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The days were busy, and full of too many secret worries and concerns to allow for much daydreaming. But the nights were different and Hebe dreamt night after night of Alex, of his arms around her, of his lips on hers. Once she dreamt she was running her palms caressingly over his naked chest and woke, quivering with tension, to find she was stroking a silk shawl that she had left lying on the covers when she went to sleep.
Shaken, she sat up against the pillows and watched the dawn slowly lighting the sky until it suddenly burst out over the island in scarlet and gold streaks. Was she very wanton to have these dreams? Did everyone feel like this after just one kiss? She knew the facts of life of course. One only had to be normally observant of life going on around one, without any help from classical male nude statues in the art gallery or one’s stepmama’s careful explanations, which, Hebe was given to understand, would be expanded upon before her wedding night.
Malta was full of attractive men, and men made even more attractive by dashing uniforms and an air of military glamour. But she had never tried to imagine what it would be like to push their shirts from their shoulders and run her fingers over their backs, or what sensation their lips on her breast would provoke. It must have been that kiss. Yes, that was it. It was being kissed for the first time and nothing to do with the man who had kissed her.
But it was the thought of that man that was foremost in Hebe’s mind as she chose her new ballgown. ‘That one,’ she said unhesitatingly as the ladies flipped through volumes of La Belle Assemblée and Ackerman’s Repository of Arts in Madame Eglantine’s dress shop. Madame Eglantine might have been born Susan Eagles in Basingstoke, but she had skill with scissors and needle, a sharp eye for fashion and an excellent business sense and hers were the undisputed gowns of choice for Malta society.
Mrs Carlton and Madame came to look over her shoulder. ‘But charming,’ Madame opined. ‘Such simplicity, such grace. Naturally, only a young lady with Miss Carlton’s height could wear that gown to advantage.’
‘Greek?’ Mrs Carlton said, not at all so certain. The gown was certainly striking, but not in any obvious way unsuitable for a débutante. It was cut with the perfect simplicity of a Greek tunic, falling in soft folds to the floor and secured at the shoulder and under the bosom with cords and ornate knots. Otherwise it was without trimmings if one eliminated from the picture the diamond parure, the feathers, the toque and the gauze shawl the model was hung about with.
It was the very simplicity that was somehow daring, for it made the observer concentrate on the wearer rather than the gown, and for someone without perfect deportment it would be a disaster.
‘Well…Hebe, are you certain?’
‘Oh, yes, Mama, please might I have that design?’ If Alex saw her in that gown, Circe come to life… The daydream retreated in the face of brisk practicality.
‘But your hair, and I do not know what colour…’
‘If Miss Carlton’s hair was confined in a very tight knot high on her head, with a few ringlets at the neck and a riband, then she would look like that statue in the hall of the Civil Commissioner’s house,’ Madame suggested.
Fortunately Sara had not noticed the statue on the last occasion she had been a guest of Lieutenant-General Sir Hilderbrand and Lady Oakes. Hebe had, and tried to suppress the memory of one pert naked breast, a flowing tunic cut all the way up the side and the expression on the marble face of a nymph trying not too hard to escape from a satyr. The hairstyle, however, was unexceptional and would allow her to escape yet another threat of having her curls cut off.
As Lady Oakes had graciously loaned her house with its fine ballroom to her friend Mrs Forrester for the ball there was a risk that Sara might notice the statue, but by then it would be to late to do anything about it.
‘And the matte
silk crepe, in this charming shade of creamy white, will be just the thing.’ Madame snapped her fingers and an assistant hurried forward with the bale of cloth. It was indeed lovely. ‘I have an assistant who has just the touch with ornamental cords and knots—say in jonquil yellow? And with slippers dyed to match, long white gloves and pearls…’ Madame was well away in a trance of creation, sketching rapidly on a piece of paper and holding it up for Sara’s approval.
