her connections? Adele had come close to panic. If Aunt Kearsely was getting suspicious or uneasy, everything would be over before it truly began.
Most unexpectedly it was Patience who came to her rescue. “Oh, let her go, Aunt,” she said loftily. “It’s only one party. I’m sure she’ll be home much more after this.” And she smiled with all the warmth of a snowstorm.
Adele packed and took Bridget and went, but all the time, she wondered just how much Patience knew, and what on earth her sister might be planning.
But Adele set all that aside as she gazed at the two great boxes laid out on the bed in Miss Sewell’s spare room.
Two?
“This came with the others, Adele.” Miss Sewell handed her a note.
While Bridget helped Helene and Madelene open the boxes and peel back the layers of tissue, Adele opened the note. Her hands were shaking.
“Oh!” Madelene cried, holding up the sparkling champagne-colored gown.
“It’s perfect,” said Miss Sewell. “Well done, Adele!”
“I . . . I’m almost afraid to wear it. It’s too lovely.”
“Well, if you don’t wear it, Madelene, all Adele and Mademoiselle Marie’s work will be wasted,” Helene said. She was running her hand across the folds of her silver gown, with its trimming of glittering glass diamonds.
“Oh well.” Madelene giggled. “I would not want that. But, where’s yours, Adele?”
“Marie writes she’s still finishing it.” She held up the note. “Some last-minute work on the beading. She promises it will be here in two hours.”
Adele tried to smile. She tried to accept the exclamations and promised to help the other two by playing lady’s maid along with Miss Sewell and Bridget. She tried to ignore the feeling of approaching disaster that lurked in the back of her mind with the memory of Patience’s smile.
***
“What?” James stared at his sister. She was sitting placidly at her worktable with her foot propped up on a stool.
“I cannot go,” she said again. “I fell off the stool and twisted my ankle.” She gestured toward the bandage binding the wounded body part. “I cannot deliver the ball gown to milady Adele.”
“Then you must send Aimee,” James told her. Sacré bleu! Did the confounded girl not understand? Tonight was everything to Adele, and to him.
“Aimee has gone home,” she replied placidly. “Her little brother has fallen ill, and she was needed. You must take the dress, James, or Adele will not have it for her grand evening.”
“You’re doing this on purpose, Marie. There is nothing wrong with your ankle.”
She shrugged. “Fine. Do not go. It makes no difference to me. The gown is paid for. But how will you explain to milady that it is your fault she has no dress? Because I will tell her, you understand.”
“Yes, Marie,” James growled. “I understand you perfectly.”
***
In the tiny foyer of No. 48, the case clock chimed eight.
“You should go,” whispered Adele to Helene and Madelene, who stood, in their gowns with their fans and their reticules, ready to leave. They both looked truly wonderful.
“No,” said Helene stubbornly. “You’ve worked too hard for this. We are not going without you.”
“You have to,” she answered, striving to be firm, even though it felt like every bone in her body was crumbling to dust. “You, and the gowns, have to be seen. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? This is our first act. You’ve said it yourself. If it isn’t completed, there won’t be a second.”
“You go, Helene,” murmured Madelene. “I’ll wait with Adele.”
Miss Sewell locked eyes with Adele and saw her agony of indecision. “I think not. It would look odd for two of you to be missing. There will be the wrong kind of talk.”
“But . . .” began Madelene.
“I’ll be fine.” Adele mustered a smile. “The gown will certainly be here soon. I have Bridget to dress me, and I’ll be along well before the supper dance.” She lifted her chin in her best imitation of Patience. “I shall be fashionably late, that’s all.”
“Which will not cause any kind of talk,” muttered Helene. “But only if you’re sure. We’re in this together, and I won’t see you left behind because of a silly dress.”
It’s not a silly dress, Adele wanted to shout. It’s . . . it’s everything. She twisted her hands.
“I have nothing else to wear,” she said. “I must wait, and you must go. Good luck, both of you.”
Adele embraced her friends and then had to quickly find a handkerchief to keep Madelene’s tears from dropping onto her silk gloves and spotting them.
