“More beautiful,” Clarice corrected her.
Lady Mercer subsided with a “Humph!” and a half-smile.
Clarice loved women like Lady Mercer. She was plump, wrinkled, and soft-looking, an appearance totally at odds with her sharp tongue and razor wit. She was a force to be reckoned with, a woman who wore the newest styles and never tolerated fools. Her observations would keep Clarice on her toes and, more significantly, everyone interested in the presentation. Indicating Lady Mercer, Clarice said, “She knows the most important element of beauty.”
The young girls turned to gaze incredulously at the old woman.
“What?” young Lady Robertson inelegantly asked.
“A smile,” Clarice told her. “Any man will look twice at a lady who smiles as if she knows the secret of being a real woman.”
“I ought to know the secret. I’ve been married four times,” Lady Mercer snapped, but at the same time she blushed so brightly, the rouge on her cheeks disappeared into the influx of color.
The girls leaned their heads together and tittered.
“So first we must practice our smiles.” Clarice gestured, bringing their eyes front. “Smile now. Smile as if your dearest love stood before you.”
Instead, they froze in place, expressions of dismay, pleasure, and infatuation on their faces. Then, as one, they smiled, stunning, tempting smiles of melting charm.
Turning, she saw why.
Lord Hepburn stood in the doorway.
Nine
Never frown. It causes frown lines.
—THE DOWAGER QUEEN OF BEAUMONTAGNE
Lord Hepburn wore a gentleman’s casual dark blue jacket with a waistcoat and trousers of tan that accentuated his height. His black hair feathered over his forehead and fell around his ears, a shining, barbaric fall. His rough hands flexed at his sides like restless weapons. His face, with its hooked nose, broad chin, and intense eyes, reminded her of a painting she’d once seen of an ancient warrior. A ruthless warrior. A conquering warrior.
Clarice’s heart gave a hard thump, then began a rapid race.
Why had she given in to temptation and come to his home? How could she have imagined she could outwit him? All the money in the world couldn’t save her from him if he decided to take her.
Her palms grew damp, and she hoped desperately that he didn’t plan to stay. Foolish even to think he might, but he made her nervous. She, Princess Clarice, the woman who could speak to any group with confidence.
In her loud tones Lady Mercer said, “Damn, that’s one handsome man!”
He seemed not to have heard her. His gaze swept the girls in the rainbow of colorful gowns seated daintily throughout the room. He bowed at them all—and the gust of romantically inspired sighs almost knocked Clarice over.
In an elaborate display of obeisance he then bowed to Clarice. “Your Highness, tonight, when you have a free moment, may I have the pleasure of your company?”
Clarice heard a small hiss; Lady Blackston didn’t approve of Lord Hepburn visiting with the princess.
He seemed not to hear but continued. “My sister and I wish to consult with you on how to make this ball a truly majestic occasion.”
From the crowd, Clarice heard an “Aha.” So it was all right for her to spend time with Hepburn as long as they discussed the business of the ball—and as long as Millicent chaperoned them.
“Of course, Lord Hepburn.” Clarice spoke as formally, as if she were addressing King George himself. “I’m delighted to give you the benefit of my experience.”
He inclined his head and bowed again. He must have padded shoulders beneath that jacket. No man could have shoulders that broad. “I thank you.”
The older women were eyeing them critically, as if watching for the real truth about Clarice, and Clarice was careful to turn away from him, as if she gave him not a second thought.
Which she didn’t. Shouldn’t. She should concentrate on selling her creams to the largest, most affluent audience she’d ever faced.
Speaking to Miss Erembourg, Clarice touched the chair she had placed to face the audience. “I shall need a volunteer whom I can make beautiful.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you make him beautiful?” young Larissa called out, and pointed to Lord Hepburn.
Everyone broke into giggles.
Clarice laughed too, relieved to be able to behave naturally. “Lord Hepburn is already beautiful enough.”
He solemnly accepted the tribute.
But spoiled, pretty Larissa wasn’t about to give up. “His skin is tanned by the sun. You promised you’d show us how to remove the sun’s marks.”
