Chapter Two

One week to the day later, two shop girls set out from Madame LeTrois’s establishment off of Bond Street, one with a large package and the directions to Mrs. Grace in Upper Grosvenor Street, and one with a smaller package intended for the home of Miss Grove, at the Osterley town house on Berkeley Square. Since they were both headed toward Mayfair, and the packages were delicate and expensive, the girls were given leave to hire a hack to take them as far as Green Park, from which the walk would be easy and the streets much cleaner. Then they would deliver their packages, and be on their way.

However, fate—in the form of a loose cobblestone—had other ideas.

For when the front wheel of the hack hit the cobblestone, it popped the stone loose, and caused the back wheel to stumble into the rut, and violently jolt the whole carriage. Packages, cards bearing directions, and shop girls tumbled to the floor. They were righted quickly enough again, and after a brief, panicked inspection of the packages (thankfully no damage was incurred), their uniforms were dusted off, and the direction cards for the deliveries affixed to the proper packages. Then, deciding that they had gone far enough, thank you, the shop girls disembarked, and made their way to their respective deliveries.

However, the names “Mrs. Grace” and “Miss Grove” look remarkably similar, even if they were not written in Madame LeTrois’s artistic handwriting.

Thus is was that Mrs. Grace, fluttering with delight to receive a package from Madame LeTrois’s shop, a gift from Lord Osterley, found herself frowning at a pair of embroidered gloves. And as for Miss Grove . . .

“For me?” Felicity Grove squeaked, admitting Osterley’s great-aunt Bertha to her bedchamber, the shopgirl from Madame LeTrois’s—Madamoiselle Collette, she had said as she dipped to a curtsy—following silently behind her, bearing a massive box. “From Osterley? Are you sure?”

“Yes, miss,” Collette said. “And I am to make final adjustments so you may wear it tonight. Madame would have come herself, but she received an order for an entire wardrobe last week. I am to assure you that I am her best seamstress, and you will be perfection itself.”

“But he’s never sent me a present before,” Felicity was bewildered. Her brown eyes widened like saucers. “Not in four years of guardianship.”

“Just because he’s never given you a gift doesn’t mean he has been a negligent guardian,” Bertha admonished. She was not one to hear any negative words about her beloved—although admittedly distant—great-nephew.

“Of course not—I did not mean to imply that he was!” Felicity hastened to reassure. “Only that . . . what is the occasion?” she asked, her eyes locking on Collette’s—who looked as skittish as a rabbit caught by a gardener’s lamplight.

“The start of the Season, of course!” Bertha said, her mop of light gray curls dancing as she shook her head at Felicity’s foolishness. “Perhaps this year he has decided to be more supportive in your quest to secure your future.” Meaning finding someone to marry her off to, Felicity thought sharply, and allow him to be free of his obligation to her family. But she said nothing, as Bertha continued blithely. “Now, since you must be fitted into this dress, you obviously cannot come with me to the Fieldstones’ for tea. And oh dear, I shall have to meet you here right before we head out for the evening, since I am getting ready at Lady Fieldstone’s. I am having my hair dressed by her maid—she wants to experiment on me, you know,” Bertha added, plumping her curls. Even well into her sixth decade, Bertha’s hair was her one true vanity—it retained the bounce, shine, and thickness of youth, if not the fair color. She always preened under the attention she was given for it, by ladies and their maids alike.

“Be ready promptly, and we shall retrieve you at the door,” Bertha was saying, snapping Felicity back to the present conversation. “You know Almack’s rules about punctuality. And oh—I do hope the gown is appropriate, I didn’t even think of that. Collette, what color is the dress?”

The question was because Almack’s had a dress code second only in rigidity to the military, and Collette answered promptly. “It is silver, ma’am. But a very light silver. Almost white.”

“Splendid, good to know that my nephew has paid at least some attention to something other than his field dredging,” Bertha said pulling on her gloves. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and oversee, my dear? I can send a note to Lady Fieldstone—although her maid does have the most marvelous way with hair . . .”

“Go,” Felicity said kindly but firmly. “I’ve been capable of dressing myself for quite some time now, I’m sure Collette and I will muddle through without you.”

And with that, Bertha gave a small wave, and headed out. Leaving Felicity alone with Collette, and the large box in her arms.