“Come along, girls,” said Miss Sewell quietly. “The horses cannot be kept standing in this cold.” She held open the door and let them file out into the hall. She looked again to Adele and nodded once, but her face was unreadable.
As soon as the others left, the house became deathly still. Adele had no idea what to do with herself. Her hair was done; her chemise, stays, and stockings were on underneath her quilted wrapper. All that was missing was the dress.
What had happened? Adele was filled with visions of accident, of robbery, of Patience bribing Mademoiselle Marie to divert the gown. But in the end it didn’t really matter. What mattered was tonight was their moment. In a very real way it was their debut. If it went well, they stood a chance of effecting a lasting transformation, creating a genuine future for themselves. She had to shine for the world to see, or the world would never believe James Beauclaire could love her. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. And so the dress mattered and the party mattered. Everything mattered, and here she sat, listening to the clock tick.
Oh, James. I’m sorry. I tried. I did.
The doorbell rang. Adele was on her feet, down the stairs, and across the entrance hall before she could even think. She was still in her wrapper, and Bridget was nowhere to be seen. Adele didn’t care. She threw open the door.
***
Adele.
She stood in front of him, eyes and mouth wide. She wore nothing but a thin wrapper that plainly showed all her beautiful curves. She looked stunned, she looked lovely, and here he was standing like a footman with this great box in his arms.
She was beautiful. More than beautiful. After all these weeks of only glimpsing her from a distance, now here, now there, the sight of her standing in her slippers and wrapper was almost more than he could bear.
“My beauty,” he whispered.
She took a step forward, her hand out. Her face was flushed.
She got no farther. A maid, a serious, thin girl, was hurrying down the stairs. “Oh, Lady Adele!” she cried, horrified to see her mistress standing in front of a gentleman in such a state. “You must get yourself upstairs at once!”
Adele’s gaze met his. They both knew what they should do. He should put the box on the table, and he should leave. Now. This moment. Without touching her. Without a exchanging a word, never mind a kiss, never mind running his hands across her shoulders, never mind . . . anything. They must just wait a little longer, that was all.
James bowed his head and began to turn away.
***
Adele watched James turning, and all her hesitation vanished in the space of a heartbeat. “Bridget,” Adele whispered to the maid, who was hurrying down the stairs. “I . . . I have something to say in private to this gentleman.”
The maid drew herself up, prepared to be righteous and insistent. Adele was her responsibility tonight, and she was loyal and would not fail.
“This once, Bridget,” Adele said. “Never again. Please.”
Bridget opened her mouth. She closed it. She turned around and bowed her head, and Adele had the feeling she might be asking forgiveness from a much higher place than the girl whose family she served.
“I’ll see to your wrap, miss,” Bridget whispered and walked away without turning around.
Adele did turn. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was pounding at the base of her throat.
What am I doing?
But she knew. She was walking up the stairs, her fingertips brushing the railing, her feet fairly floating an inch above the floor. Impulse was carrying her, and the wind. Because this could not be her doing. She could not be walking into Miss Sewell’s spare bedroom with James Beauclaire following behind. She could not be closing the door and stepping aside so he could place the box with her ball gown in it on the bed, or standing frozen in place while he turned, breathing so deep his shoulders were shuddering. While he opened his arms so she could run, fly, into his embrace.
But she was and she could and his arms closed about her and they were kissing. Frantically. Passionately. Little bursts and bites alternating with long, slow, deep, open kisses. Her breasts crushed against his hard chest. He lifted her up onto her toes so their hips could press together, grind together; her most sensitive and private parts rubbed hard against the length of his erection, barely contained by white silk breeches.
Yes. Yes. She wanted this. She’d wanted this for weeks, for months. She wanted more. Her hands flew across his body, touching everywhere; back and shoulders and taut buttocks and hips. His fingers brushed the sides of her breasts, and when she groaned, he smiled into their kiss and leaned her back so he could cup her and caress her and toy with her nipples until she gasped and moaned.
“Adele. Mon Dieu, I’ve missed you, Adele.”