Prudence clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, make my brother beautiful.”
Clarice’s hand itched to smack her. The child really did need a restraining hand—or at least the sense God gave a turnip.
“If you made him beautiful, that would be a true testament to your abilities,” Lady White intoned.
Lady Mercer sat back with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She was enjoying this far too much.
The chortling grew in intensity as Clarice shook her head. “Lord Hepburn would not agree to sit still while I smeared him with cream.” She hazarded a glance at him.
His cheek was creased as if he fought a smile. Lifting the fringe of hair that hung over his forehead, he revealed the burned and reddened pucker that marred his brow. “Can you remove this scar from my face?”
The room grew quiet.
What was he doing? And why was he doing it? He acted as if he were considering this absurdity! “I can’t remove it. I can conceal it.”
“Very well.” He seated himself on the chair she’d placed for Miss Erembourg. “Conceal it. Make me beautiful, and I vow every one of my relatives will indulge in your goods.”
Clarice saw mesmerized women nod, and knew it was true. Having the earl of Hepburn seated in her chair, submitting himself to her ministrations, bettered any feat of showmanship she could have dreamed up.
But…but. She would have to touch him. Touch his face. Stroke his skin. Study him intently and then touch him some more.
She didn’t want to do it. She could scarcely look at him with equanimity, much less caress him as she would a…a loved one.
Yet, as she viewed the anticipatory smiles on every face, she knew when she was trapped. The ladies wanted to see her do this. They wanted to see her fail.
So she would have to succeed. Donning the smile she always kept ready, she said, “Then, of course, I’ll make you beautiful.” First she had to push his hair away from his face. An easy task, yet her fingers skimmed his mane, not equal to the task of testing the strands and discovering if they were truly as silky as they looked.
The silence in the room was deafening when she at last sank her fingers into the dark mass. It felt warm, alive with vitality—and contrary as she tried to push it off his forehead and it repeatedly fell back down. Making an exasperated sound, she reached for the yellow ribbon she’d set out on the table.
Miss Symlen broke the silence. “Have you ever worked on a man before?”
“Yes, but I can’t tell you who.” Clarice walked behind Hepburn, scooped up the length of his hair, and secured it with the ribbon. Then she smiled at the older women, inviting them to share the joke. “Men are as vain as women, but they don’t like it known.”
The ladies looked between Clarice and Hepburn as if wondering if they dared give way to merriment.
Then Hepburn chuckled deeply, and everyone else laughed too.
Stepping away, Clarice looked at him. Hepburn should have appeared foolish, sitting in a room full of women with a ribbon tied in his hair.
He did not. Instead, with his hair back, he sported a stark appeal that riveted the ladies.
Didn’t the other women see how imposing he was? How dangerous? It was a rare man who would place himself in such a position without having his masculinity threatened, but there was never any question of that. Instead, he imposed the straiten
ing bonds of masculinity on the completely feminine gathering in a way that frightened Clarice—and Clarice didn’t frighten easily.
Hurriedly she turned to her table, opened a jar, and dipped in her fingers. Taking a fortifying breath, she returned to Hepburn and dabbed the pale unguent on his cheeks, his chin, his nose, and forehead. Speaking to the audience, she said, “You don’t need to apply much of my royal secret complexion cream. It takes only a dab to freshen the complexion in a marvelous way. You’ll note the red patch here”—she pointed to his jaw—“where Lord Hepburn’s valet scraped the skin while shaving.” She dabbed the unguent there. “The cream will take the sting away and heal the injury. In truth, when they shave every day, men need this more than ladies.” She pulled a long face. “But I wish you luck in convincing any man to care for his face in such a manner! Any man except Beau Brummell anyway.” Making sure everyone in the room could see her motions, she rubbed the unguent in circles all over Hepburn’s face.
He sat docile under her ministrations, but irresistibly she was swept back to her childhood when a traveling menagerie had come to the palace. She’d begged to pet the lion, and her father had allowed her. The lion had purred and stretched, but beneath her palms she’d felt the strength of its muscles. She’d seen the length of its claws, and when it had turned its head and stared at her, she had perceived a wildness that no bars could contain.
