‘It’s wonderful,’ breathed Arabella.
‘You come back in one week, and I ’ave it finished,’ said Madame Dupas, making a last-minute alteration to the hem.
Arabella slipped out of her gown, and then it was Eleanor’s turn. She was to be Arabella’s chief attendant, and had chosen a beautiful gown from the pages of the Lady’s Monthly Magazine. She had shown the engraving to Madame Dupas, and wondered how accurately Madame Dupas had been able to copy it.
As she slipped it on, she realized it was perfect. In style it was similar to Arabella’s gown, with a high waist and short puffed sleeves, but there the similarity ended. The sleeves, bodice and overskirt were made of the finest muslin in a becoming shade of dusky pink, set off by an underskirt of white silk. The dusky colour suited her complexion, bringing out the warmth of her cheeks.
‘You look lovely,’ Arabella told her. ‘You must thread a pink ribbon through your hair on the day. It will be just the thing.’
Madame Dupas made one or two minor alterations, and then they set out for home. Whilst Arabella chattered happily away, Eleanor could not prevent her thoughts from wandering to Lucien. She had tried not to think of him, but his black hair and blue eyes kept returning to disturb her thoughts.
‘ . . . although perhaps the yellow . . . Are you all right, Eleanor?’ asked Arabella.
‘Hm? Yes, of course. Why?’
‘It’s just that you seem distracted,’ said Arabella. Her face fell. ‘It must be very boring for you, listening to me rattle on like this.’
‘Not at all,’ said Eleanor, giving her arm a squeeze.
‘Oh, good, because I wanted to talk to you about the wedding tour. Charles and I have still not decided where to go, whether to go to the Lakes, or whether to venture further afield, to Scotland.’
The two ladies crossed the road, then Arabella said, ‘Are you sure you won’t come with us, Eleanor?’
‘Quite sure.’
Although it was the custom for brides to take a sister or other female relative on their wedding tour with them, Eleanor knew that Arabella and Charles were very much in love and would not need a third person to keep them company.
‘What do you think?’ asked Arabella, as they continued on their way. ‘I would like to see Scotland, but I think it might be too far. I think perhaps we had better go to the Lakes instead.’
They were now approaching their own house, and went inside.
Arabella was soon knee deep in boxes and paper as she unwrapped her purchases. She was just about to try on a particularly fetching bonnet when a curricle drew up outside the house.
‘Oh! Here is Charles!’ she exclaimed, dropping her bonnet. ‘Isn’t it funny, we had to go all the way to London to meet each other, when we have unknowingly lived no more than twenty miles from each other all our lives. I am so glad he is here.’
She ran to the door. She made a charming picture as she stood on tiptoe to kiss Charles on the cheek, and then she drew him into the sitting-room.
He was a manly gentleman, tall and fair, with an elegant manner. His clothes were well cut without being ostentatious, and he wore them with an air of ease.
‘My dear Charles,’ said Eleanor, greeting him. ‘Welcome.’
‘Eleanor,’ said Charles warmly, returning her greeting. He looked at her more closely. ‘You’re looking a little peaky,’ he said. ‘I hope you two young ladies have been getting enough fresh air.’
‘I noticed it myself,’ said Arabella. ‘I am afraid I must have been working Eleanor too hard, making her accompany me on all my shopping trips.’
‘Nonsense!’ declared Eleanor. ‘I am very well. Arabella has been telling me about your ideas for your wedding tour.’
‘I have been thinking we should have a day of rest after the wedding before setting out on our tour,’ said Charles to Arabella. ‘After all the celebrations, and then the wedding itself, you are bound to be fatigued.’
Eleanor agreed. Charles’s family, once they had accustomed themselves to the idea of his marrying a penniless young lady, had decided to celebrate in lavish style. They had arranged a series of celebrations for the week leading up to the wedding, culminating in a grand ball.
