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Authors: Maggi Andersen
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displaying a lovely painted rural scene and fluttered it before her face. “Like a coquette, oui?”
“I suppose so,” Charity said doubtfully.
“It is called the amorous flutter,” Brigitte said, warming to her theme. “There is also the angry flutter, like this.” She snapped it shut. “The modest miss, oui, like this? A merry lady, like this….”
She expertly twirled the fan.
“Oh stop,” Charity said, laughing. “I shall never feel comfortable doing any of that.”
“But that is the way of society ladies,” Brigitte said. “I learnt it in France from the Countess De Avignon.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll ease into it gradually.” Charity relented at the disappointed moue on Brigitte’s lips, and Brigitte immediately brightened, handing her the fan and her reticule.
She descended the marble staircase to the salon, gracefully, she hoped. Robert waited, resting an arm along the mantel, holding the bell shape of a brandy glass to his lips.
His eyes widened and he spluttered as the brandy went down the wrong way. She was gratified to see his gaze rove appreciatively from her head to her feet, lingering on her bosom in the low necked gown. His hot glance made her blush. When he could regain his voice, he said, “You look very lovely.”
She gave him a curtsey. “Thank you, Robert. So do you.”
He raised a brow, his lips curving into a smile. “Lovely?”
She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Fine-looking, I mean.”
He came towards her, his cream silk frock coat swinging gracefully above long, well-shaped legs encased in black small-clothes. A diamond sparkled in the lace folds at his throat.
High-heeled jeweled shoes made him very tall. He still wore the black arm-band in memory of his uncle. It was the first time she’d seen him in a white wig with his face powdered, and he wore a black patch at the corner of his well-shaped mouth.
Charity felt the strange heavy sensation in her stomach that was ever-present when he was near. She didn’t trust his restrained elegance. He reminded her of a panther held by fragile silken bonds. Never to be tamed.
He snapped open the lid of a velvet box. Nestled inside was a parure of diamonds, a breathtaking necklace, earrings, brooch and bracelet.
Charity put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my!”
“Turn around, my dear.”
He removed the sparkling necklace from the box and placed the cold gems around her throat. She tamped down a shiver at the soft touch of his fingers on the nape of her neck. He handed her the box. “I’ll let you put the ear-bobs on yourself.”
Regretting that he did not do so, Charity went to the long gilt mirror near the table. She shook her head, and the diamonds swung from her ears, flashing in the light.
She laughed and leaned forward to touch them with a finger.
She pirouetted to show him. “What do you think?”
“Magnifique,” He chuckled at her high spirits and came to clasp the bracelet around her wrist. “The gown is perfect for you. I must write and thank my aunt.”
“Yes, would you? I bought her a shawl to thank her myself.” His eyes widened. “That was thoughtful.”
Charity opened her reticule. “I bought you something too.” He looked pleased. “You did?”
She handed him the snuff box wrapped in silver paper. “I cannot give you anything to equal this,” she said, placing her hand on the cold gems at her throat. “This is only a small thing.”
He pulled the silver paper away and studied the enameled box with the chestnut horse painted on the lid. “It’s charming, Charity.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. I shall fill it with my special mixture.” He took a far grander silver box from his coat pocket and opened it, transferring its contents to the new one.
“Why, I do believe that was my godfather’s snuff box wasn’t it?” Charity walked close to look at it. “The one with the pig. I thought it so unusual when he first showed it to me.”
Robert stared
“I suppose so,” Charity said doubtfully.
“It is called the amorous flutter,” Brigitte said, warming to her theme. “There is also the angry flutter, like this.” She snapped it shut. “The modest miss, oui, like this? A merry lady, like this….”
She expertly twirled the fan.
“Oh stop,” Charity said, laughing. “I shall never feel comfortable doing any of that.”
“But that is the way of society ladies,” Brigitte said. “I learnt it in France from the Countess De Avignon.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll ease into it gradually.” Charity relented at the disappointed moue on Brigitte’s lips, and Brigitte immediately brightened, handing her the fan and her reticule.
She descended the marble staircase to the salon, gracefully, she hoped. Robert waited, resting an arm along the mantel, holding the bell shape of a brandy glass to his lips.
His eyes widened and he spluttered as the brandy went down the wrong way. She was gratified to see his gaze rove appreciatively from her head to her feet, lingering on her bosom in the low necked gown. His hot glance made her blush. When he could regain his voice, he said, “You look very lovely.”
She gave him a curtsey. “Thank you, Robert. So do you.”
He raised a brow, his lips curving into a smile. “Lovely?”
She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Fine-looking, I mean.”
He came towards her, his cream silk frock coat swinging gracefully above long, well-shaped legs encased in black small-clothes. A diamond sparkled in the lace folds at his throat.
High-heeled jeweled shoes made him very tall. He still wore the black arm-band in memory of his uncle. It was the first time she’d seen him in a white wig with his face powdered, and he wore a black patch at the corner of his well-shaped mouth.
Charity felt the strange heavy sensation in her stomach that was ever-present when he was near. She didn’t trust his restrained elegance. He reminded her of a panther held by fragile silken bonds. Never to be tamed.
He snapped open the lid of a velvet box. Nestled inside was a parure of diamonds, a breathtaking necklace, earrings, brooch and bracelet.
Charity put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my!”
“Turn around, my dear.”
He removed the sparkling necklace from the box and placed the cold gems around her throat. She tamped down a shiver at the soft touch of his fingers on the nape of her neck. He handed her the box. “I’ll let you put the ear-bobs on yourself.”
Regretting that he did not do so, Charity went to the long gilt mirror near the table. She shook her head, and the diamonds swung from her ears, flashing in the light.
She laughed and leaned forward to touch them with a finger.
She pirouetted to show him. “What do you think?”
“Magnifique,” He chuckled at her high spirits and came to clasp the bracelet around her wrist. “The gown is perfect for you. I must write and thank my aunt.”
“Yes, would you? I bought her a shawl to thank her myself.” His eyes widened. “That was thoughtful.”
Charity opened her reticule. “I bought you something too.” He looked pleased. “You did?”
She handed him the snuff box wrapped in silver paper. “I cannot give you anything to equal this,” she said, placing her hand on the cold gems at her throat. “This is only a small thing.”
He pulled the silver paper away and studied the enameled box with the chestnut horse painted on the lid. “It’s charming, Charity.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. I shall fill it with my special mixture.” He took a far grander silver box from his coat pocket and opened it, transferring its contents to the new one.
“Why, I do believe that was my godfather’s snuff box wasn’t it?” Charity walked close to look at it. “The one with the pig. I thought it so unusual when he first showed it to me.”
Robert stared
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