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Authors: Suzanne Enoch
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relatively tame affair meant he would miss the decadence and sin Sin and Sensibility / 55
going on at Lord Belmont’s more private soiree that same evening.
An abrupt thought occurred to him, and he smiled.
Eleanor would undoubtedly unveil another of Madame Costanza’s creations tomorrow evening. He hoped it would be something in red.
“Nell, it’s nearly eight o’clock!” Zachary’s voice came from the other side of her bedchamber door. “Are you ready yet?”
Eleanor turned in front of the mirror again. The gown had arrived only an hour ago, and it would take at least ten times that long for her to get used to seeing herself in it. “Goodness,” she murmured, running her fingers along the low crimson neckline that just barely concealed her bosom. “I feel practically naked.”
“You won’t hear an argument from me, my lady,” Helen put in, fitting a silver shawl across her shoulders. “What will your brothers say?”
She’d thought about that. Agreement or not, she’d never make it out the front door without them demanding to see what she was wearing. And it would be even worse if she told them that they weren’t escorting her to the ball.
“It’s time, I suppose. Please inform Zachary that we’ve tried cool compresses and violet nosegays, but I still have a terrible head, and so I won’t be attending tonight.”
“You want me to tell him that?” Helen squeaked.
“I can’t do it,” Eleanor whispered back. “At once, if you please, before he breaks down the door.”
She hid out of view of the doorway while Helen did as she was bid. With the agreement in place, she should have been able to waltz out the front door wearing any-56 / Suzanne Enoch
thing she chose and climb into anyone’s carriage without a word of explanation, as long as she was willing to face the consequences. In truth, though, she was quite aware that her agreement was only a piece of paper, and that her brothers had twenty-one years each of overprotective, arrogant behavior burned into their thick skulls. Better, then, to avoid tempting them to act.
Helen closed the door and turned around to lean back against it. “Saints preserve me, I’m going to the devil for this,” she muttered.
Eleanor came out of hiding. “Nonsense. When I arrive at the ball they’ll know I put you up to it. I’m just attempting to avoid any unnecessary stickiness, is all.”
“Yes, my lady. But what do we do now?”
“We watch out the window until they’re gone, and then we go downstairs to await my escort.”
She actually made Helen watch out the window, because it would never do for one of her brothers to catch sight either of her or of her loose hair woven through with crimson ribbons. They’d see her soon enough at the ball—where they wouldn’t be able to do anything about either her hair or her gown. She knew that while her clothes might cause conversation, they couldn’t truthfully cause a scandal—whatever her brothers might choose to think.
“They’ve gone, my lady,” Helen said after a few moments. “I swear His Grace looked right at me.”
“Even if he did, it doesn’t signify.” A nervous flutter went down her spine. She was going to do this, in complete defiance of anything Melbourne might wish. This was freedom, and romance—and it was exhilarating, if exceedingly nerve-racking. She wondered briefly how Sin and Sensibility / 57
Deverill could so constantly maintain such a level of excessive behavior without suffering an apoplexy.
They hurried downstairs. Stanton looked as though he wanted to drop dead rather than be responsible for letting her out of the house, but she gave him her version of the Griffin glare, and he swallowed whatever it was he’d been about to say. As a coach rattled up outside, he silently pulled open the door.
Not a coach, she amended as she stepped out to the front portico. The racing phaeton again.
“No need for chaperones,” Stephen said, evidently reading the question
going on at Lord Belmont’s more private soiree that same evening.
An abrupt thought occurred to him, and he smiled.
Eleanor would undoubtedly unveil another of Madame Costanza’s creations tomorrow evening. He hoped it would be something in red.
“Nell, it’s nearly eight o’clock!” Zachary’s voice came from the other side of her bedchamber door. “Are you ready yet?”
Eleanor turned in front of the mirror again. The gown had arrived only an hour ago, and it would take at least ten times that long for her to get used to seeing herself in it. “Goodness,” she murmured, running her fingers along the low crimson neckline that just barely concealed her bosom. “I feel practically naked.”
“You won’t hear an argument from me, my lady,” Helen put in, fitting a silver shawl across her shoulders. “What will your brothers say?”
She’d thought about that. Agreement or not, she’d never make it out the front door without them demanding to see what she was wearing. And it would be even worse if she told them that they weren’t escorting her to the ball.
“It’s time, I suppose. Please inform Zachary that we’ve tried cool compresses and violet nosegays, but I still have a terrible head, and so I won’t be attending tonight.”
“You want me to tell him that?” Helen squeaked.
“I can’t do it,” Eleanor whispered back. “At once, if you please, before he breaks down the door.”
She hid out of view of the doorway while Helen did as she was bid. With the agreement in place, she should have been able to waltz out the front door wearing any-56 / Suzanne Enoch
thing she chose and climb into anyone’s carriage without a word of explanation, as long as she was willing to face the consequences. In truth, though, she was quite aware that her agreement was only a piece of paper, and that her brothers had twenty-one years each of overprotective, arrogant behavior burned into their thick skulls. Better, then, to avoid tempting them to act.
Helen closed the door and turned around to lean back against it. “Saints preserve me, I’m going to the devil for this,” she muttered.
Eleanor came out of hiding. “Nonsense. When I arrive at the ball they’ll know I put you up to it. I’m just attempting to avoid any unnecessary stickiness, is all.”
“Yes, my lady. But what do we do now?”
“We watch out the window until they’re gone, and then we go downstairs to await my escort.”
She actually made Helen watch out the window, because it would never do for one of her brothers to catch sight either of her or of her loose hair woven through with crimson ribbons. They’d see her soon enough at the ball—where they wouldn’t be able to do anything about either her hair or her gown. She knew that while her clothes might cause conversation, they couldn’t truthfully cause a scandal—whatever her brothers might choose to think.
“They’ve gone, my lady,” Helen said after a few moments. “I swear His Grace looked right at me.”
“Even if he did, it doesn’t signify.” A nervous flutter went down her spine. She was going to do this, in complete defiance of anything Melbourne might wish. This was freedom, and romance—and it was exhilarating, if exceedingly nerve-racking. She wondered briefly how Sin and Sensibility / 57
Deverill could so constantly maintain such a level of excessive behavior without suffering an apoplexy.
They hurried downstairs. Stanton looked as though he wanted to drop dead rather than be responsible for letting her out of the house, but she gave him her version of the Griffin glare, and he swallowed whatever it was he’d been about to say. As a coach rattled up outside, he silently pulled open the door.
Not a coach, she amended as she stepped out to the front portico. The racing phaeton again.
“No need for chaperones,” Stephen said, evidently reading the question
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