“James.” It was all she could say, all she could think. “James.”
James bent down and kissed her again. His mouth was soft and warm and gentle. His tongue touched and teased and tasted until her lips parted for him. It was enthralling. It was the sensation she remembered, but honed and purified by imagination and longing. The exquisite touch of James’s mouth and hands tightened every muscle in her body until she felt she must break from the strain, but she wanted it to never stop. She was vaguely aware of his hands at her waist, working at her wrapper’s sash, but she couldn’t remember why that was important.
Until her wrapper fell open and she felt the heat of James’s body against her naked skin. She stiffened, but she did not pull away. James’s tongue delved deeper into her mouth, stroking her, urging her, and she let him. Just as she let him curve his hands about her shoulders and push the wrapper away. The silk slithered deliciously down her back and her arms and puddled at her feet.
She felt him smile into their kiss as he tasted the corners of her mouth and sucked gently on her lower lip. He was backing her up, almost dancing with her. He put both broad hands on her bare shoulders and pressed downward until her knees bent, and she sat on the dressing table chair.
James knelt in front of her. Now their eyes were level with each other, and the fire in his gaze was enough to set her trembling. He must have seen, but he only smiled. He lifted her foot, delicately, as if she were made of finest porcelain, and pulled off her slipper. He cradled her heel in one hand, while the other caressed her toes and instep, and it tickled and she laughed and squirmed.
“Ah-ah,” he murmured. “This is serious business. I cannot risk ruining these lovely stockings. My lady must hold still.” Desire smoldered in his eyes and in his smile. Adele’s heart couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stop beating or gallop out of control.
He stroked his hand up slowly, caressing her ankle, her calf, the outside of her thigh. He teased and tested at the knot in her garter, and she groaned. She couldn’t help it any more than she could help gripping the sides of the chair.
James saw. Of course he did. His eyes missed nothing. “Don’t do that. You might hurt your hands.”
“I have to hold on,” she answered. “I feel like I’m going to fall.”
“Would I ever let you fall?” He was caressing the inside of her thigh now, so lightly. How could such a light touch reach down into her blood and make her moan yet again?
“Hold on to me,” he urged her. He had her other ankle now, and he’d moved forward so that his body was between her thighs.
At once, she wrapped her legs around him and he put his arms around her, and nothing had ever felt so wonderful as when he kissed her again. She clenched herself tightly against him, almost sure she would hurt him, or herself, but he did not stop kissing her. His hands did not stop caressing her. His muscled body was hard and hot and wonderful between her thighs. She was burning. She was swollen and weeping with sensation. Her fingers wanted to be everywhere, on his shoulders, his arms, down along his back, as if she was trying to memorize him with her touch. He was growling, deep in his throat, and the sound thrilled her almost as much as his relentless, burning caresses.
“Do you feel me, Adele?” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “Do you know what you are doing to me?”
She did, actually, thanks to Helene’s very instructive books. The books, however, had not mentioned how very good it would feel when that thick erection pressed up against her most sensitive point.
Exquisite fire lanced through her. She pressed closer, she shimmied, and she rubbed. She knew what would happen, or she thought she did. She’d touched herself in the dark, knowing it was as wicked and as forbidden as anything she did now, and she didn’t care then and she didn’t care now. She pressed closer, kissed him harder, intent only on his body and hers. On his heat and pleasure, and hers.
And all at once he had hold of her hands again. But this time his wasn’t bringing her close; he was pushing her away. She cried out in frustration and alarm.
“Adele,” he breathed her name. “Adele, listen to me, my beauty. If you want this pleasure, you will have it, but not like this. Not in haste. I want . . .” His voice shook. He grazed his knuckles down her cheek. “I want to give you all the time you deserve. I want to savor your delight. But we have to remember who and where we are.”
“I . . .” Something was happening. Something important that she had forgotten. Something seeking to disturb this moment, bank the fires inside her. Inside them.
It was the clock. The case clock, down in the hall. It was chiming, distantly, insistently. The quarter, no the half, no three-quarters.
