Read Online Splendor: A Luxe Novel by Anna Godbersen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anna Godbersen
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opera, and so she knew that tonight, at his side, she was the girl to surreptitiously observe.
Earlier, they had dined in Leland’s grand town house, a choice of venue that had initially disappointed her—for she was desperate to be seen out with her new beau—but which she had, in the end, found the beauty in. “It was so much more intimate that way,” she could already imagine telling her lady’s maid later, when her corset was being undone, and she would be telling the truth. For it had been much easier—sitting across from each other, the candlelight flickering in the darkened room, the prettily patterned white damask cloth between them—for Leland to stare appreciatively at her aubergine chiffon flounces and lichen-colored eyes. And he had felt comfortable enough to grow animated telling her about all the different places in Paris where he had thought her name to himself, and contemplated the qualities that set her apart from all the other girls he had ever known. His words received encores in her thoughts now, as she sat in Longhorn’s traditional box, with glazed, rosy vision and a probably dopey smile. Any attempts to change that expression would have been useless. Occasionally Leland reached out, boldly, to squeeze her gloved hand under the cover of her shawl.
Now he bent in her direction, and spoke at such low vol ume that she had to tip her head toward him. The roughness of his skin came close enough that it tickled her neck, which would have made the corners of her mouth flicker had they not been already.
“You’re far better in person,” he said.
The tingling sensation that played along Carolina’s exposed arms and shoulders told her how strenuously she was being watched from all angles, but Leland’s vigor and apparent obliviousness to the prying opera glasses all around them was something she wanted to share in. She drew back and smiled at him, straight on and adoringly. Moments had passed, or the better part of an hour, she wasn’t sure, when he spoke again. The performers onstage were all different by then.
“How lucky that we live on the same block!” he went on, disbelieving.
“Yes!” Carolina’s head bobbed in ebullient agreement. “What luck.” Stars bloomed in her eyes. Still Leland’s presence there beside her, and in her very own box, was something she could only consume in small doses. There was his height, and his solidity, and his overgrown, wheat-colored hair tucked behind his ears, and his long legs in black dress trousers, crossed and still almost too large for the small space, each of which taken alone might have caused a touch of trembling in her knees. She went on sneaking glances at him, but then he would turn and gaze at her with wide-open eyes, almost as though he were feeling the same wonderful, scarcely credible thing. It was faint-making. Looking at Leland was almost too much for her—it threatened to overwhelm. Then she file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009
Page 27 of 128
looked away.
Her glances fell across the capacious room: On her friend Penelope, whose blue eyes flashed in defiance; at Reginald Newbold and his new bride, Adelaide, who was wearing a diamond choker; at the Whitehall Vanderbilts, who rumor had it were not speaking to each other after their last trip to Monte Carlo, and whose postures in their box confirmed the tale. Then her gaze fixed itself on the face of Mrs. Portia Tilt and that lady’s companion, who was a far younger, far thinner man than her husband. He had fine, architectural features and eyes of a hypnotic quality, although he held no allure for Carolina. No allure, except that she felt an immediate urgency not to give any clue that she knew him.
Tristan Wrigley was a Lord & Taylor salesman, but he was many other things besides: a hustler, the first man ever to kiss Carolina, and the person who had originally suggested to her that there might be a fortune in her friendship with Longhorn. Then
Earlier, they had dined in Leland’s grand town house, a choice of venue that had initially disappointed her—for she was desperate to be seen out with her new beau—but which she had, in the end, found the beauty in. “It was so much more intimate that way,” she could already imagine telling her lady’s maid later, when her corset was being undone, and she would be telling the truth. For it had been much easier—sitting across from each other, the candlelight flickering in the darkened room, the prettily patterned white damask cloth between them—for Leland to stare appreciatively at her aubergine chiffon flounces and lichen-colored eyes. And he had felt comfortable enough to grow animated telling her about all the different places in Paris where he had thought her name to himself, and contemplated the qualities that set her apart from all the other girls he had ever known. His words received encores in her thoughts now, as she sat in Longhorn’s traditional box, with glazed, rosy vision and a probably dopey smile. Any attempts to change that expression would have been useless. Occasionally Leland reached out, boldly, to squeeze her gloved hand under the cover of her shawl.
Now he bent in her direction, and spoke at such low vol ume that she had to tip her head toward him. The roughness of his skin came close enough that it tickled her neck, which would have made the corners of her mouth flicker had they not been already.
“You’re far better in person,” he said.
The tingling sensation that played along Carolina’s exposed arms and shoulders told her how strenuously she was being watched from all angles, but Leland’s vigor and apparent obliviousness to the prying opera glasses all around them was something she wanted to share in. She drew back and smiled at him, straight on and adoringly. Moments had passed, or the better part of an hour, she wasn’t sure, when he spoke again. The performers onstage were all different by then.
“How lucky that we live on the same block!” he went on, disbelieving.
“Yes!” Carolina’s head bobbed in ebullient agreement. “What luck.” Stars bloomed in her eyes. Still Leland’s presence there beside her, and in her very own box, was something she could only consume in small doses. There was his height, and his solidity, and his overgrown, wheat-colored hair tucked behind his ears, and his long legs in black dress trousers, crossed and still almost too large for the small space, each of which taken alone might have caused a touch of trembling in her knees. She went on sneaking glances at him, but then he would turn and gaze at her with wide-open eyes, almost as though he were feeling the same wonderful, scarcely credible thing. It was faint-making. Looking at Leland was almost too much for her—it threatened to overwhelm. Then she file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009
Page 27 of 128
looked away.
Her glances fell across the capacious room: On her friend Penelope, whose blue eyes flashed in defiance; at Reginald Newbold and his new bride, Adelaide, who was wearing a diamond choker; at the Whitehall Vanderbilts, who rumor had it were not speaking to each other after their last trip to Monte Carlo, and whose postures in their box confirmed the tale. Then her gaze fixed itself on the face of Mrs. Portia Tilt and that lady’s companion, who was a far younger, far thinner man than her husband. He had fine, architectural features and eyes of a hypnotic quality, although he held no allure for Carolina. No allure, except that she felt an immediate urgency not to give any clue that she knew him.
Tristan Wrigley was a Lord & Taylor salesman, but he was many other things besides: a hustler, the first man ever to kiss Carolina, and the person who had originally suggested to her that there might be a fortune in her friendship with Longhorn. Then
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