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Gussie grimaced. “Not his piercing eyes. Better ones.”
“I know too much about men,” Cleo told her. “I don’t need one of them getting in my way, not to mention claiming my fortune. Just look at all the men who Mother . . . well, with whom she was acquainted.” Not to mention that rat she’d been betrothed to.
“May heaven rest her, your mother had a tender heart for a leading man. Drat it!” Gussie muttered as the turban dislodged a couple of hairpins and Cleo’s curls sprang free.
A soft heart was a tactful description. Julia rarely met a handsome actor whom she didn’t instantly adore—and invite to her bed, both during her marriage and after her husband’s passing. Cleo had decided early in life that nurturing illusions about her mother would be disastrous.
Her levelheadedness was precisely why her father had left his fortune to his fourteen-year-old daughter, rather than to his wife. On occasion, Cleo had made use of it by paying off a particularly fervent lover who wouldn’t accept that Julia had lost interest in him.
Cleo’s opinion of the male sex had fallen lower and lower as actor after actor strode through her mother’s bedchamber door.
“I’m not tenderhearted, like my mother,” she said flatly. “I’m . . . I’m inimical to men.”
“Word of the day?” Gussie asked. “I’m thinking ‘inimical’ means you don’t like men, which, begging my pardon, miss, we both know isn’t true. You were betrothed to Foster Beacham only a year ago.”
“Briefly,” Cleo stated.
“You can’t let one broken engagement sour you on the pack of them.”
“I shan’t. I would simply prefer to cater to my own interests rather than someone else’s. Still, Lord Falconer is my only relative, and I shall enjoy spending time with him. Which reminds me that I meant to send a note asking him to recommend a modiste. I need everything from gowns to parasols in—in wallflower mode, if you see what I mean.”
“Your mother hated drab clothing.” Gussie paused. “Heaven rest her.”
“You needn’t say that quite so often,” Cleo said.
“Mrs. Lewis wasn’t restful, was she? I hope that she’s at peace now.”
“Mother’s version of heaven likely includes a great many handsome actors, and as many romantic plays as anyone can watch.”
That’s right, Julia murmured, with a naughty chuckle.
“Half mourning suits my mood,” Cleo said, prompted by her mother’s commentary. “I needn’t want to wear black any longer, but I miss her.”
Gussie put her hand on Cleo’s shoulder for a moment. “The sadness will go away with time. You do realize that French modistes won’t want to dress a wallflower?”
“They will create whatever garments I require,” Cleo stated, confident in the power of the almighty pound.
“We’d do better with a costumier. My dear friend Martha Quimby has her own emporium and outfits the best theater companies. It was her da’s, but she renamed it after herself when he died. Drury Lane Theatre Company won’t buy costumes from anyone else.”
“I don’t want to stand out,” Cleo warned.
“That’s not how it worked in My Fairest Lady, nor yet in that other play your mother loved so much, So Dear to My Heart. Remember The Highland Rogue? The heroine—”
“Exactly: those are heroines,” Cleo interrupted. “Think of me as a bit player, Gussie. I need to be costumed accordingly.”
“A wallflower, I can’t promise. You just don’t fit the role, miss, if you don’t mind my saying so, no matter what you’re wearing. But Martha would do her best.”
Cleo glanced at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked back at her: passable features, blazing red hair mostly caught up under the turban, a pointed chin that she secretly disliked. In her opinion, what would make her a wallflower wasn’t only her clothing; it was her expression. She was too old at twenty-two to bother with looking demure, let alone shy.
“Men from the gentry and nobility want ladylike wives,” she pointed out.
Gussie shook her head. “You’re being naïve. Trust me, you will be catnip to a tomcat.”
“Nonsense. Gentlemen fondly believe they’re desirable. If you aren’t interested, they scamper off to women who will flatter them.”
“Your mother—may heaven rest her—would chase after any fellow who caught her eye, but it didn’t make them fall in love with her, did it? Most times she lost interest, but others dropped her and disappeared.”
“Men are easily distracted by the next pretty face they see,” Cleo said, not bothering to add that her mother had been the same.
