Read Online Splendor: A Luxe Novel by Anna Godbersen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Godbersen
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he stood, and she realized she’d been caught staring. The possibility that he would enter her box, that she would be seen in front of all New York society talking to someone worse than a nobody, occurred to her with a crush ing gravity. Slowly, delicately, she released Leland’s palm and rose to her feet.
Luckily for Carolina, Amos Vreewold entered the private room behind her box just then. She saw, in a second, how easy it would be to absent herself, and avoid a visit from Portia Tilt’s well-made companion.
“Why, Mr. Vreewold,” she began, gathering herself. “You must excuse me, I was just on my way to the ladies’ lounge for a freshening-up. Surely you will have much to discuss with our dear Mr. Bouchard.”
“Vreewold…,” Leland said, turning, engaging the other man in conversation, “you haven’t changed even a little!”
She put her fists into her skirt, to draw it back from her toes, and reminded herself that in this, her second social season, she already occupied the most coveted box at the opera. She had followed the lead of her friend Penelope Schoonmaker and chosen a signature color with imperial connotations; Penelope’s was red, hers was purple. She was not to be trifled with. As soon as she stepped into the curving corridor, she came face-to-face with Tristan Wrigley.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was ever so low, ever so refined.
The man met her cool stare with a smile that spread slyly across his face and twinkled with charisma. He had a fine American jaw, and cheekbones that might easily convince an inexperienced girl that he came from good people. Like the real gentlemen in attendance, he wore shining black tails and a white bow tie, which fit him with certain flair. Though she would have known him anywhere, she maintained her indifferent, unresponsive gaze. Still, below her ribbons and her bows, underneath the bones of her corset, a layer of sweat began to collect on the skin of her ribs—for after all, it would have been impossible to completely forget how he entered her life, during that wild, impressionable period when she was just a lady’s maid recently fired by the grand Holland family, making a fool of herself in all of Manhattan’s best hotels.
His muddy golden eyes swept her figure, taking in the pearls at her décolletage and the tiers of chiffon that hung about her like delicate aubergine leaves. After an inappropriately long pause, he emitted a slow, appreciative whistle. “I would say so.”
Carolina straightened. That angry, righteous feeling, which was such an inescapable piece of her personality, was seeping into her lungs. “Excuse me?” He rested his shoulder jauntily against the curved wall of the corridor. The music of the orchestra sounded muffled and far away here. No one had yet passed them, but how long could that last? “I see my Carolina has done well for herself.”
The phrase “my Carolina” came off his tongue purposefully, as though he wanted to remind her of the night he’d surprised her with a kiss on the mouth in an elevator, or of that brief period—after Mr.
Longhorn had died, but before she knew the kindness he had bestowed upon her—when she had believed herself helpless, and had depended on Tristan for shelter and other things better now forgotten. That he would lord these events over her put a match to her rage, and heated the tender edges of her ears. But then she remembered herself, and glanced back toward the box. The curtains formed a sliver, through which she could make out, with relief, silhouettes of Leland and Amos bent in conversation.
“I am not anybody’s Carolina,” she returned.
file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009
Page 28 of 128
Tristan shrugged and took a step toward her, leaning in close enough that she caught a faint whiff of onion on his breath. “I can’t pretend I made you all on my own, but you know very well you couldn’t have gotten here without me.” The tone of
Luckily for Carolina, Amos Vreewold entered the private room behind her box just then. She saw, in a second, how easy it would be to absent herself, and avoid a visit from Portia Tilt’s well-made companion.
“Why, Mr. Vreewold,” she began, gathering herself. “You must excuse me, I was just on my way to the ladies’ lounge for a freshening-up. Surely you will have much to discuss with our dear Mr. Bouchard.”
“Vreewold…,” Leland said, turning, engaging the other man in conversation, “you haven’t changed even a little!”
She put her fists into her skirt, to draw it back from her toes, and reminded herself that in this, her second social season, she already occupied the most coveted box at the opera. She had followed the lead of her friend Penelope Schoonmaker and chosen a signature color with imperial connotations; Penelope’s was red, hers was purple. She was not to be trifled with. As soon as she stepped into the curving corridor, she came face-to-face with Tristan Wrigley.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was ever so low, ever so refined.
The man met her cool stare with a smile that spread slyly across his face and twinkled with charisma. He had a fine American jaw, and cheekbones that might easily convince an inexperienced girl that he came from good people. Like the real gentlemen in attendance, he wore shining black tails and a white bow tie, which fit him with certain flair. Though she would have known him anywhere, she maintained her indifferent, unresponsive gaze. Still, below her ribbons and her bows, underneath the bones of her corset, a layer of sweat began to collect on the skin of her ribs—for after all, it would have been impossible to completely forget how he entered her life, during that wild, impressionable period when she was just a lady’s maid recently fired by the grand Holland family, making a fool of herself in all of Manhattan’s best hotels.
His muddy golden eyes swept her figure, taking in the pearls at her décolletage and the tiers of chiffon that hung about her like delicate aubergine leaves. After an inappropriately long pause, he emitted a slow, appreciative whistle. “I would say so.”
Carolina straightened. That angry, righteous feeling, which was such an inescapable piece of her personality, was seeping into her lungs. “Excuse me?” He rested his shoulder jauntily against the curved wall of the corridor. The music of the orchestra sounded muffled and far away here. No one had yet passed them, but how long could that last? “I see my Carolina has done well for herself.”
The phrase “my Carolina” came off his tongue purposefully, as though he wanted to remind her of the night he’d surprised her with a kiss on the mouth in an elevator, or of that brief period—after Mr.
Longhorn had died, but before she knew the kindness he had bestowed upon her—when she had believed herself helpless, and had depended on Tristan for shelter and other things better now forgotten. That he would lord these events over her put a match to her rage, and heated the tender edges of her ears. But then she remembered herself, and glanced back toward the box. The curtains formed a sliver, through which she could make out, with relief, silhouettes of Leland and Amos bent in conversation.
“I am not anybody’s Carolina,” she returned.
file://C:\Documents and Settings\nickunj\Desktop\book.html 10/28/2009
Page 28 of 128
Tristan shrugged and took a step toward her, leaning in close enough that she caught a faint whiff of onion on his breath. “I can’t pretend I made you all on my own, but you know very well you couldn’t have gotten here without me.” The tone of
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