“Well,” Felicity said finally breathing out a sigh. “Let’s see this silver dress, shall we?”

Collette immediately set the box down on a table and lifted the lid. Reverence in her voice, a flush of excitement on her cheeks, she met Felicity’s eyes.

“In this, ma’am, you will be the sensation of the Season!”

*  *  *

A Sensation in Silver.

Those were the words that greeted Harris Dane, Viscount Osterley, as he had walked through the tittering crowds of Almack’s that he always found so insipid. And those were the words that rushed through his angry mind as he slammed the door to his town house, after enduring a spectacle of an evening that could only be described as humiliating.

“Have you gone mad?” he thundered, the chandelier in the foyer shaking with his rage as he stomped into the library. He expected Felicity to follow him meekly, to wail with contrition and regret, but instead he was insulted by the sound of a harsh, bitter laugh.

“Have I gone mad? No, of course not!” Felicity countered. “After all, I simply wore a dress that was given to me by my adoring guardian.”

“That is not a dress,” he growled. “That is barely more than an underthing!”

“Regardless,” Felicity replied tartly, “I’m not the one who purchased it!”

The tips of his ears turned hot—he was blushing. Rightfully so, even though he wanted to bury such embarrassment deep. But what needed to be buried deep was his rage—indeed, he was so far outside of his normal steely control, it shocked him. Shocked him almost as much as the sight of Felicity had earlier that night, on the dance floor of Almack’s.

He had begrudgingly attended Almack’s that evening. He was in no market for a wife, and no mood to deal with wide-eyed young misses frightened by his unsmiling demeanor, and their less easily intimidated mamas. But ever since Felicity had come out three Seasons ago, he decided it was good politics to make an appearance at the beginning of the Season, thereby reminding anyone who might have forgotten that Felicity was under his stern-faced protection.

The fact that he avoided anything to do with the social season the rest of the time—including his ward—was of little consequence, he told himself.

He bowed and made polite his way through the crowd, aware that everyone was being gracious but reserved with him. Not that that was unusual, of course. He was used to people’s nervousness, the way their eyes flitted to his face. Osterley knew what they called him behind their hands, too, whispered in hushed tones. “Austere Osterley.” He didn’t mind it—in fact, secretly, he encouraged it. When his jaw was set, when he didn’t smile, and when he did not engage, he found that people and their frivolities tended to leave him alone.

Which was better. Surely.

But tonight, those whispers had not been about him. In hindsight, he would realize the pointed looks toward him did not contain just fear, but a kind of . . . anticipation. But at that moment, all he did was blithely wander through the foyer and receiving rooms, until he found himself standing on the edge of the ballroom floor.

And he saw her.

She was dancing a reel in line, her back to him, partnered with a young man who tripped over his feet since he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, only little wisps falling artfully against her neck. Having that luscious hair up allowed the work on the back of the dress—or more appropriately, lack thereof—to be featured. Tiny cap sleeves of silver lace held the dress up, crossing her shoulders, but there, the fabric ended, until the thin, clinging silk of the skirt swooped around from the front and came together in a point in the center of her back.

Osterley felt a shot of lust go straight to his groin. He knew Mrs. Grace was a beautiful woman. Young, her beauty only slightly sharpened by her recently ended mourning of her husband, five decades her senior. But he did not expect Mrs. Grace to have such soft, youthful shoulders, or such gleaming fine skin. He also did not expect her to be wearing the silver dress he had given her that very evening. At least, not to Almack’s, that high watermark for propriety. He had expected to see her at one or another of half a dozen parties. Dances and soirees that had dark alcoves and a more permissible atmosphere. Even as his body hummed with excitement, his jaw remained set, a slight twitch of disapproval at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps Mrs. Grace was not naturally the discreet creature she had been while in mourning gray. Maybe she was not the perfect partner for his needs that he had envisioned.

While his lust was stirring, and his jaw was twitching, the lines of the reel exchanged places.

And Austere Ostlerley nearly cried out in shock.

“Felicity?” he said, managing to keep his voice to a whisper. But that did not mean that people nearby did not hear. Including Lady Phillippa Worth, the elegant busybody who had an odd knack for being right where he didn’t want anyone to be.