The gown was a total success and the hairstyle just as Madame had predicted. On the night of the ball Hebe allowed Maria to pin a few sprigs of orange blossom into the high knot of curls and sat back. Would Alex look at her and see Circe as he imagined the enchantress? He was back on the island, but not after three more packages had mysteriously appeared and the powder bowl on Hebe’s dressing table was full of shells.
Hebe thought she looked very well, but she knew she had no way of judging what it was that Alex found enchanting in her. The knowledge that she was going to see him after almost two weeks brought the colour to her cheeks. Would he kiss her again tonight?
‘Are you ready my dear?’ Sara Carlton swept into the room, a vision in powder blue and silver, the very handsome diamond earrings that Sir Richard had presented to her as a betrothal gift sparking in her ears. ‘Oh, yes! You look…’ She paused, obviously lost for words. Not nice, Hebe pleaded silently, please don’t say nice.
‘Enchanting,’ her stepmother pronounced and was taken aback by the warmth of Hebe’s answering smile. ‘Come along now, the chair bearers are here.’
The square outside the Civil Commissioner’s mansion was ablaze with light from torchères, jammed with carriages and chair-bearers and choked with passers-by all agog to view the guests. Hebe and Sara arrived somewhat breathless from the jolting as their bearers fought their way to the steps, but the slow progress up the stairs to the receiving line gave them plenty of time to collect themselves. Hebe managed to distract Sara’s attention from the wanton nymph with her hairstyle by pointing out the quite outrageous décolletage that Lady Gregson was flaunting and they gained the ballroom without mishap.
The orchestra was playing some light airs while the main press of guests arrived, giving Hebe time to look around her. Everywhere there were friends and acquaintances, and a good number of strangers, for Mrs Forrester had sent out invitations far and wide. But there was no sign of Alex.
Hebe soon found herself scribbling in her card as gentleman after gentleman asked her for a dance, but she kept the first waltz, a country dance, and rebelliously, a cotillion, free. If Alex pressed her she would agree to a third dance with him, however fast that made her look. If he asked her…if he was here.
She followed Sara to where a group of matrons were gesturing for their friend to join them. As she passed along she heard one lady say, ‘Who is that charming gel in the white Grecian gown? Goodness! Not that dab of a Carlton gel…’ She blushed slightly, but the sensation of being admired was too pleasant to object to.
She sat with the group of ladies, quietly as befitted a débutante, and scanned the room as unobtrusively as she could. The waltz was the first dance: Mrs Forrester had stuck by her intention of being ‘dashing’. The orchestra had stopped playing their light airs and were adjusting music on their stands. Any moment now, they would begin. Hebe tried to keep the disappointment off her face. Alex Beresford was not here, he would not see her lovely gown, she would not discover what a second kiss might bring.
‘Mrs Carlton, ma’am. Miss Carlton, my dance I believe.’ Alex was there at her side, apparently appearing from nowhere. His scarlet dress-coat glittered with gold lace, his hair had been newly cut and showed pale skin at his temples and nape against his tan, his blue eyes looked at Hebe as though there was no other lady in the room.
Mrs Carlton opened her mouth to express her doubts about her daughter participating in the first waltz, but it was too late, Hebe was out on the floor, her hand in Alex’s, the centre of attention as the onlookers craned to see who was going to be dashing enough to perform the outrageous new dance.
Then other couples joined them and Sara Carlton sat back, fanning herself. Oh dear, if only no one thought dear Hebe fast!
‘Dear Hebe’ was trying not to quiver as Alex’s hand touched her at the waist. He made no attempt to grasp her, but the feel of his hand gave her the sensation of being controlled, mastered. It was surprisingly pleasant. She gathered up her skirts gracefully in her free hand and managed to meet his eyes as the first chord struck. Then they were sweeping through the other dancers, his hand guiding her, her body responsive to the slightest change of direction from his.
Hebe managed a smile after the first few turns. ‘Oh, I was so nervous!’
‘Nervous?’ His eyes were darker than she had ever seen them against his tanned face. His voice sounded almost harsh and she realised he had hardly said a word.
