Edith Layton (8 page)

Just opposite hers, she saw, nodding mutely.

“It’s
very
late. You look like a little owl.” He laughed. “Good night, sleepyhead.”

The glow from that sweetly innocent endearment lasted until Bridget got to the facility he’d mentioned. She was astonished. Aunt had a lovely townhouse, but no indoor plumbing on the second floor, and certainly nothing as lavish as this. Here there were fine porcelain basins and bowls and a bathtub big enough for two.

When Bridget was through blushing over the thought of which two that might be, she decided a bath would have to wait for another time when she wasn’t so tired. Certainly a time when she was more comfortable about staying in this house. Right now she was hesitant to take off all her clothes and leave them off for that long. She looked at the big tub longingly as she hastily used a washcloth and a basin instead. As soon as she was done, she tiptoed back down the hall to her room.

She crept into bed, realizing how exhausted she was when her head touched the plump pillow. She worried one minute more. But the sheets were sweet-smelling and the bed so very soft that her worries faded into the dawning light, and she slept at last. She was still alone, although she felt less so than she’d been for years.

She woke to a kiss.

She was between sleep and awareness, and the kiss was so light and sweet it seemed part of some amazing but fading dream. She stretched and half rose, seeking, trying to follow it into the light.

She opened her eyes and saw Ewen bending over her. She shot up in bed, pulling up the coverlet, blinking in the full light of day.

Ewen was fully and magnificently dressed. He wore a dark green jacket over dazzling white linen, his vest was embroidered green and gold, and his cravat was tied casually but elegantly. He had on tight-fitting tan breeches and high boots with gold tassels, and he wore one gold fob. “I let you sleep for hours,” he said, smiling, “but I have to leave now and didn’t want you waking and finding me gone. I could have sent in a servant to wake you, but I decided to spare them the risk—I didn’t know how you’d react. Some people are very cranky in the morning. You could have been quite savage.”

But now she was fully awake. “Brave of you, indeed,” she said.

“Yes, well, I thought so,” he answered, and sat on the bed beside her.

She stiffened for a moment, until she saw him raise one eyebrow at her reaction. She realized how foolishly she was acting. He was fully dressed, and it was broad daylight, after all. He read all that in her face and smiled to himself. He was amused and pleased by how naive she was.

“A liberty, to be sure,” he said in answer to her unspoken concern, “but not an outrageous one, considering we’ll be man and wife as soon as I can rattle enough cages here in London. That’s what I’m off to do now. We need more than a vicar. I need a special license, and quickly. So I must call in a few favors from a politician or two, be charming to some friends at the House of Lords, and then pay a visit to a magistrate I know, to push the thing through. Otherwise it could take weeks. We don’t have them. But after I set matters in motion I’ll come back. I also have to do something about the things you need.”

“I don’t need anything, Ewen. I took everything I have with me. Well, I left a pair of shoes and a bonnet because they didn’t fit in my bag, but they were old anyway, and I have the rest.”

“Ah, we finally see the end of the coal scuttle. That’s good,” he said, gazing at her hair. It had come free of its night braid and tumbled around her face.

“No, that’s not the one I meant,” she said, brushing back a lock of hair, ready to defend her taste. But it was hard to argue with him, hard to even speak with him now.

He was so dashing he took her breath as well as all her resistance away. His dark hair was brushed back, still damp from his morning toilette, and she could smell some crisp, delicious scent left from his shaving soap. His eyes were dazzling with green and gold light, and his mouth, she saw now, was really perfectly shaped, and wonderfully tender for such a strong man.

“You need new clothing, my dear,” he said.

Her musing about his mouth stopped abruptly. She was not a beggar to his king. Well, she supposed she was, but it was embarrassing to have it so obvious. “I have clothes!” she retorted.

“Yes, I know, you do,” he said, “and very lovely you look in them, too, or you wouldn’t have attracted me. They were perfectly correct for Cecily’s companion, but not for mine. It’s a question of job requirements.”

It was unarguable. He lifted her chin with his finger. “Don’t be so unhappy. I want you to look beautiful. I have money, a great deal of it. We’ll sit down one day and go over it together so you know the extent of it should anything ever happen to me. But for now let me spend some on you; it would please me to see you looking as elegant as you can. And I know you can look
magnificent. No, not another word about the scar—I can see it forming on your lips. I have something better for them to do than argue.”