Grandmamma had discovered her and quickly removed her from the cage, but that wildness had called to her soul.
So it was with Hepburn. He was gloriously perilous and wild, and something about him called to her.
The heat of his skin burned her fingertips, and in his eyes she saw a dark stillness that hid his thoughts. Hid his soul.
“There!” she heard herself say brightly as she wrenched her gaze away. “That’s the first step, and for most men the only step that’s needed. But since Lord Hepburn asked that I cover his scar, an infinitesimal mark that only adds to his cachet as a soldier and a hero—”
The ladies gave a murmur of approval and a small round of applause.
“—I’ll also need to use a little of the royal secret color emulsion.” Clarice moved to her table and selected a smaller jar from among the lineup. “How does that feel, Lord Hepburn?” She didn’t look at him as she asked.
“Very refreshing, and I enjoy the scent.”
She heard the mockery in his tone; he was playing to the crowd, selling her products, as he had promised.
Miss Larissa Trumbull came gracefully to her feet. “Might I smell the cream?”
“Of course.” Clarice extended the jar, but Larissa walked past as if Clarice weren’t even there. She strode to Hepburn, leaned close to him, close enough for him to see down her considerable décolletage, and took a long breath. “Ummm.” She made a noise that sounded like a moan.
The other girls watched her enviously. Her mother smiled enigmatically, obviously proud that her daughter had taken the lead. Two of the other mothers put their heads together and buzzed like angry bees, but everyone in the room now knew that Larissa had made plans to capture the oh-so-eligible Lord Hepburn.
The minx.
The fool. Clarice’s gaze swept the chamber. She saw adoring gazes and once again heard infatuated sighs. Most of these young women were on the hunt—for Hepburn. They were all fools!
“So, Miss Trumbull, you concur?” She put the jar down with a snap. “The scent is refreshing.”
“Very refreshing.” Larissa slowly straightened up, allowing Hepburn another chance to view her figure through the diaphanous folds of her gown.
“Let me smell it too!” Miss Georgia Symlen leaped to her feet.
“And me!” young Lady Tessa Cutteridge followed.
Hepburn held up his hands. “If I might make a suggestion? Princess Clarice will give everyone a private demonstration of her wares later. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”
Clarice smiled tightly. “I will indeed. Later this evening and tomorrow, and indeed I’ll be available at any time in case you have questions.”
“Oh, all right.” Georgia sulkily subsided.
Larissa tossed her head, then slowly and with a great swaying of hips, she made her way back toward her chair. It was a performance worthy of a stage actress, one intended to crush her rivals and inflame Hepburn.
Clarice decided to not to wait for the grand finale but started speaking again. “As we let the royal secret complexion cream soak into Lord Hepburn’s face, I’ll explain how to use the royal secret color emulsion.” She showed them the contents of the tiny jar. “These emulsions are tinted to match your skin tone and cover any marks that aren’t part of your normal, smooth, lovely skin.”
“You mean…that’s an enhancement?” Mrs. Trumbull lifted her plucked eyebrows in horror. “You can’t tell these proper young ladies to wear the mask of a slut! Their youth must be their only cosmetic.”
Clarice did her imitation of shocked very well. “Enhancement? Not at all. I would never suggest that a girl or any lady use anything to alter her natural beauty.” Now she slipped into her sincere mask. “But is it fair that a girl go to her first ball and face the scrutiny of every eligible gentleman, and be labeled a wallflower because that day she has a blemish right on the end of her nose?” Clarice wrinkled her own nose, and with a clean handkerchief wiped the extra cream off Hepburn’s face.
He watched her knowingly. He knew what she was doing—playing the crowd like an angler with a fish.
Clarice ignored him as well as she could, which wasn’t well at all, since she was touching him, looking at him, taking care to leave only the slightest hint of moisture on his face and knowing that that would smooth out the lines sun and weather had driven deep. “I don’t know about any of you, but it seems that whenever I’m faced with a most important event, such as a ball, the end of my nose develops a spot.”