“Yes indeed, Miss Felicity Grove,” Lady Worth replied to his whispered exclamation. “She is truly stunning this evening. It’s a Madame LeTrois, is it not? And you were so sly, saying you were ordering gloves!” She batted him playfully with her fan. “If you had asked me, I would have helped you rein in madame’s tastes a bit. But never fear, while the cut is slightly scandalous, it is nothing more daring than what I would wear in my day. Why, it is the dress of the Season, and ’tis only April!” She smiled at him—straight in the face, as she was an abominably tall woman. “You will have to be careful, Osterley, because you are about to have a sensation on your hands.”

Osterley did not hear as she left him to go attend her friend, Miss Forrester. In fact, he hadn’t heard most of what she had said. But the one thing that repeated over and over in his brain was the phrase slightly scandalous.

Slightly?! There was nothing slightly about it! The silver silk clung to her body, draped so fluidly any underclothes would have to be so thin as to be imaginary. And Osterley suddenly found he had quite the imagination. And the bodice—with lace that sparkled, drawing attention to delicately curved breasts, dipping low enough in the front to tantalize, and nonexistent enough in the back to prove the lack of even imaginary underthings.

The dress of the Season, indeed.

How had she been allowed in the front door of Almack’s? How had Aunt Bertha allowed her out of the front door at home? And the far larger question—how the hell did that dress end up on Felicity in the first place?

Stalking across the room, composing angry letters and possible legislation to Madame LeTrois in his head, he was vaguely aware of the whispers around him growing louder.

“It’s just so daring—if anyone could wear it, it’s Felicity!” one girl whispered to another.

“That girl is completely wild. I cannot make sense of Osterley turning down any of the offers he’s had for her.” There was a brief pause in the matron’s voice. “How do you think I would look in silver?”

Wild? Yes, Osterley had to agree. Felicity was wild, but normally the stories that reached him were just inside the bounds of propriety. Wagering a dance at cards, trading costumes with a friend for a masquerade ball—silly things that girls got up to. Apparently, Felicity had grown from an angular, unsure girl of sixteen, when he took over her guardianship, to a vivacious, headstrong young woman. And it was true, he had, over the course of the past two Seasons, turned down four men who wished to court her—but simply because he knew them to be spineless. Someone of Felicity’s temperament needed someone strong enough to handle her. In fact, he had been hoping that this year she would have calmed down a bit, and shown some new maturity. He would like to have her married off before she became of age next year. The thought of her released upon the world to her own devices, with her tidy inheritance from her parents, nearly gave him hives.

Apparently, any new maturity was a hollow hope.

Still, as he hovered on the edge of the dance floor, waiting for the reel to end so he could talk to Felicity without causing a complete scandal, he was aware that, maybe, perhaps, he was blowing this out of proportion. After all, his rationality catching up with his rage, Lady Worth had said it was no worse than what she wore in her time. And she was a very fashionable woman—or so he was told. Add to that, those whispers he overheard could not be described as sinking. They were even admiring.

And the fact of the matter was, in that dress, Felicity had passed Aunt Bertha’s scrutiny and Almack’s.

No, indeed, perhaps it was not so bad.

Little did he realize, however, circumstances were about to darken dramatically.

As the reel ended, Osterley hung back for a few moments, not wanting anyone to read into his urgency. And that turned out to be a mistake. For there was someone, newly arrived, who felt the need to speak with Felicity urgently.

Mrs. Grace.

She swanned through the crowd, floating serenely, but all the while working a mad dance underneath to move quickly through the crowd. She put herself directly in front of Felicity, forcing a conversation.

Osterley could only watch, and slide gently to stand beside Felicity as Mrs. Grace, jealousy flaming in her eyes, addressed her younger counterpart.

“Miss Grove. So delightful. What an . . . interesting dress.” Her too-tight smile strained her cheeks.

“Mrs. Grace,” Felicity dipped to a curtsy. Osterley was left to blindly wonder when they had been introduced. “Thank you. It was a gift from my guardian, Lord Osterley.” Her eyes flitted to him, wide and full of gratitude. “It’s the most wonderful gift I have ever received.”

Osterley felt something warm and strange go through him, settling like happy butterflies in his stomach. But then Mrs. Grace said the sentence that turned a tenuous situation into a disaster.

