AllFreeNovel
Share Us
After a moment, her mother relented. “All right, if you insist. Better that you test your wings on someone of little consequence before the real hunt begins. ‘A jeweler first practices his skill on lesser stones before attempting the diamond,’ Grandmama used to say.”
Sabrina smiled as they made their way over to the menfolk.
At their approach, a silver-haired gentleman stepped forward. “How lovely you look this evening, Lady Aylesford.”
“My Lord Sheffield,” her mother murmured, pinking ever so slightly. “Allow me to present my youngest daughter, Sabrina.”
Sabrina grinned as the corner of Sheffield’s eye crinkled in a quick conspirators’ wink. They were already well acquainted. A friend to her father for many years, he had become a great comfort since Papa’s passing.
“Charmed and delighted, Lady Sabrina,” he said as he bowed. “No doubt you, as your mother did once upon a time, shall soon have all the young men worshiping at your feet.”
As he presented her to the younger men in his circle, she grew acutely aware that, while the majority appeared quite keen to make her acquaintance, the one she sought to impress in particular seemed vastly uninterested. Indeed, when it was his turn, Fairford’s cool blue gaze flicked over her with what could only be termed poorly concealed disdain. His almost inaudible greeting of “Enchanted” fell flat and stale, and his bow was but the tiniest bend of the waist.
As she recovered from Fairford’s blatant dismissal, a tall, curvaceous, blond woman materialized at his elbow—and she watched his demeanor transform. The chilly hauteur vanished, replaced by alert, attentive consideration of the new arrival.
This must be the infamous Mrs. Childers.
She rapidly tallied her rival’s many deficiencies. Her smile was too warm, her manner too familiar. Her generous bosom was a trifle too exposed and her hips entirely too prominent below what had to be the most tightly corseted waist in Christendom. Somehow, Mrs. Childers had mastered the miraculous technique of remaining conscious without breathing, for surely the seams of her gown would burst asunder if she did.
Everything about the woman was “too.”
A mistress, to be sure. She mulled it over. A union with the Frenchwoman was out of the question, her mother had said, which made Fairford perfectly eligible. She wasn’t concerned about the wench. If anything, it was better to know about her now. It would make things so much easier, for there would be no danger of losing her head over him.
Mama had suffered devastating consequences for becoming too attached to her philandering husband, Sabrina’s father. She was determined not to repeat her mistake. Anything beyond a mild fondness for one’s husband was unacceptable.
She looked at Fairford. Provided they got on reasonably well, he would do. She put him at the top of her list. Then, cognizant that a young lady should never spend too much time eyeing any gentleman, she moved on. It wouldn’t do to seem overly eager. According to her sister Eugenia, a gentleman preferred to pursue rather than be the object of pursuit.
All she had to do was gain his notice and then let him chase her to the altar.
The conversation at hand, a hushed discussion regarding the recent discovery of another unidentified woman’s body on the banks of the Thames, should have held his attention. Not tonight.
Henry’s mind wandered to the goings-on behind him, where a group of debutantes were discussing gowns and frippery. He doubted whether many of the girls were even aware of the strange murders.
“The French just seem to instinctively know what enhances a woman’s appearance
to her best advantage,” one announced, earning sounds of heartfelt agreement from her peers. “If it weren’t for their divine influence, we’d probably still be draped in linen and wearing crude leather sandals.”
A wave of titters followed.
Closing his eyes, he sighed. God. Why am I even here?
He was just about to excuse himself when another voice spoke, one laden with sarcasm: “The only advantage to be had by wearing enormous baskets strapped to one’s waist is their ability to mask an overly abundant posterior, should one be so unfortunate as to have one.”
Silence fell like a stone, and he suppressed a chuckle. Whoever she was, that girl had bollocks of solid rock. Every Englishwoman he knew was a devout worshiper of all things French, despite the tension between their countries.
“Still, I must admit they do usually have impeccable taste,” the bold female continued, clearly attempting to settle the feathers she’d just ruffled. “Perhaps the Spanish will at last learn how to dress, now that their young king has brought home a Bourbon princess.”
Her comment was followed by agreeable murmurs. Unable to help himself, he glanced over his shoulder. A redhead. He might have known. He wished he could see her entire face, but all he caught was the curve of her cheek.
“Do you mean to say that you think the princess will cause the Spanish to wear panniers, too?” one of the girls asked, her expression vacant and confused.
The redhead laughed a little. “I doubt it. I understand she is most unhappy, being not fond of her husband. The Spanish court is equally displeased with her.”
“Then I don’t see why we need be concerned with her,” another girl chimed in snidely. “Unless, of course, she brings Spanish prudery back to France with her. I should hate being forced to wear a veil over my hair in order to be fashionable next Season.”
This garnered a few laughs. He waited to see how the redhead would react. He was not disappointed.
“What the Spanish choose to wear is of little concern to us here in England, ’tis true. But a Bourbon princess marrying Spanish royalty of Bourbon blood is. Their union only further solidifies France’s hold on the continent. Don’t you see? This is the Bourbons’ way of circumventing the treaty.”
