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The carriage finally rolled to a stop, and Mélisande stepped down. Smiling, she carefully arranged her skirts, ignoring the startled murmurs of the lookers-on. The moment she’d laid eyes on the finished gown, she’d known it would cause a sensation.
The garment boasted only a hint of padding at the hips instead of the enormous panniers favored this Season, and rather than the typical front lacing, it was held together by a row of tiny silver buttons at the back. There was nothing to mask her natural silhouette—no stomacher and no shoulder pleats. The midnight-blue silk hugged her every curve before flaring out into fullness at the hips. Filmy layers of les engageantes fluttered at her elbows, and tiny diamonds sewn into the fabric of her ensemble glittered in the torchlight like stars in a clear night sky.
Raising her chin, she gazed out at the crowd, surveying the field of battle.
When Charlotte alighted, she presented a startling contrast dressed in palest mauve and pearls, her honey-blonde hair arranged in a profusion of riotous curls. She was a delightful confection, all rosy cheeks and bright eyes. Her naïveté shone so brightly that it must surely be visible from a good league away. It made Mélisande smile to think she’d once been thus.
“Melly, my dear! So good of you to come!” Lord Ludley boomed, beaming from ear to ear as they approached.
She cast her host a glittering smile. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Luddy. It would require last rites being read for me to be anywhere but here.” She inclined her head politely to Lady Ludley, who smiled in welcome.
“Pelham, Stanton,” Ludley addressed the young men. He stopped when he saw Charlotte, his brows lifting. “Surely this is not your little sister!” he exclaimed, looking to Reggie with mock amazement. “She looks far too angelic to be related to you, you young rascal!”
Charlotte curtsied, a faint blush of pleasure tinting her cheeks.
Reggie’s chest puffed out. “This is indeed my youngest sister, Miss Charlotte Stanton.”
“Miss Stanton,” Ludley murmured, bowing, “it is an honor to have you as our guest.”
“The honor is mine,” the girl replied.
Mélisande longed to get the social niceties over with as quickly as possible. A good round of chess or perhaps a few hands of Bragg was what she needed to settle the nerves and pass the time until the waltz.
Catching sight of a familiar face, she barely refrained from making an audible sound of displeasure.
Herrington’s odd, amber eyes bored into her. Even at this distance, she felt the disapproval radiating from him. Memory took her back to when she’d first met her bête noire. She’d bee
n minding her own business, playing cards with friends, when he’d rudely interrupted their game.
His arrogant words still stuck in her craw: An earl’s daughter should be in the ballroom dancing with a proper gentleman, not associating with this lot of devils.
Heart still aching over her father’s recent death, her response had been cutting: If I prefer to associate with devils, it is because I find the company of prudish clergymen uninspiring and tedious. I suggest you preach elsewhere, for I’m neither your wife nor daughter to correct.
Red-faced, Herrington had departed with indignant haste.
But that had not been the end of it. Oh, no. On every possible occasion thereafter, the ill-mannered brute had haunted her steps, harassing her with critical comments regarding her behavior. He’d become the proverbial burr beneath her saddle, souring many an evening’s good pleasure.
In return, she did her best to shock and annoy her priggish detractor whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Mélisande turned away. This was one evening he wouldn’t spoil.
Champagne in hand, Alessandro wandered aimlessly, listening to snatches of conversation, looking for someone worthy of his attention. Ludley had made it clear that he expected him to live up to his reputation, and he did not want to disappoint his host.
A woman’s laughter reached his ears from a few yards away, and a feathery finger tickled down his spine at the sound of it, stopping him dead in his tracks. Rich and throaty, it was a siren’s call, utterly irresistible. Turning, he sought out the owner of that marvelous laugh.
To his disappointment, he saw only her back—but it was a very lovely back. The gleaming mass of her dark hair was swept high and smoothly bound into a twist, leaving her neck exposed, save for the sapphires and diamonds that graced it. He noted her delicious silhouette was conspicuously devoid of panniers.
Not afraid to defy convention.
His gaze dropped to her left hand. She wore no wedding ring.
Benissimo.
Fascinated, he observed as she turned to touch the arm of the gentleman standing beside her. Her narrow waist twisted slightly, and with a shock he realized that, in addition to wearing no wedding ring, the lady was also wearing no corset.
Now that was absolutely intriguing.
Taking the arm offered by her obedient escort, she bade fond farewells to her friends and then swept away. As though tied to the mysterious woman by some invisible tether, Alessandro followed as she meandered through the throng. Something about the woman’s voice had tugged strangely at his innards. He strained to hear her speak again as she greeted friends in passing, but all he could catch were bits and pieces, a word here, a husky laugh there.