The young girls laughed nervously, and a few touched the marks on their faces.
Clarice didn’t give anyone time to think, she kept talking. “I personally believe a woman should be judged for her beauty and wit, not a momentary blemish—especially since blemishes always seem to arise on the very night of a young lady’s debut.”
Heads nodded in unison. Almost everyone had faced such a crisis.
But Mrs. Trumbull said, “I cannot agree. If a girl can’t control herself enough to maintain a smooth complexion, how will she ever be able to manage a household and keep her husband’s interest?”
The heads stopped nodding. No one agreed except the fabulous Larissa, but they didn’t dare say so. Mrs. Trumbull was spouting the generally accepted nonsense among the ton—that every young debutante should be made to face the scrutiny of every gentleman without refuge of any kind. It was just that kind of cruelty that drove so many girls into spinsterhood.
Before Clarice could begin her standard reply, Hepburn drawled, “I can’t imagine what difference wearing a dab of colored cream could make to a woman’s efficiency. I think you’ll find, Mrs. Trumbull, that men are not so irrational as to think their wives should be chosen by their control over their complexion.”
At the affronted look on Mrs. Trumbull’s face, Clarice could scarcely hold back her gurgle of laughter. And from the expressions around the room, she thought others were also struggling, for Mrs. Trumbull didn’t dare disagree with the honored Lord Hepburn.
Larissa smiled and turned on Mrs. Trumbull. “Lord Hepburn is so wise, don’t you think, Mother?”
Recovering herself, Mrs. Trumbull said, “Why, yes, daughter. He exudes a unique opinion.”
A few moist, merry explosions occurred toward the back of the room, and hastily Clarice said, “The royal secret color emulsion is like a bonnet or a gown. Not handsome in itself, but requiring a fresh young lady to give it life.” Turning back to the table, she picked up the darkest tint she had, ascertained it matched his skin, then quickly dabbed it on his scar.
Hepburn watched her, his scrutiny so searching, it seemed he wished
to strip off not her clothing, but her masks.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she dabbed and smoothed the scarred ripples on his forehead. “Most women close their eyes at this point,” she said softly to him.
“Most women aren’t interested in the splendor before their faces,” he answered.
Sharply she turned away from him toward the crowd, and with her finger indicated the scar area. “See how the redness disappears with just the slightest application?”
“It’s very soothing,” he said in a tone of wonder. “Not heavy or greasy.”
He was a good model. He said the right things, he gave her credibility and respectability—and she couldn’t wait to get him away from her. Quickly she finished her application, using all the considerable skill at her disposal, then stepped away and gestured. “There. You see how royal secret creams don’t change a face, but merely subtly put the finishing touch on a handsome countenance.”
The ladies applauded and murmured politely.
“Thank you, Princess Clarice.” Hepburn stood up and bowed to her, then to the crowd. “Now I’ll leave you to more feminine demonstrations.”
She curtsied in return. “Thank you, Lord Hepburn, for your patience. No other man would have been so kind.” It was true—and how she hated it!
Busily, so she didn’t have to look at him again, she arranged the jars on her table.
He walked past her toward the door.
She relaxed.
As if pulled up by a thought, he stopped. “Mrs. Trumbull, you’re a matron of great expertise in the matter of propriety. May I ask you a question?”
Mrs. Trumbull cast a triumphant glance at the other ladies. “Of course, my lord, I’m glad to help.”
“Suppose a guest arrives in your home in time for a ball, and that guest is everything that’s noble, gracious, and honored, but has fallen upon ill fortune.”
Clarice tensed. No. He wouldn’t dare.
He concluded, “Should this guest be invited to mingle among the other guests?”
Mrs. Trumbull cleared her throat in pompous keenness. “An Englishman, or in your case, Lord Hepburn, an unusually illustrious Scotsman, must always welcome those of like ilk into their home, especially if they’ve fallen on bad times. It’s the only Christian thing to do.”