Later, at White’s
The Duke of Marchmont waved his wineglass as he declaimed:
I know you all, and will a while uphold
The unyoked humor of your idleness:
Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That when he please again to be himself—
“I knew it,” Adderwood said. “I knew we should have Prince Hal tonight. Someone call a servant—better yet, a brace of them. Let’s get him home before he falls into the fire.”
Ten
Afternoon of Thursday, 23 April
The Duke of Marchmont had arranged with Lexham to collect the ladies and take them to the Queen’s House in his state coach. The vehicle was one he employed on ceremonial occasions, and it was large enough to accommodate comfortably a pair of ladies in hooped petticoats and two gentlemen encumbered with dress swords. Only three would travel in the carriage today, though, because Lexham was otherwise engaged.
Marchmont arrived a little before his time, more uneasy than he’d ever admit to being. He’d attended too many levees and Drawing Rooms to view them as anything more than social events.
This occasion, though, could determine Zoe’s future. It could decide whether she would move freely in the ton, as all her sisters did, or be pushed to its fringes, permanently on the outside looking in.
While he waited at the bottom of the main staircase, however, his mind wasn’t on the challenge ahead but on the dinner party of the previous week. In the cold light of the following day, and in the dark misery of the world’s vilest headache, he had not been happy with his behavior.
He hadn’t seen her since then. He’d told himself he didn’t need to. He’d done all he could. He’d helped her order her wardrobe for the Season—or at least the start of her wardrobe. He’d accomplished the impossible by finding a horse lively enough to suit her while not the sort of fire-breather liable to kill her. He’d had her measured for a saddle and fitted for riding attire. He’d obtained the crucial invitation to the Drawing Room.
The rest was up to her, and if she—
The sound of rustling fabric made him look up.
She appeared at the landing.
She paused there and smiled, then flipped open her fan and held it in front of her face, concealing all but her eyes—while meanwhile, below, the low, square neckline of her gown concealed almost nothing.
The deep blue eyes glinted as they regarded him.
“How splendid you are,” she said.
He wore a satin frock coat with an extravagantly embroidered silk waistcoat and the obligatory knee breeches. Under his arm he carried the required chapeau bras. His court sword hung at his side.
“Not a fraction as splendid as you,” he said.
She was beyond splendid. She was…delicious.
Younger women viewed court gowns as ridiculous and old-fashioned. They were, certainly, when one tried to combine today’s fashion for high waists with the great skirts of olden times. But he’d told Madame Vérelet to drop the waistline of Zoe’s court gown. The bodice and petticoat were a deep rose sarsnet. The combination of vibrant color and lowered waist created a more balanced effect. The layers of silver net and the delicate lace trimming the drapery and train made her seem to be rising out of a cloud upon which sunlight sparkled, thanks to the diamonds her mother and sisters must have lent her. The gems adorned the gown, her neck and ears, her plumed headdress, her gloved arms, and her fan.
It helped, too, that Zoe didn’t seem to regard hoops as an encumbrance. Judging by the way she descended the stairs, she seemed to have adopted them as an instrument of seduction.
She closed the fan and made her way down slowly, every sway of the skirts suggestive.
His mouth went dry.
“Ah, well done, well done,” came Lexham’s voice beside him.