He did. His mouth was warm, then hot. He tasted of coffee and toothpowder, and something tartly sweet that was like dark nectar to her. He pulled her close, though he didn’t need to, because she found herself clinging to him, trying to get closer to the wonderful taste and touch of him. She’d learned to open her mouth to his, and he murmured something congratulatory when she did. She wasn’t doing it for him, though; it was all for herself now.

When one large hand slowly caressed her shoulder, she shivered. When it caressed her breast, she shook. It felt so strange, good and bad all at once, because it had to be wrong. He felt the change in her lips even before she could speak.

He wanted to strip off his jacket and press her back into the bed, to swamp her fears with the same sensations that were riding him, stunning her with the delicious knowledge of where they were going. He thought he could. She was so warm and muzzy with sleep; pliant, dreamy, delicious. Her mouth was so welcoming. Her smooth, curved breast just fit in his hand. The tip of it pebbled into his palm, and he felt the reaction stirring throughout his body. But her mouth grew taut just as her breast did, and he felt her slight withdrawal. It was enough to remind him of the hour, the day—and the days that would lie ahead.

“Quite right,” he said, dropping his hands and drawing back. “I must be going. But hold that thought, will you? Not the doubt and fear—the pleasure. It is a pleasure, Bridget, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

She bit her lip. “Perhaps if we were married…”

“I see. If I were your lawful husband, I could do anything and it would be good and acceptable to you?” he asked, watching her closely.

“Well,” she said slowly, beginning to think of any number of unmentionable things she could hardly imagine that he might do and she might not like, “that’s what I was taught.”

“Then you were taught rubbish,” he said curtly. He stood, straightening his jacket. “Married or not, you have to like whatever I do or else it’s not right. If you like it, then it is. Understand? I don’t enjoy pretense, I don’t like victims.”

She’d never pretended anything to him. But she was a victim of what life had done to her, and they both knew it, so she didn’t know what to say.

His voice became gentle, he touched her cheek lightly, and his eyes grew tender. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll sort itself out once we’re married, you’ll see. Oh—since you don’t have a maid yet, you’ll have to go downstairs for breakfast. I’ve asked for it to be left out for you in the morning room. Enjoy; I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and left.

She washed and dressed in her best frock; anything else would be unacceptable in this lovely room and house. Thinking of the house, she hesitated. Hungry as she was, she was nervous about going downstairs. B
ut you’ll be mistress here one day, my girl
, she told herself, held up her head, and went down the stairs.

The butler was a large man of middle years with distinguished-looking gray hair and a sober face. He smiled politely enough and directed her to the morning room. She wanted to exchange a few words, but
remembering how her aunt behaved with servants, Bridget merely nodded and thanked him.
Not so difficult
, she told herself happily, and went in to get her breakfast.

The room was well named. Morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, spotlighting a table big enough to seat a dozen. Bridget’s eyes flew to the sideboard laden with dishes and servers, silver tureens and urns. The rising scents of fresh bread, pastries, eggs, bacon, porridge, and coffee made her mouth water. But she stood stock still. A tall, harsh-faced, well-dressed man with red hair was selecting his breakfast from the assorted dishes. His head swung around when she stepped into the room.

He paused, his fork arrested in midair over a server heaped with golden shirred eggs. “Well, well,” he said with a slow smile, looking her up and down.

Without even thinking about it she turned her face so that her scar was shadowed and lowered her eyes, as she was accustomed to doing in the company of strange gentlemen. “No wonder Ewen was so distracted last night. Look what he had to come home to!” he said. “My name’s Rafe, little darling, what’s yours?”

“My name is Bridget Cooke, and I am Ewen’s fiancée,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, lord, here’s a romp!” he said with a wolfish smile. “Ewen’s promised bride, is it? Getting a head start on the honeymoon, are you?”

“I stayed here last night, but nothing untoward happened,” she protested, trying to hold her head high again. “Ewen was a perfect gentleman.”

“Oh, to be sure, to be sure,” he said, before he started laughing so hard he dropped his fork in the eggs.

T
he red-haired man who’d introduced himself as Rafe sobered instantly. Maybe he saw her face clearly at last.

