Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (11 page)

The bodice was high and tight, but just below it the skirts were draped and slung in a fashion reminiscent of a toga worn by a Grecian goddess. Sophie wasn’t quite sure why but the entire effect gave her curves where she’d thought she had none, and lent statuesque grandeur to her height. Fortunately for Lementeur’s persistent lessons, there was no possibility of slumping in the gown. The merest sag of her shoulders caused the bodice to simply cut off her breath. She wondered if he’d done it on purpose.

Probably.

The muted iridescent colors made her skin gleam like polished ivory and her hair glow with brighter fire
than if she’d worn more brilliant shades. And Patricia had washed something into her hair—it had smelled green and herbal—that put a cinnamon blaze into the reddish blond. What had once fallen unmanageable and untrimmed about her face was now cropped into dainty bangs that coiled all on their own, with the rest piled high and smooth to give her even more elegant height. Inches of hair had come off, but Patricia had assured her she could spare it.

She turned to look at herself over her shoulder. From beneath each exposed shoulder blade fell a frothing swath of silvery-white organza so fine one could read through it. When she moved even the slightest bit, they sailed lightly out behind her like a pair of gossamer wings.

Patricia was working more strands of the pearls into the woven pile of her hair.

“Are you sure we ought to have cut it?”

Patricia grinned at her in the mirror. “Bit late to doubt it, miss!”

Then the maid came down off her tiptoes and stepped back. With a sigh of dreamy satisfaction, she clasped her hands before her. “The fairy king himself will come to steal you away tonight, see if he doesn’t.”

Sophie gazed into the mirror. She looked completely unlike herself—in other words, she looked beautiful. It felt like a lie . . . yet, were those not her eyes? Was that not her natural height, her hair, her bare arms, her long neck? How could it be dishonesty when it was only a change of dress and a bit of powder and rouge?

And a mask.

Patricia handed her the outrageous mask, a white owl-feathered, pearl-bedecked creation that ought to have been hung on a wall as art, not hung on her face. Still, it covered her nose admirably, yet left her eyes exposed in a way that made them large and fathomless. Now she truly was someone else entirely. Now she truly was Sofia.

Sophie was no more.

You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are just as you are meant to be, a sylph, a reed in the water, a slender flame!

Lementeur’s words rang tinny and weak, barely present through the pounding fear and insecurity that robbed her of her breath.

If this was a mask, then she could be unmasked. If this was a lie, she could be found out. Plain, bookish, socially awkward Sophie Blake could never become Sofia. Never, it was impossible, it was all some horrible trick—she would never, ever be able to pull this off!

Why not? You’ve done worse!

Yes, and look where that got her! She forced herself to inhale slowly. One lie was much like another, it was true. If she could make her way here to London under false pretenses, surely she could make her way onto the ballroom floor.

Sophie had been able to do only so much. Now Sofia must finish the job, or all the deception would have accomplished nothing. That would be the worst thing, to go back to having nothing at all.

GRAHAM HAD TAKEN
his valet’s advice and endeavored to begin his search at Lord and Lady Waverly’s masque. He didn’t have a costume, so he chose to go as a duke. He wore his usual evening attire and simply added a plain, black silk mask. He was not the only fellow who opted out of the sumptuous madness.

It wouldn’t have done him any good to hide behind a King Henry VIII doublet, for all eyes were upon him the minute he stepped into the ballroom.

Only that morning had his advancement been announced by the ubiquitous yet invisible Voice of Society. By the time he’d returned to Eden House from his aborted attempt to see Sophie there had been a pile of invitations so high they slithered over each other to fall from the silver salver.

Now the Society mamas would have him pinned in their tenacious sights as never before. A poor fourth son was a long way from a man who could make their daughter a duchess!

Very well. He would do his duty and pursue an heiress. Luckily there were several at the masque. Graham knew the mamas by sight. All the young and titled did—although usually for the purpose of avoidance.

This evening Graham made himself available. Papas came to him to idly chat about the weather, the best tobacco, the races and oh-have-you-met-my-lovely-daughter?

Graham smiled. He bowed. He danced like the performing bear he was. Throw him some coin and see
him stand on his head for an heiress! There were tall ones and short ones and thin ones and a few astonishingly curvaceous ones.

“So how are you enjoying your first Season, Miss Millionpound?” He could hardly keep his gaze properly on her face. She was full-bodied and fair-haired and wore a grandiose version of farmgirl attire, sky blue silk with rows of old-fashioned white ruffles about her considerable decolletage and a ribbon in her hair.

She had possibilities, for he did think it rather audacious of her to wear a milkmaid costume when sporting those . . . assets.

“Season?” Blue eyes blinked at him. “Oh, I like summer all right but I much prefer winter. More time to sit.”

“Er. Yes.” Another turn about the floor before he could try again. “I like your costume. Very . . . mischievous.”

Another slow blink. “I’m not wearing a costume, Your Grace.”

Yes. Well. Perhaps the sloe-eyed brunette, Miss Richpapa, would be more to his taste.

“Oh, Your Grace, you’re sooo humorous!” Titter-titter.

He’d asked her if she was having a nice evening.

“Oh, Your Grace, you’re sooo strong!” Titter-titter.

His biceps would be bruised tomorrow.

Perhaps she was nervous. Perhaps she was doing what her mother told her to do.

Or perhaps she was doing these things only when the dance took them past a certain brooding young
fellow who lurked next to a potted palm, glaring at them with hot eyes.

Graham bowed out of the dance halfway through. He had no time to play out her game. On his way around the dancers, he passed the scowling boy once more.

“Do you truly want to endure that sort of thing for the rest of your days, lad?”