Three quarters to nine. The others had left at eight. Left for the party. The party they’d all been looking forward to. That was vital to their plan. That was their first act.
Adele sucked in a shuddering breath and met James’s gentle, deep gaze.
“I want this,” she told him. “I want you. More than anything. But I promised Helen and Madelene I’d see this through with them. It’s bad enough that I’m so late. I can’t . . . I can’t let my friends down.”
He ran his thumb across her lip, which had been left exquisitely sensitive from all his kisses. “I would not want you to. Come, my beautiful. Let us get you dressed.”
It was absurd. She was tingling and shaking and still alone in a borrowed bedroom with a man. This man, who had only to look at her to send the most luxurious and heated sensations through her whole body. She could not possibly be walking to the bed with him for the express purpose of opening a dressmaker’s box and pulling out a gown; the gown.
“Hold up your arms,” he murmured. “I will help you dress.”
She hesitated. “You’ll be careful with it?”
“Do you doubt me? Hold up your arms.”
She held up her arms. She also closed her eyes and held her breath. He chuckled, and she felt an unreasonable surge of annoyance. She felt the brush and the weight of the cloth as he drew it over her head. Her hands found the sleeves and the exquisite fabric slid sensuously down her arms.
“There now,” he murmured. His hands busied with the hooks and the tapes. “Not a curl out of place. That anyone can see, that is.” He chuckled wickedly, and she blushed. He also lifted his hands away, and Adele, breath held, fingers crossed, turned and faced herself in the mirror.
That was not her. That reflection bore no relation to the Windford Dumpling. This was a tall, curved, queenly woman. Her dress was daring. Inspired by the style of a previous age, it had a lower waist that emphasized her hips and a bodice that accentuated her curves rather than trying to flatten them out. Skirt panels of deepest ruby silk were saved from being overly sensuous by alternating with others of chaste white. Intricate white beading sparkled around the hem, on the long white sleeves, and around the surprisingly demure neckline. Her hair had been simply dressed, with only a single band of cut glass beads threaded through the loose tumble of golden curls. Her red slippers, her white gloves, and her white wrap all glittered with Marie’s patient beadwork.
She looked new. She looked daring. She looked . . . she looked vibrant and alive.
“Mon Dieu,” breathed James. “I had no idea I . . .” He swallowed. Her eyes strayed to the knot in his breeches. “I think I must change my mind. I cannot let you go anywhere looking like that.”
“Why not?” She touched her hair nervously. “What’s the matter with me?”
“Nothing,” he said as if the word choked him. “You are exquisite. Every man who sees you will be utterly subdued.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I am in earnest.” He moved closer, but he did not touch her. He could not without crushing the gown, and he knew it. All her work, all her dreams and planning, all the years she had longed to wear exactly this gown before the whole world suddenly meant nothing. She hated the dress and wanted it gone. She wanted to lie down naked with him. She wanted to beg him, no, command him to touch her and stroke her and teach her how to do the same for him, until pleasure shattered them both.
“I can’t go with you,” he was telling her. “It would not look proper. I had an invitation, but I was not planning on using it.”
“Why not?”
He smiled and pressed a kiss against her brow. “No need to look so worried. I was waiting for word on some ships coming in. I’ve invested in their cargoes.” He kissed her again. “When they come in, it will be enough to clear the last of my debts, and a little more.”
“Oh, James!” She threw her arms about him, but that was not enough, so she kissed him as well, and because that felt so very good, she had to press closer.
At least she did until he separated them, firmly. “You will spoil your gown and your face, and I will not permit it. But looking as you do, I see I cannot let you out of my sight, either.” He stroked his fingers gently down her cheek and dangerously across the skin her décolletage exposed. Adele shivered. “I will follow you to the dance.”
“I’ll look for you,” she told him. “I’ll find you, and I’ll . . .” Her mouth was dry. She was entirely aware of the flutter of her pulse, in her wrists and low in her belly. “We will find a way to finish what we’ve begun.”
“Oh yes.” He kissed her, gentle once more, his voice and his eyes filled with wicked promise. “Yes, my beauty, my very dear, we will do that.”