He sketched a bow as best he could while still holding a plate full of food. “Apologies,” he said seriously. “It was just that I didn’t expect to find Ewen had such lovely company.” He put his plate down. “May I help you to some of this delicious food, Miss…Cooke?”

“Thank you, but I prefer to serve myself,” she said, though she’d lost her appetite. She went to the sideboard. She refused to leave the room, though every instinct shouted that she should. She had to face reality, though the redheaded man’s interested gaze was so disconcerting, her hands shook as she picked up a plate.

“So,” he said casually, putting some biscuits on his heaping plate, “you’re from the countryside? Have to be.
No London lady would be up this early. Your family coming down to breakfast a little later, then?”

“My family,” she said evenly, “is not here.”

“Ah!” he said.

She filled her plate quickly and went to the table. He seated her, and then himself—opposite her. Well, but it would be unfriendly for him to sit far away, she decided, and much too friendly if he sat beside her. Still, she didn’t like the cold blue eyes assessing her over the table. She lowered her gaze and studied her plate, surprised to see she’d put kippers on it. She hated kippers.

“Your chaperone?” he asked negligently.

“I—I don’t need one,” she said. “Ewen’s gone out to get a special license. We’re going to be married as soon as he can get one.” She stopped. It sounded incredible to her own ears. It had been a wildly strange concept in the middle of the night, and the glare of morning sunlight made it even stranger.

“A hasty fellow indeed,” Rafe remarked.

“Well, it’s because his father’s so terribly ill, you know,” she said, wondering how much she had to say to him.

“No, I didn’t,” he said with a slight frown.

They ate in silence for a few moments. She thought it was toast she was nibbling.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he commented, his eyes studying her.

“I’ve only been in London a month.”

He frowned more fiercely. “When will Ewen be back?” he finally asked.

“He said as soon as he can.”

“Then I’ll wait for him in the library, if you don’t mind. I won’t get in your way. I often pop in—it’s a privilege of
old friends—but breakfast’s usually not so lavish, or I’d come oftener. Excuse my confusion earlier,” he said in a softer voice, “but I saw Ewen last night and he didn’t say a word of this to me.”

“It was a sudden decision,” she said.

“Indeed.”

She thought about how she looked in her plain blue gown, with her hair braided up at the back of her head. His boots probably cost more than the sum total of everything she had on. He obviously didn’t know what to make of her, a scared, scarred, ill-dressed, tongue-tied female claiming to be the Viscount’s promised bride. She wouldn’t blame him for anything he thought—including the possibility Ewen had run mad. Maybe he had. Or she had.

“Please don’t let me change your plans,” she added conscientiously. “If it’s what you’re accustomed to doing, please wait for him.”

He nodded, and then, still frowning, concentrated on his breakfast.

When she was done pretending to eat, she excused herself and went into the salon Ewen had taken her to last night. It was the closest she could get to the front door without waiting out on the step for him to return. His friend Rafe disappeared into the library across the hall.

The butler appeared to ask if there was anything she needed. But all she needed was Ewen. A footman asked the same thing a while later, and by then she needed to speak with Ewen even more. She thought of all the things she had to say to him…and that maybe one of them had to be good-bye.

Someone came to the door just as she was starting
to worry about pacing a path into Ewen’s fine Turkish rug. She heard voices, but not his, and sighed.

The butler came to the salon. “The Viscount has sent these persons to see you,” he said, showing three people into the room.

Bridget knew none of them was gentry, because the butler had called them “persons,” but they were so well dressed and confident, they awed her by their presence and style. There was a spectacular-looking blond woman, a smart-looking dark-haired woman of middle years, and a willowy, exquisitely dressed man.

“Permit me,” the man said, bowing low. “I am Jocelyn, and here are Mesdames Finch and Blau. You are Miss Cooke? Very well, we begin. The Viscount asked Madame Blau to measure you for your new wardrobe, Madame Finch to be sure you have all the accessories, and I shall see to your hair—and whatever else needs my touch.”

“Y
our
touch, Jocelyn,” Rafe said from the hall, where he stood looking into the room. “Here’s a flight! Your touch is beyond most men’s—financially speaking, of course. I’m amazed. The great Jocelyn coming to a patron! I give you good day. Finch. See you’re thriving in your new profession. Too bad; I rather miss you in the old one. And Blau! You’ve made me fork over half a year’s income for my particulars too often to mention, but you never offered to come to my digs.”