They had originally organized it for the night before the wedding, but Charles had put his foot down, and now it was to take place two days before the wedding instead. That way, Arabella would have a quiet day in which to prepare herself for the ceremony. Charles’s latest idea, to delay their start on their journey northwards, also seemed a good idea. The wedding itself would be very grand, and then would come the lavish wedding breakfast. By the time it was over, Arabella would be exhausted.
‘I think you’re right,’ said Arabella. ‘I must admit I was rather dreading having to travel so soon after having all that food and drink! I was worried the journey might make me ill.’
Charles laughed. ‘It will be quite a wedding breakfast. My mother has been planning it for months. The Duke of Rainster is the only person who has declined, but it is not surprising as his health has been poor for some time. Lady Musgrave has replied at last - she’s coming - and Lord Silverton, but . . . ’
‘Lord Silverton?’ Eleanor was so startled to hear his name that the words were out before she could stop them.
Charles looked at her curiously. ‘Yes. Lord Silverton. We were together at Eton, and then later at Oxford. Why?’
‘Oh. No reason,’ said Eleanor, colouring slightly.
It had never occurred to her that Lucien might be at the wedding, and yet she should have guessed. He was from an old and well-respected family, and he was a member of the ton. As such he would inevitably mix in the same circles as Charles.
‘He went into the army after that, and I saw little of him,’ went on Charles. ‘This is a perfect opportunity to see him again. I hope he comes.’ He smiled lovingly down at Arabella. ‘I want to introduce him to my beautiful bride.’
Eleanor fought down her unruly feelings. Lucien’s acceptance had nothing to do with her, she told herself. He simply wanted to attend the wedding of one of his old school friends. Even so, unwise as it was, she could not help her heart leaping at the thought of seeing him again.
Chapter Seven
The week of the wedding arrived at last. Since learning that Lucien would be attending the ceremony, Eleanor had found it impossible to settle to anything, but at last she was getting ready for the ball.
The ball was being held at Charles’s parent’s estate, Longbridge Grange, not far from Bath. Eleanor and Arabella had been collected by a private coach in the afternoon. A suite of rooms had been made over to them, and they had been given the services of a bevy of maids to help them dress.
‘Just think,’ said Arabella nervously, ‘This is how my life is going to be from now on.’
‘Don’t worry, Bella.’ Eleanor placed a reassuring hand on Arabella’s arm. ‘Remember, you will be the mistress of your own house. It will be up to you how many maids you employ. You don’t have to be surrounded by quite so many.’
Arabella was comforted. ‘That’s true. I could appoint some nice young girl that I could train up to be my lady’s maid,’ she said, relaxing a little: the maids at the Grange were all rather daunting!
‘That’s right. Someone you get on with, and who understands your ways,’ said Eleanor encouragingly.
Arabella smiled, her confidence restored, and they turned their attention to putting on their gowns.
The gowns had been bought for Arabella’s London Season and had been made by a skilled modiste, so that even at tonight’s splendid gathering they would not look out of place. Fortunately no one in Bath had seen them, so no one would know they were not new. Arabella’s gown was exquisite. Made of pale blue silk, it had a high waist and a scooped neckline, and its bodice was scattered with brilliants.
‘I’ve always liked you in that dress,’ said Eleanor approvingly. ‘It’s just right for this evening.’
‘Your gloves, miss,’ said one of the maids, h
olding out a pair of long white evening gloves to Arabella.
Arabella pulled on the gloves, then picked up her fan just as the clock struck the hour.
‘Oh, we’re late,’ said Arabella. ‘Do you mind if I go down without you? I have to receive our guests when they arrive.’
‘Of course not. I’ll be down directly,’ said Eleanor.
Arabella tripped out of the room, leaving Eleanor to finish her own toilette.
Eleanor’s gown was no less beautiful than Arabella’s. As Arabella’s chaperon in London her appearance had been important, and so she had had a number of ball gowns made.
This one was her favourite. It was made of white satin, and it had a gold overskirt which matched the gold bodice. The colour suited her. It made her eyes appear more hazel and less brown, and brightened the colour of her hair. Its high waist made the most of her figure, and its short puffed sleeves showed off the smoothness of her arms.
