She stood on the edge of something—of tumbling into the abyss that had swallowed all the other scores of women who’d been kissed by Lord Daring. Not the ones for whom ruination had been fabricated, but the many for whom his reputation was in part deserved. She ground the heel of her boot into his toe.
He lifted his head. He was breathing hard, but so was she. Some emotion that she couldn’t read swam over his face. His fingers dug into her back, and it seemed he meant to draw her to him again when they heard a sound. Slowly, cold with horror, Henrietta looked toward the doorway.
Rutherford cleared his throat. “Did you…call me?” he croaked.
“Go away, Rufie,” Darien said in a freezing voice.
Henrietta clasped her hands over her mouth, her eyes stretched wide with shock. “Am I…am Icompromised?”
Darien glared at her. “Rufie will say nothing,” he snapped. “Henry, Isaidyou oughtn’t be here.”
“I’m not.” And for the second time that day, Henrietta bolted for the door, fleeing the mess she’d created.
James was lying relaxed on his seat in the phaeton, flipping a coin with one hand and holding the ribbons in the other while he chatted with the street boys.
“I hope that was honestly earned and not won,” Henrietta snapped, hauling herself up the high step.
“Ey, now.” James sat up. “If yer goin’ to comb my head, I’ll know the reason. All dished up, are ye?”
“No rake alive has the power to ruinme,” Henrietta said, fighting her way into the vehicle. “Move over, James. I’m driving home.”
He caught a whiff of her breath and his eyes widened. “Not for a minute,” her loyal groom cried, refusing to surrender the reins. “As if I’d put these prime articles in the hands of a girl who’sbosky!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She’d begun a fight with Darien in Alywen’s shop so she might not appear fascinated. She’d teased him that she preferred scholarly men like his cousin, provoking that furious, most unsettling kiss.
And he had not called in the days since, leaving Henrietta with a strange, restless ache under her skin that she didn’t know how to soothe.
It would be best if she had no more to do with him, Henrietta told herself. All that should concern her about Darien was the welfare of Lady Celeste’s child.
“You’re home!” Marsibel smiled with eagerness as Henrietta entered the blue parlor of Hines House. “Just in time to dress for the Bicclesfield ball.”
Oh, that dratted ball. Darien had instructed her to save him a dance. Did he remember? Would he make good on his promise? The thought of being held by him made Henrietta’s heart skitter.
“Er. I’ve had a rather busy day, dear. The Minerva Society shipped off our crates of shoes and clothing for the settlers in Sierra Leone. A new donor sent an extremely generous donation to the Benevolence Hospital, so I’ve been buying supplies. The Sons of Africa have reviewed and endorsed our petition toParliament calling for full abolition.AndLady Bess approved my notes for my debate. I thought I might spend a quiet evening with my sisters, reading about Etruscan art.”
“Your gowns arrived from the dressmaker’s today,” Marsibel said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Don’t you want to see them?”
Part of her didn’t. The broadsides and cartoons had already linked her name with Darien’s in the most mortifying fashion. Some supposed Lord Daring was pursuing Miss Hop-Higher for a loan from Sir Grasping. Others predicted that London’s reigning rake, having ravished all the gently born daughters within reach, was moving on to the rising bourgeoisie.
Miss Hop-Higher, in all these depictions, was a feather-brained ninny, flattered by Lord Daring’s avaricious suit and unaware that the elegant libertine had lowered his sights considerably. And in all of them, she wore the most appalling gowns.
Clarinda and Aunt Althea stood arguing in Henrietta’s dressing room while Duprix opened boxes with the reverence of a priestess performing sacred rites.
“You must allow that he has the most exquisite taste, Althea.” Clarinda ran a hand over piles of fine muslins and silks.
“But to allow a man to purchase her clothing? It isn’t done!” Althea cried.
“Of course I had the bill sent to me, Aunt Althea,” Henrietta said. “Lord Darien only had a hand in the selection.”
“You may leave the matter of ma’mselle’s clothing to me,mesdames,” Duprix said. She hustled Henrietta behind the dressing screen to extract her from the worn round gown she had worn to her meetings that day.
“All this fuss about gowns simply illustrates Miss Wollstonecraft’s point about vanity,” Henrietta grumbled as Duprix tied a rump pad around her waist.
“Ma’mselle will not sulk when she is in something that becomes her.” Duprix tied on a lilac petticoat, then held open a pool of yellow silk for Henrietta to step into. With a few deft pins the maid fastened the bodice to the open robe, then tied up the short train. She fluffed the tiny ruffle that lined the bodice and peeked out at the sleeves, then stepped back to study the graceful retroussé effect in the back.
“Hetty,” Marsibel breathed.