“You never offered so much,” the little woman snapped back.

“I daresay,” Rafe agreed. “Ewen must care very deeply indeed. I congratulate you, Miss Cooke, indeed I do.”

She didn’t like his tone of voice and didn’t know what to expect from the trio, who were gazing at her as if
already measuring her not only for her wardrobe, but for a clue as to her appeal.

“Thank you,” Bridget told them at last, “but I don’t need a new wardrobe, accessories, or a new hairstyle.”

“Oh, my dear!” Jocelyn said, and Bridget found herself being laughed at for the second time that day. Only this time there were four people laughing at her—five, she decided sadly, if she counted the butler’s smirk.

“Apricot silk? Delicious,” Jocelyn said, nodding at the design Blau showed him. “The pearl hue? No, no, and no. She has no color in her face; pearl would make her vanish utterly.”

“With purple satin ribbons at the neck and a purple sash? I think not!” Finch argued.

“Purple!” Jocelyn cried, closing his eyes in pain. “
Only
if her gentleman dies, my dear. So funereal, so utterly deadly!”

“Well,” Finch sneered, “if you don’t do something about that hair, Joss, she might as well be dead.”

Bridget scowled. Not that they noticed. Though she stood in the middle of the room, she might as well not have been there. The three were deciding what she would wear and carry and walk with. They’d been at it for an hour. They’d all gone to her room, where Blau had pinned her into a lovely dark gold gown. But then they’d proceeded to discuss all sorts of clothing for her. They didn’t ignore her entirely; sometimes, when they were debating something, they’d turn to her and point out the part of her body they were dealing with.

They never asked her opinion. She had none. She’d only observed other young women’s fashions and never considered buying grand clothing for herself. But her
hair was her own, and there was a limit. “My hair might not be to your taste.” she said in a voice creaky from disuse, “but I like it.”

“Of course you do,” Jocelyn said, “and why not? It’s a lovely, rich sable, and with a natural wave. I wish I had such.”

“Exactly,” Finch said quickly. “I was merely talking about Joss doing his work.”

“Which would be a shaping, a style, a look. Do sit down—oh, my dear, what wretches we are! You must be exhausted,” Jocelyn said, pulling out a chair and seating Bridget at her dressing table. He deftly pulled the pins from her hair and threaded his hands through it, shaking it out so that it tumbled all around her face. “It would be a crime to savage such hair,” he crooned, producing a pair of scissors from a velvet envelope he took from his pocket. “A snipping, merely. A touch here, a taste there…watch, you’ll see.”

Bridget did. She was delighted by what he so deftly did. In what seemed like seconds he’d shaped her hair. He’d cut it into a slightly wedged shape so it was neat even when unbound. It fell into waves that lay in artful disarray against her shoulders. It looked elegant when he drew the mass of it up and pinned it high on her head, letting only a few strands flutter down around her face.

Bridget smiled at her reflection—until she saw Jocelyn exchange a frowning glance with Finch over the top of her head. “Can you do something about…?” he asked Finch.

She nodded. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it. Lucky I brought my case. I’ve just the thing,” she said, and went to rummage in a black case she had laid on the bed.

“I wouldn’t,” Blau said, looking up from a pattern. “Some men like flaws. It’s what attracts them.”

“Not he,” Finch scoffed. “And I’d know, wouldn’t I? The girls I worked with would have said something if he’d a queer kick in his gallop. Likes them straight, he does.”

Bridget gasped, and her eyes flew wide open.

“The girls at the
theater
, my girl. Whatever did you think I was talking about?” Finch said haughtily when she saw Bridget’s reaction. “I was an actress before I chose my present profession. Now, turn around,” she commanded. “I’m no prima donna, like Joss. I don’t want you watching—it ruins my concentration. And pray do not flinch. I’m not going to harm you, merely…”

“E
nhance
you,” Jocelyn supplied. “Our dear Finch uses cosmetics to
illuminate
young women. It’s provincial to protest. Ladies of fashion do what they must to be beautiful. It is expected.”

“It’s necessary,” Finch told Bridget, “especially for you—as you, poor dear, must know.”