She glanced at her hair. It had been arranged into an elaborate style. The duchess’s maids were skilled at dressing hair, and they had replaced the simple knot she usually wore with a chignon. After arranging it, they had plaited a loose strand of her hair and wrapped it round the chignon’s base to give an added touch of elegance, before arranging soft ringlets around her face. As a final touch, they had threaded a gold ribbon through the plait.
Eleanor picked up her fan, the maids stood aside and she went downstairs. As she did so, she wondered whether Lucien would be at the ball. He had not attended any of the other wedding festivities. She had hoped to see him at the firework display, and the soirée, and the other enjoyments the duchess had arranged, but he had not been there. But it was now only two days before the wedding, and perhaps, if he were already in Bath, he would come to the ball.
Yet even if he did, she must not refine too much upon it. Their acquaintance had been brief, and though it had meant a great deal to her, she had no reason to believe it had meant anything to him.
She went into the ballroom. It looked magnificent. Large chandeliers hung from the ceiling and gilded mirrors lined the walls. In between them stood marble pillars, with exquisite flower arrangements displayed on their tops. The musicians were sitting at one end of the room, just putting the finishing touches to tuning their instruments.
Eleanor’s eyes ran over the people standing and talking around the sides of the room. And then stopped. For there, at the far end, was Lucien.
Talking to Miss Aireton.
Miss Aireton was one of Bath’s greatest beauties. Her flaxen hair was set off by her huge green eyes, and her curvaceous figure was perfect. As if this was not enough, she was also an heiress, and she would have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.
Eleanor’s spirits sank. Miss Aireton was evidently saying something amusing, and Lucien looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Still, it came as a timely reminder that she must not presume too much upon their acquaintance, nor read into it anything that did not exist. When she danced with Lucien . . . if she danced with Lucien . . . she must remember that.
‘Ah, there you are, Miss Grantham,’ said the duchess, sailing towards her with all the majesty of a royal frigate. ‘Allow me to present Lord Accrington.’
Since realizing that Charles was serious about marrying Arabella, and that she could not prevent it, the duchess had wisely decided to accept the situation and had welcomed Arabella into the family. That welcome had been extended to Eleanor, and it was clear the duchess meant to help her marry well, for if Eleanor married a nobleman then it would provide Arabella with a titled sister.
Eleanor greeted the young lord politely, as she greeted every other young gentleman the duchess introduced to her. Her hand was sought for almost every dance of the evening, and her card was soon nearly full.
‘And now let me introduce you to Lord Silverton.’
Eleanor’s heart leapt in her breast. There was the black hair and the blue eyes she had dreamed of, the dimpled chin, and the lips she longed to touch.
‘We’ve met,’ he said.
The smile he gave Eleanor set her heart racing. Despite all her best intentions she could not help remembering the way his body had felt when it had been crushed against hers: the strength in his arms, and the power of his chest. And by the smouldering look in his eye, he was remembering it too.
‘Have you indeed?’ asked the duchess, looking from one to the other of them. ‘In that case you can take Miss Grantham onto the floor for the cotillion. It’s just about to begin.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ said Lucien to the duchess.
‘It never has been before,’ she remarked. ‘You were always too busy going your own way.’ She gave him a curious look, then said, ‘The musicians are striking up. You’d better hurry.’
Lucien offered Eleanor his arm.
Resting her hand lightly on it, she could feel the heat of him through his tailcoat, and as he led her to the floor he was so close that she could smell the scent of his cologne. It was warm and musky. And underneath it was an unmistakeable scent of his own.
Taking a moment to steady her pulse and control the most noticeable of her reactions to his touch, she said, ‘I didn’t realize you knew the duchess.’
‘I spent one of my summer holidays with Charles when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘It was an . . . interesting . . . experience. The duchess decided we needed dancing lessons - I remember her telling me it was the hallmark of every civilized gentleman - but . . . ’
‘But you did not wish to take them?’ Eleanor smiled.