He moved on, but not before he saw a gleam of enlightenment in the young man’s eyes.

Then there was Miss Catriona Shippinggold. She was an utterly charming pixie of a girl. As he danced, Graham felt himself relaxing and even laughing at her saucy manner.

Perhaps . . . just perhaps. She was actually rather adorable and they seemed to get on famously. He took a closer look. Pity she was so tiny, for he felt a bit as though he were dancing with Meggie—

Bloody hell
.

“Catriona,” he asked sternly, “how old are you?”

She chewed her lip for a moment, precisely like Meggie when she was contemplating a lie. Then she leaned close and whispered, “Fifteen, Your Grace.”

He stopped in his tracks and removed his hand from her waist as if she were molten metal.

“Mummy told me not to tell,” she confided, “unless you seemed the type to like that sort of thing.”

“How . . . flattering.” Firmly he took her arm and steered her back to her procuring mother. “Madam, you should be ashamed of yourself.” He bowed to little Catriona. “I shall see you again, I hope—in several years.”

She twinkled a smile at him. “Will you wait for me?”

He bowed again. “Alas, I cannot. But I wish you all the best, little one.”

Fifteen? Gah!

Yet, eighteen, nineteen, even twenty seemed just as unrisen and unbaked to him. How could a girl that young even know what she truly wanted? What might she say in years to come when the naiveté wore off and she realized she’d been traded for a title and connections?

No, he was abruptly certain. He didn’t want a girl. He wanted a woman, an equal, someone with her eyes fully open.

So, was it to be rich widows then? Because unfortunately, the richest widow in London at the moment was none other than Lady Lilah Christie.

SOPHIE STOOD AT
the entrance to the ballroom, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, her silk shawl clutched over the gown beneath. The masque was another world.

Sophie had been to a few balls this season, though she’d never danced. At other times, she’d thought the array of pale gowns and dark surcoats a pretty picture, gently lighted by gracious chandeliers of sparkling crystal—all very civilized and restrained.

It was nothing compared to the riot of opulence and excess unleashed by the lax rules of the masque.

Lementeur had warned her. “In costume, a virtuous woman can be a whore and a whore can be a princess.”

It seemed as though there were a lot of virtuous women here tonight. Bodices were tighter, necklines lower, ankles—clad in stockings so fine as to be barely there—flashed coquettishly from beneath gowns that clung damply to curves rather than concealed them.

A wave of heat struck Sophie’s face as she stood in the shadows just outside the doors. The clashing brilliance and gasping riot was already in full force. How was she supposed to make any sort of impression in this room full of luxury and vibrance?

Then she recalled that she was not supposed to be seeing any of this. Turning to one side, she slipped her spectacles off her nose and donned her mask. Then, taking a breath, she willed her feet to move forward. One step, then another. She longed for the concealing cloak she’d relinquished to a footman. She would rather yet have been back in Lementeur’s confection of a carriage, speeding off into the night.

You asked for this. To be perfectly accurate, you begged for it
.

Recalling that, she felt her heart slow its fleeing-deer pace a bit. This was not something that was being forced upon her—she had made this night happen out of sheer will.

A new sense of power and purpose infused her. She wasn’t here to shy away—to hide—to be plain Sophie the Stick anymore.

She’d come here tonight to be Sofia.

Slowly her right hand lifted and with a precise flick of her wrist, she opened her fan with one graceful motion.
There
.

A secret smile grew on her lips. Sofia had arrived.

Chin high, stomach trembling, shawl draping artfully off her bare shoulders, she glided down the stairs into the grand ballroom. If anyone were to ask, Tessa would have conveniently stepped out for some air.

According to Lementeur’s instructions, she avoided furniture and pillars and potted palms. One could not trip over something if it wasn’t there, after all.

She kept to the open for all to see—thank heaven that the world blurred to insignificance without her spectacles, so that she could not see except for the few faces closest to her. Actually, it was rather comforting.

Just as instructed, she made one languid meandering circle through the ballroom, her expression conveying the very height of haughty boredom.

Then she chose a spot well lighted and very public to hold court. For a long moment, her will wavered. Why should anyone speak to her? She would be thrown into the street and declared a fraud!

However, Lementeur had powerful friends, just as he’d promised. Gentleman after gentleman came to her, their deliciously gowned ladies in tow, to greet her as if they’d known her for years. Trying valiantly not to squint, she played along, greeting each memorized face with the proper memorized name, fighting back the trembling in her voice.

Important names, some so high that she’d suspected Lementeur of teasing her. Yet here they were—Reardon, Wyndham, Etheridge, Greenleigh—the count went on, each man handsomer than the last, each lady more gracious and beautiful.

If Sophie hadn’t known what a mummery it all was, she would have been mightily impressed with her own importance! The exalted names passed through the queue, then returned moments later accompanied by eager young aristocrats who had begged introductions.

It was all a ridiculous lie and yet so easy. Sophie wondered why someone hadn’t done this years ago. Then it struck her that people might be doing it all around her. Why, half the people in this room might have entered Society as frauds!

Of course, there was nothing new about her connection to the name of Brookhaven, but her presentation suddenly
sounded
more impressive.

So she accepted introduction after introduction, not really caring if she remembered most of them, for they were a lot of silly boys for the most part. Lementeur had told her not to show interest in anyone at all, for it would reveal her to be susceptible.

“Tonight is simply the first call of the hunt, my dear,” he’d impressed upon her. “You must be the fleetest, most difficult doe to ever lead the hounds. Remember, easily caught, easily forgotten.”

Lementeur had kept his promise. She appeared to be an arresting beauty, she was surrounded by admiring men and Society was eagerly agog.