Read Online The Spinster and the Rake by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page B

and pulled out a hidden rouge pot. A bit of charcoal to her lashes wouldn’t come amiss either, she decided suddenly, a wave of unaccustomed anger and frustration sweeping over her. Her life was passing her by. There were slight mauve shadows under her large, brilliant eyes that hadn’t been there a couple of years ago, and she fancied she could recognize the beginnings of faint lines on her petal-soft skin. It wasn’t fair, she thought. To spend one’s life at the beck and call of others, to have reached the advanced age of thirty years old and never been kissed, never been held in a man’s arms, never known a man’s love. And never would, no matter how pretty she looked in the soft glow of the candlelight. No one would see her but Felicity and Bertie—it would all be a waste. It was enough to drive a girl to drink, she thought a little wildly. But then, she was scarcely a girl anymore. And hadn’t minded, until tonight.
    “Be honest, Gillian,” she told herself firmly, her voice light and breathless in the empty bedroom. “You started minding two and a half weeks ago.” Flipping open her jewelry box, she surveyed the sparse contents.
    In the battle for her mother’s jewelry her older sisters and sister-in-law had proved their usual assertive selves, and Gillian, with the barest minimum of social life, had acquiesced gracefully enough. But Felicity’s Grandmama Smith-Davies was right—it did make one feel more feminine to be adorned with jewels. Disgusted with her own maudlin self-pity, Gillian turned her jewelry box upside down and proceeded to bedeck herself with every single diamond she owned. A wide diamond necklace that Letty had stigmatized as old-fashioned but actually possessed too short a neck to do it justice, three diamond bracelets with weak catches and ornate settings, one ring (the sisters had a weakness for rings and from Mama’s twenty-seven diamond rings could only spare one rather small one for Gillian) and two diamond hair clips in the shape of swans. She owed their possession to the fortunate instance of everyone else in the family having shorter hair.
    The earbobs would have suited her to perfection, she thought, surveying her glittering reflection with a wry smile. Better to go without than to mar the glittering perfection of her toilette. At least, she thought defiantly, she was the prettiest thirty-year-old spinster she had ever seen. Not a complete antidote yet.
    As a finishing touch she reached out for the scarcely used bottle of scent, a Christmas present from the same Grandmama Smith-Davies. It was a deep, subtle fragrance that Derwent had stigmatized as tawdry. Well, tonight she felt tawdry, and mysterious, and blatantly sensual. She splashed it liberally around her neck and shoulders and in the vee between her breasts, dusted a touch more rouge on her high cheekbones, and sailed from the room, a satisfied smile on her lips.
    “Good heavens, Gillian, is that you?” Felicity demanded. “You look positively ravishing, doesn’t she, Bertie?”
    “Positively!” he agreed, somewhat dazed at his aunt’s transformation. Remembering his duties, he handed his aunt a large, bubbling glass of iced champagne. “You said you wanted some right away.”
    “Indeed I do.” She took a small sip, sighed, and drained the glass, holding it out for more. “I intend to drink a very great deal of champagne tonight, and eat those lovely little cakes I see, and be extremely gay. Thank you, Bertie.” She started in on her second glass.
    “Are you certain you ought to, Gilly?” Felicity asked. “You aren’t used to spirits, and I shudder to think what Papa would say if he were to return home and find us all above ourselves.”
    “I would say it would serve him right, to forget Gillian’s birthday,” Bertie averred, having imbibed a bit freely already. “And I think we should dashed well celebrate Gillian’s birthday any way she pleases. And if she pleases that we all drink a great deal of