Bridget lowered her head—and Finch immediately put a finger under her chin to push it up again. “I must work,” the woman told her. Seeing Bridget’s expression, she added in a softer voice than any she’d yet used, “Aw, don’t worry, luv. Just you wait until you see what I—and some of my potions—can do for you, dearie.”

“Powder won’t do it,” Jocelyn commented as Finch produced a huge, fluffy powder puff.

“What am I, a flat?” Finch snapped. “Don’t get your pantaloons into a twist. This’ll just be to gild the lily.”

It felt odd to have a stranger nose to nose with her, frowning as she stared into her face, Bridget thought. Stranger still when she started slathering Bridget’s face
with what felt like thick salve. Finch piled it on. It felt cold, and then warm, as though it were heating up as it lay against her skin. Bridget’s face felt strange, tight, and hot.

“Don’t!” Finch cried. “If you twist your face, it’ll all crack. Let it dry and keep still. Up, up, keep your head up,” she muttered as she rubbed something on Bridget’s eyelids.

All Bridget could do was worry, and not about how she’d look when Finch was done. She could always wash her face when they’d gone, after all. But now she had time to think about how they all acted toward her. They treated her like an object. She supposed a seamstress, hairdresser, and expert on cosmetics might consider the person they were working on as such. It was the way they talked to her that was so worrisome. They were more than familiar, less than friendly. They didn’t speak to her as they would have to Cecily or Aunt Harriet, that was certain.

“Done!” Finch said, interrupting Bridget’s worrying.

“Well, well, well,” Jocelyn said, circling Bridget like a shark around a capsized boat. “You have done it, old girl. Congratulations.”

Blau looked up from her patterns and studied Bridget. “Yes,” she said, “but I still don’t know if he’ll like it. Men have odd fancies. She was unique before.”

“She’s dazzling now!” Finch crowed.

Bridget spun around and finally stared at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t speak. Her hand crept up to touch her face, her scar, to be sure she was looking at herself.

“Don’t!” Finch shrilled.

Bridget dropped her hand and just stared instead.

Her eyes might look brighter because of the interesting shadows Finch had put there. Her cheeks and lips might be redder, too. But she didn’t see that. She only saw that she was beautiful. She was the girl of her dreams. She was the woman she’d have been if that dog hadn’t sunk its teeth into her flesh. Her skin was smooth and white and whole. There was no scar. None.

“Maquillage,” Finch said with a satisfied smirk. “I wonder no one ever told you about it before. It’s nearly your exact color, too. I’ll give you a pot and send you more when you need it. No trick to it at all. Pile it on, especially over the scar, and then smooth it out. Put it on first thing in the morning, and only take it off after he’s asleep. Don’t leave it on all the time, it will kill your skin in time. But what won’t? Have a care, though. No tears, and no screaming, unless you learn to do it through your teeth. And you must never, never smile—except with your eyes. It will make you look mysterious. He’ll love it.”

But Bridget hardly listened. She was staring at herself. Her face was whole at last. All of this—his advances, his proposal, leaving her aunt, staying here with him—had seemed unreal. But this! This was the most amazing thing of all. Bridget closed her eyes. It might only be the best and last part of the dream. She was afraid to open her eyes and find herself not transformed into this lovely perfect creature after all. She dared a glance again.

The unblemished woman with her eyes looked back at her again. Then she knew what bliss was. If she hadn’t been so terrified of ruining Finch’s work, she’d have cried.

The trio of fashionable helpers finally left her room.
She heard them congratulating themselves all the way down the stairs and out of the house. Now Bridget was ready to go downstairs, too. She took another long look at the elegant, smooth-faced stranger in her mirror. It was very hard for her to follow Finch’s instructions and not grin.

She sailed down the long staircase. No one would ever stare at her again and feel sorry for her. Nor could he. Wouldn’t he be surprised and proud? Now she could face him with a whole face and be his equal in that, at least.

She heard the deep rumble of his voice the moment she stepped off the staircase and into the hall. It came from the open door to the library, where he was obviously talking to his friend. W
on’t that blasted
R
afe be boggled, too, though
? she thought in delight. B
ut
E
wen…he’ll be so pleased
. Bridget ran her hands down the skirt of her new gown. The dress was only basted together, but she hadn’t let Blau take it with her. Not today. She couldn’t bear to part with it. Her new face didn’t match her old clothing, but this dark gold dress did. It was magnificent. Oh, but he’d be surprised.