“My poor Miss Grove, I fear I should warn you: that is not the kind of gift one receives from a guardian.” Her voice grew louder, just enough to draw the attention of those standing near. “It is the kind of gift one ‘earns’ from a protector.”

A horrid silence filled the space between them.

That was all it took—in that one sentence, the sensational silver dress was transformed from ethereal to lurid. And it could not be changed back.

“Do you deny it, Lord Osterley?” Mrs. Grace said, her voice sticky with malice.

A deaf roar of anger filled his ears, but his jaw stayed unerringly, austerely, shut.

“Why . . . you horrid cow!” Felicity cried, and Osterley cringed. He put his hand on her arm to still her.

“Please,” he begged. “Do not make this worse than it already is.”

Although, in all honesty, it could not get much worse.

Because, by the time Osterley entered his library, Felicity in tow and Aunt Bertha behind her, everyone in Almack’s had heard of Mrs. Grace’s comment, Felicity’s indelicate response—and Osterley’s lack of one.

“There are two ways I can see this turning out,” Aunt Bertha was saying as she entered the library, snapping Osterley’s red focus to her calming voice behind Felicity’s outraged frame. “Either people will believe that you have made Felicity your mistress, in which case, I suggest you marry her immediately.”

“Marry! Him?” Felicity’s nose turned up. “Thank you but I’d rather not spend the rest of my life being instructed and ignored in turns,” she quipped.

Instead of rising to that bait, Osterley concentrated on his voice and regaining some veneer of control. “What is the other option, Aunt Bertha?”

“That everyone will realize Mrs. Grace is a silly woman eaten up with jealousy, because she has been going on and on about that silver lace from Madame LeTrois for ages now. Kept saying it would be her first out-of-mourning costume.” Aunt Bertha sniffed. “I would think the latter outcome more likely, but it will depend on how we handle the situation now.”

“Right,” Felicity agreed. “Aunt Bertha and I will go out and make certain everyone knows that Mrs. Grace is a jealous harpy, and that will be that. I have far more friends than she, I’m certain.”

“No.” Osterley said abruptly. “You cannot go out, paying calls on your friends.”

“And why not?”

“Because . . .” he drawled, as cold and disapproving as he could make his voice, “I have no doubt you would use the phrase ‘jealous harpy’ verbatim, and only make matters more difficult.”

Relief, mingled with a tinge of regret, shot through him as he saw that his set down had worked. Perhaps too well, as hurt filled her eyes. She looked as shamed as a child, too shocked to retaliate.

“Perhaps it would be best,” Bertha interjected calmly in the charged atmosphere, “if we approached this from another angle. Madame LeTrois obviously delivered the wrong package. So, let us apply to her.”

“To what purpose?” Osterley grumbled, stepping to the sideboard and pouring out a glass of brandy. The decanter had a slight sheen of dust, so rare was it that he took a drink. He would have to speak to his housekeeper about her standards, he thought vaguely. Then he remembered that he had issued an edict months ago that his library was not to be touched, and the Felicity had informed the household staff as much. Apparently, they listened to her.

“While you may disapprove of Felicity and I spreading our message of innocence, Madame LeTrois, by the barest whisper in her client’s ears, would be able to spread the word quite effectively,” Aunt Bertha replied. “And considering how much she is to blame, she should be quite happy telling people that this dress is not the one you purchased.”

As Osterley considered this option, Felicity’s syrupy voice floated across the room. “Oh, but there is a problem with that, Aunt Bertha.” Osterley’s eyes flicked to hers, and he read triumph in those sparkling brown orbs. “For you see, he did buy this dress.”

Aunt Bertha turned to her curiously. “My dear?”

“There was a note, included with the dress,” she replied calmly, her eyes steady on his. “In Osterley’s hand. Surely you remember it, my lord?”

Osterley simply closed his eyes, resigned. The note. The blasted note. Of course he remembered it. He had dashed it off when he received word that the dress was ready for delivery.

My dear lady—I hope the silver lace meets with your approval, and I with your affection. Osterley.

One could never accuse Osterley of being sentimental, thus he chose to be straightforward. He wanted Mrs. Grace to know that it was he who bought her the dress, and the reason behind it. After all, with someone of Mrs. Grace’s life experience, there was no need to be coy. Little did he think that if read by someone else—say, his ward—that the note might be misinterpreted as an altruistic bit of goodwill.