‘I was more of a soldier than a dancer, even in those days,’ he agreed. ‘But when I grew up I realized she was right. Being able to dance is the hallmark of a gentleman. It has taken me until now to realize that it can also be a pleasure.’
Eleanor felt a broad smile break out on her face. She could not help it. Even so, she knew she must not encourage him. Encouraging him would be dangerous.
‘You should not say such things, Lucien,’ she said.
‘Ah!’ His voice was full of satisfaction. ‘You remember my name.’
‘That is, I mean to say, Lord Silverton,’ she corrected herself hastily.
She had not meant to call him Lucien, it had just slipped out. In London, with no one to hear her, it had not mattered. But it was quite another thing to call him Lucien here. Fortunately, the other dancers had not heard what she had said, and her indiscretion had not been noticed.
‘Too late,’ he said. ‘The damage is done.’ His eyes glowed as he looked down at her.
‘Please, speak of something else,’ she begged him.
‘Very well. You look wonderful.’
His compliment made her tingle from head to foot. She could not help being pleased that he had noticed her gown. When he had seen her on previous occasions she had been wearing her worn and shabby muslin, but now he was seeing her in an elegant creation, and by the way he was drinking her in, his words were genuine.
‘Your hairstyle is new as well. It suits you,’ he said.
His eyes lingered on the elaborate chignon, and the soft tendrils that had been teased out around her face.
She was delighted that he had noticed, and yet at the same time his comments made her feel vulnerable. What did he mean by it? If in fact he meant anything at all?
Replying lightly, she said, ‘As befits the sister of the bride.’
His eyes danced, as though he understood why she had made such a light reply, and feeling she must turn the conversation into a less intimate channel, she made a remark on the elegance of the room. To her relief, he allowed her to turn the conversation, and made a similar remark before saying how happy Arabella and Charles looked.
‘She seems a sweet girl,’ he said, glancing at Arabella, who had now entered the ballroom, having greeted all her guests.’ I must admit, when you told me about the letters, I wondered —’
‘Whether she was a scheming hussy, who had had a string of admirers before managing to catch a future duke?’ asked Eleano
r with a smile, seeing where his thoughts had been tending.
He laughed. ‘The thought had crossed my mind. But that is obviously not the case. I see now why you were so determined to protect her. She’s very lovely, but she lacks your spirit. When I was introduced to her I realized that she is little more than a child.’
‘You underestimate her,’ said Eleanor. ‘But even so, I’m glad she has Charles to take care of her.’
His eyes returned to her own. ‘You should have someone to take care of you,’ he said meaningfully.
She swallowed. There was something intimate about his glance. It was as though his eyes did not rest on the outside of her, but looked inside her, seeing through to the depths of her being.
‘I . . . ’ She stopped. Her mouth had suddenly become dry, and the words would not come out. She tried again. ‘I do not need anyone. As you say, I have enough spirit to look after myself.’
His hand took hers as a part of the dance and she tingled all over. She hoped he would not notice her reaction, but the look on his face told her that he most definitely had.
‘Eleanor —’
‘I don’t think you should call me that,’ she said, relieved that a loud series of chords from the orchestra had hidden his indiscretion.
‘Why not?’ he asked teasingly. ‘It’s your name.’
‘It will raise —’
‘Expectations?’ he asked.
Her heart skipped a beat. What could he be meaning by talking to her like this? He sounded as though he wanted to raise expectations.
But before the interesting conversation could continue, the dance came to an end.
Lucien bowed and, as custom dictated, Eleanor curtseyed. Then he led her from the floor. He took her to the side of the room where, although surrounded by people, they were effectively alone. They knew no one in their vicinity, and would not be called upon to make conversation with anyone but themselves.
‘Eleanor — ’ he began . . . when a loud cry of, ‘Silverton! Ah! There you are,’ interrupted them.