Sattler, Veronica (36 page)

"And
so you see before you, my friend, a man who is promised to a woman he cannot
abide, sought by a woman he no longer desires, and desirous of a woman he has
wronged and dares not touch again. A pretty picture, is it not? And, if you've
listened carefully, you've heard the common thread:
woman!
I tell you,
Patrick, I'm beginning to think my grandfather was the wisest of all men
alive.... Well, and just what is it you find yourself able to grin about?"

Patrick's
grin grew even broader. He had long known of Brett's well-tutored antipathy
toward women, but he'd also made it clear he'd never share his view. Women, to
Patrick St. Clare, were the most wonderful, beguiling, fascinating creatures
alive. Beginning with the mother and sister he'd adored, he'd always relished
their company, frequently finding them far more intelligent, wise and talented
than their male-dominated society would admit. And women seemed to recognize
this affinity in Patrick, for they frequently sought out his friendship as well
as his sexual favors, for his good looks and blatant virility were hard to pass
by. But where Brett used women and then discarded them with nary a backward
glance, Patrick frequently found his loves of yesterday becoming his friends of
today.

Moreover,
Patrick was not about to tell Brett something else he recognized right now,
though he was sorely tempted: Brett Westmont's current dilemma, which he
attributed to women, was of his own making; it was he who subscribed to taking
a wife to be nothing more to him than a brood mare; it was he who ensnared and
then dumped the Pamela Marlowes in his world; and it was he who'd abused this
poor little ward he'd spoken of, through his own arrogance—misunderstandings or
no.

Well,
it would be a deucedly interesting time he'd have while here at Ravensford
Hall, watching to see how his friend worked his way through this one. He
wouldn't miss it for the world!

"I
was wondering what was so amusing," Brett was saying.

"Oh,
nothing I'm capable of explaining to you, old man," said Patrick.
"But I am looking forward, ever so much, to being invited to stay for
dinner!"

"But
Megan, I cannot see why you won't come downstairs and join the guests for
dinner. Your position in this respect is perfectly clear: you participate as my
companion, not my abigail! Those people down there haven't the faintest idea
you've that status!" Suddenly Ashleigh grew thoughtful. "Oh, dear!
I've just realized something.... Megan..." She turned to look at her
friend who'd been helping her complete her toilette for the dinner party that
was soon to commence downstairs. "Is it because you're fearful that if you
join the guests from London, someone might recognize you...?" She
continued awkwardly. "You know... from Hampton House, and—"

"Ah,
no," Megan chuckled, "'tis not that, darlin'. Ye might not have
noticed, but I did plenty o' checkin' on the duke's guests durin' the luncheon,
ah, from afar, ye understand. No, it turns out the only one here who knows what
I was before I, ah, retired, is Mr. Shelley—No, don't fash yerself—Percy, whom
I met later this afternoon on the terrace, is the last person who'd give me
away. He even told me so! Said he was delighted that a poor Irish lass had
worked her way through the insufferable English class barriers. No, Ashleigh,
ye've naught t' fear on that score."

"But
then, why?" Ashleigh questioned. "If no one who matters recognizes
you, and they're only acquainted with you as my companion, what could be
keeping you from joining us?"

Megan
looked at Ashleigh's reflection in the cheval mirror as she worked at the row
of tiny buttons at the back of her dinner gown. "Faith, darlin', what ye
say may be true—
now—
they don't know I work as yer abigail—but they
could
find out—
just as soon as Iron Skirts or Lady High-and-Mighty
decided t' inform them!"

"Oh,
piffle!" Ashleigh exclaimed as she stamped a delicate foot on the carpet.
"And shock their guests that someone so lowly could have found her way to
their precious dinner table? I cannot think it likely they would risk such a
scandal."

"Hmm,"
murmured Megan. "Perhaps, but that's not the whole o' the problem. Are ye
fergettin' me own difficulties in dealin' with the miserable company o' those
two
oinseach?
'Tis hard put I'd be t' keep from settin' me
skean
t'
their bloody throats the first time either o' them looked at ye
crosswise!" She slipped the final button through its delicate loop and
stepped back to join Ashleigh in viewing the finished product they saw in the
mirror.