“No reply, Osterley?” Felicity continued, leaning against the desk. “Again?”

Her voice was triumphant. But that was not what caught Osterley’s attention in that moment. It was the way she leaned against the desk, her hip resting on the dark wood, her heavy velvet cloak, a dusky rose in color, fell open revealing the slinky fabric of her skirt peaking through. It shone in the candlelight, from the sconces on the wall, illuminating the curve of her thigh, the length of her leg beneath the fabric. Underneath the cloak, the skirt receded into shadow, where her tiny waist was only located by the slightest sparkle from the small crystals sewn onto the bodice.

And suddenly, Osterley was very, very angry. At what he could not pinpoint, not in that moment, but he knew it had to do with Felicity, that dress, and the way she just . . . cut through any sense of propriety!

“Yes, Felicity, I remember the note.” He replied softly, steel lacing his words. “But it matters very little. What matters now, is that we weather this storm. And I cannot see how that can be done here. We must remove you to Croft Park.”

“What?”

“My dear nephew!”

“You cannot remain in town, Felicity, not while there is this gossip swirling about you.”

“Harris, be reasonable,” Bertha began. “If we were to abdicate town, it could be seen as an admission of guilt!”

“I cannot have my home dragged through the mud, not with the work I’m trying to do in Parliament . . .”

“You’re working on legislation to improve field dredging, I think a little mud might be fitting,” Felicity replied, too smart for her own good. Realizing her mistake at his silent stare, her mouth snapped shut.

“And it is that kind of speech that makes me believe I am right to send you away. Pack your things. You leave at first light.”

The room fell silent. Osterley let his eyes flit to Felicity’s face, and was horrified to see tears there, threatening to fall from her eyes. His jaw twitched slightly, but his resolve held. He would not be moved.

“You cannot—” she tried, her plea strangled with emotion.

“I can. And I have,” he replied. He could only watch as Felicity, gulping breaths to hold back her tears, turned and fled the room.

“Well, my dear boy, you really have done it now,” Aunt Bertha finally breathed. “Would you be so good as to pour me a small glass? I feel I could use it as well.”

He returned to the sideboard. “Aunt Bertha, how could you have let her—” but he was quelled by his great-aunt’s austere gaze. He relented at its sight. After all, he knew that look’s effectiveness; he had copied his own from her.

“Don’t, Harris. We both know very well, the blame for this debacle does not rest at my door. Nor does it rest at Felicity’s.”

Bertha was the only one who still called him by his given name, and the only one he would accept admonishment from. He gave the smallest of nods acknowledging her point, as he poured her a short drink out of the dusty decanter.

“I assume that dress, while purchased by you, was not for Felicity. I merely wish you had better taste than Anna Grace,” she sniffed.

“I promise you,” Osterley replied coldly, “Mrs. Grace has lost favor in my eyes.”

“For what little good it does Felicity,” Bertha countered. “You are making a mistake to send her to Croft Park, Harris. It only makes it harder for her to reclaim her innocence. Besides, she has not been back in four years. She was not even allowed to return for the funerals—the pox was still too rampant.”

“Well, then,” he countered, “perhaps it is time she saw it again. You can take her on a tour of the village, become reacquainted.”

“Not I,” Bertha replied in a huff. “I am not your ward to be ordered about. Nor do I live on your charity. I agreed to stay with you four years ago for the sake of that sweet girl, whom you foisted on me with such relief I’m surprise your sigh wasn’t heard all the way in America.” She held her head high. “I have no desire to travel to Croft Park, and since I disagree with your decision to send her, I see no reason to follow.”

“Aunt Bertha—”

“No. If you want her to go so badly, you take her. I will remain in town, and make certain Madame LeTrois drops the right story in people’s ears, and that horrid Mrs. Grace pays for her foolish jealousies. And hopefully I will do this swiftly enough that you will bring that child back here before you can utter the phrase ‘I was wrong, Aunt Bertha.’”

“I cannot simply leave, Aunt, I have work to do—” Osterley began, but was cut off with a shake of her head.

“So do I, my boy. You will simply have to pray that I do it quickly.”