Tonight
Ashleigh wore a beautifully cut Empire gown of flowing white silk, its
diaphanous folds of a texture so fine, Madame Gautier had been begged by
Ashleigh, when she first saw it, to employ double, and even triple, layers of
the fabric in several places for the sake of modesty, if not warmth.

White,
especially for evening, the
modiste
had assured her, would be all the
rage this season. When the first English ladies had flocked over to Paris
following Napoleon's abdication and exile, they were astonished to find the
French still wearing the classical white instead of the myriad colors that had
permeated the Englishwoman's wardrobe in recent years. On the other hand, the
Frenchwoman's skirt, instead of falling straight to the ankles like her
counterpart's across the channel, now flared out slightly at the hem. The
impact of this news on the fashionable world of the
haute ton,
Madame
Gautier had declared, would be an instantaneous flood of orders for
"blanc
wiz ze flare."

Of
course, there was still much about the gown to proclaim it far advanced beyond
the white Grecian mode of a dozen years earlier. Its tiny puffed sleeves were
still more substantial than the almost nonexistent sleeves Ashleigh recalled
her mother wearing in an era when feminine gowns more often resembled
nightdresses in their scantiness of cut and fabric. And they were almost met on
her upper arms by the tops of long silk gloves that hugged like a second skin.
Also, while it was true that a wide band of exquisite lace, set across the daring
décolletage, barely kept her generously curving breasts from spilling free, at
least there was no attempt at draping these charms with a swath of fabric so
sheer it had encouraged, at least among the more daring in that earlier age, an
application of rouge to the nipples beneath!

Nevertheless,
as Ashleigh eyed the curving mounds of flesh that rose above this gown's
square-cut décolletage, she felt a blush invade her cheeks. "Megan!"
she gasped. "I don't know how I could have allowed Madame Gautier to—to
cut this so!" She took tense fingers and attempted to tug the band of lace
upward. "How could it have escaped our notice?"

"Ah,
colleen, don't ye recall ye donned it at the final fittin' minus its lace,
which hadn't yet arrived from Paris? Suzanne told us 'twould be added later,
just before 'twas delivered."

Ashleigh's
blush deepened as she recalled the moment, realizing at last that she'd
deliberately put out of her mind the image of her standing before the
dressmaker's looking glass with the twin peaks of her breasts peeping over the
edge of her neckline. "Ohh, Megan, yes—yes, now I do, but—but the
lace!
I
thought it would be ever so much more..
. generous!"

Megan
chuckled. "And here I'd begun t' think ye were becomin' a newly
sophisticated woman o' the
ton!"

Megan's
choice of words hit Ashleigh like a blast of cold air.
Sophisticated!
Why
it was the very facet—or the lack of it— she'd bemoaned earlier today that kept
her feeling inadequate in dealing with the polished ladies and gentlemen of the
duke's set!

Thoughts
of her employer intruding on her reflection sent an additional surge of emotion
through her slender frame. After the disturbing scene earlier in this chamber,
she'd found herself more than a little shaken by what had transpired between
them. She had not enjoyed recalling her inexplicable capitulation in his
embrace, had not wanted to examine too closely what this implied about her own
inclinations, and so, in the hours since then, she'd kept all introspection at
bay, attributing her puzzling behavior to just one more aspect of a severe lack
of sophistication on her part when it came to dealing with the experienced
members of the
ton,
and especially its
men!

Now,
as the sounds of Megan's remark echoed in her ear, she made up her mind to
something: if she was to measure up to what was expected of her as the duke of
Ravensford's hostess—and she had no illusions that she had any alternatives—
she must begin to develop the degree of worldliness she'd witnessed in those
about her, downstairs and in the gardens this afternoon; she must outgrow the
naivete of her sheltered upbringing; and she would begin this very night—
by
wearing this gown!

Ashleigh
gave an assertive nod, causing the mass of shining ringlets Megan had fashioned
atop her head to bounce and shimmer in the room's flickering candlelight.
"Megan, you're absolutely right. I
am
sophisticated enough to wear
this gown... or at least I shall begin to be... more so, that is, once I go
downstairs in it." She cast one final appraising glance at the mirror,
then turned to face her friend. "Well, what is it you find so
amusing?" she demanded, seeing the redhead's mouth begin to work as a
twinkle enlivened the green of her eyes.

"Ah,
mavourneen!"
exclaimed Megan, allowing a grin to break free at
last. "'Tis just the determinin' look in yer eye as ye made yer momentous
decision. So 'tis sophistication ye crave, is it?" She eyed the
much-discussed neckline, then glanced at the blue-enameled clock on the
mantelpiece. "I'm thinkin' 'twould not be a bad idea t' be wearin' this gown
t' give yerself a confident feelin' o' increased worldliness when ye venture
forth downstairs this evenin', but I tell ye what—'tis early yet! Why don't ye
relax here for a wee bit while I run t' me chamber and fetch that shawl Suzanne
made me? 'Tis made o' the same fine lace as—" her eyes fell on Ashleigh's
neckline again "—as that. Then, at any moment that ye might be findin'
yerself... chilly, why ye could just... cover up a wee bit!" She finished
with a broadening of her grin and one arched, questioning red eyebrow.

Ashleigh
returned the grin. Shawls were highly in vogue now, and she accepted the
perfection of Megan's solution with not a little of the ever-growing admiration
she'd come to have for the redhead's quickness of wit. "Megan," she
said, "I shudder to think what the men who run this country would do if
they realized just how narrowly they escaped their fate by the accident of
birth that made you female... and Irish. If you'd been born an Englishman,
you'd be running this country by now, I'm sure of it. Yes, of course I'll wait
while you run to your chamber, but while you're there, I wish you'd change into
that gold silk ensemble for evening. It has a matching shawl, too, if I
recall."

Megan
was halfway to the door, but she turned to give her friend a rueful smile.
"I'm thinkin' 'twould take nothin' short o' some earthshakin' event t'
make me change me mind on
that
score, lass. Now sit and relax. I'll be
back in a wink." And with a wink of her eye, she left the chamber.

* * * * *

Patrick
had finished bathing and changing into evening attire with the help of Brett's
man, Higgins, and was ready to seek out the duke before venturing downstairs.
Glancing briefly at his reflection in a wall mirror he had to stoop to peer
into, he gave a small smile of satisfaction at his reflection. The stock that
rose above the high points of his starched collar was immaculate and perfectly
tied. Brett's man was a veritable genius, he decided, and he began to realize
why it was that certain members of the set of dandies of the
ton
vied
with each other almost to the point of bloodletting over the services of a good
valet, often resorting to stealing these talented fellows away from one another
with enormous briberies and the like. Higgins had accomplished the tying of
this particular stock in only a single try, and the results were far handsomer
than anything Patrick himself might have aimed for. And the deep blue cutaway
he wore over his silver-embroidered white satin waistcoat had arrived from its
pressing immaculate.

"Well,
Patrick, old boy," he grinned as he saluted himself in the mirror,
"you look to be a fine enough specimen of a man to tempt the ladies
tonight, I'll wager. Let's see, then, what's afoot." Opening the door to
his guestchamber, he stepped into the hallway and crashed, head-on, into a
quickly moving figure.

"Here,
now, I beg your pardon, but—" Patrick gazed down at the apparition that
sat in indignant shock on the polished marble floor amidst a swirl of
jade-green skirts and found himself tongue-tied for the first time in his life.
There, shaking a head sporting a wealth of fiery-red curls, as if to clear it
after being knocked silly, was the most ravishing creature he'd ever laid eyes
on!

"Well,"
demanded the beauty. "Are ye goin't' stand there all evenin' or is it a
gentleman ye're callin' yerself?" Megan continued to glare at the lengthy
pair of strong, muscular legs encased in deep gray pantaloons and matching
Hessians with silver tassels as she reached out a hand in an attitude of
expecting to be helped up.