Judith Ivory

The gown was extraordinary. Christina laughed deep down inside herself all the while she moved in it. How beautiful—and how very noisy—it was! Taffeta. Yard upon yard of rustling, churning taffeta, the woof and warp of different colors so that it changed and shimmered. A pale, iridescent blue that wasn’t blue but silver. Christina bounded down the terrace steps, watching it froth amongst her petticoats, delighted with the dress, the night, herself.

She laughed aloud when she recalled what she’d overheard in the powder room: “That Miss Bower is such a pretty girl. I wonder why she isn’t yet married.”

As if nineteen were the age of an old maid! No, no. Christina had missed one Season because her father had insisted on an extra year of schooling. She’d missed last Season because she’d been ill. But here she was at last. And no young lady had ever more warmly embraced the pleasures of a London social life. She felt more than happy to be where she was. She felt blessed.

Christina believed in the magnanimity of fate as only someone young and privileged can. After all, did she not bear tangible reminders—a scar by her ear, two on her shoulder—of how much fate smiled upon her? She’d survived a siege of smallpox with little damage. Even her illness had in fact worked to her advantage. It had brought a delicacy to her face, a face dominated now by hollows and cheekbones. Her deep-socketed eyes shone out like the bottoms of polished copper pots. Round, enormous, thick-lashed, her brown eyes seemed almost artificial in color: too exact a match with her light, burnished hair. Some people termed her a redhead, others a blonde. But all called her beautiful. Christina was alive in a way that made people stare. Incandescent. Like a star. And this was her firmament. She couldn’t imagine a life more heavenly than the one she led. And she had no intention of letting any gentleman make dramatic changes to it.

She had two strong reasons to support her attitude. First, there was something wrong with every gentleman she knew. Vain. Or self-conscious. Babbling. Or too quiet. It didn’t matter. She could find the particular variety of fault—put her finger on it with a kind of off-putting specificity at times—in each man. There was no one she
wished
to marry. Then, second, there was no
need
to marry: She was her father’s only heir.

Christina’s father was not terribly rich, but his money was solid. Winchell Bower was a barrister on the King’s Bench. He’d worked hard all his life and been astute in his investments. He owned a rather nice house in London, a rustic lodge on a grouse moor in Yorkshire, and a chic little flat on the Crescent in Bath. Last round, there had even been rumors of the honor’s list for him, though the King’s birthday had passed with no title forthcoming. Still, Christina could tell her father nursed hope for the future. Though, title or not, he was more than well-fixed.

Her friend, Thomas Lillings, had been first to point this out. “Your old man’s well-fixed.” He’d said it soberly, though the idea had quite cheered her. “He won’t be looking for money. He’ll be looking for a title for you.”

And look he may. In fact, Christina thought the looking business to be wonderful fun. Gentlemen calling, awkward and polite, trying so earnestly to make a good impression. Tea in the parlor. Chaperoned dancing in the music room. And then there were lovely parties like this one.

The whole situation, Christina thought, was well-fixed. Here was where she belonged. And here, with God’s grace and her father’s backing, was where she would stay. She intended always to be pursued, never to be caught. She intended to go to parties and wear gay, fluffy dresses and gossip behind fans with girls who whispered and giggled. This, she was sure, was what she’d been made for.

She leaned against the terrace gates and tried to catch her breath. The night seemed so unreal. She crossed her arms, hugging them to her. She could see the evening whiteness on her skin, her dress casting a blue glow up her arms to her bare shoulders. Whiter than white. “Like an alabaster statue,” Richard Pinn had murmured only a few minutes ago.

He was young and handsome and the eldest son of a baronet. And he was interested in her, ever so properly. Bowing and nodding. Voluble and tongue-tied by turns. She enjoyed his attentions. Her heart beat so hard, so happily, she could scarcely breathe.

Thus, she’d escaped to the terrace. She’d needed the night air. The gallant Mr. Pinn was too close, too attentive. The dining room had become overwhelming. There were too many people. She had eaten too much perhaps. Or laughed too hard. Or drunk a bit too much wine. Whatever the reason, the cure was cool, fresh air.

Above her, party lanterns swayed, hung from eave to eave. They gave an artificial but wonderful illumination to the evening. For a moment more, Christina’s thoughts, too, danced, as gay and unfocused as the lantern shadows coming through the boughs of trees. Then the wind picked up from a different direction. It brought a wisp of hair against her cheek.

And suddenly voices carried out onto the night air.

Surprised, Christina looked up. There were people on a balcony overhead. She stared, while at the same time the people above her grew silent. The white ovals of their faces all looked toward her.

The moment held. Inside, someone at the dinner table made a crystal glass ring with a fork. “May I have your attention. Another toast…”

Yet here on the terrace was another world. The men above her—for they were all men—were clearly defined. Light came from behind them, from inside their upper-story room. The party lanterns danced over their heads. While on two pedestals, part of the parapet at each corner of their balcony, two large lamps burned brightly. The men were lit as if on a stage. And they looked as if caught in the act—

“Christina? Is that you?”

“Thomas?”

“What are you doing down there?”

She pursed her lips. Thomas Lillings was not speaking to her in his usual pleasant tone. She said nothing.

“You gave us a start,” he said, more conciliatory. “We didn’t know you were down there.”

Humph.
“So what are you up to? That one woman might send a start into”—how many?—“six men?”

Her curiosity focused. Christina gave the balcony her full attention. There was a man there she didn’t know, something she considered truly unusual, for she knew everyone worth knowing. The fellow was tall, square-shouldered, and rather beautifully turned-out. The sort
of build that wore clothes well. The sort of clothes that spoke of a love of style and enough money to indulge it.

Thomas replied in a voice infused with some of its old affection, its humor. “Actually, we were up here having a smoke. The hostess was rather nasty about it downstairs. I don’t think ol’ Charlie ever gets a smoke with his brandy, poor fellow.” She thought she saw him smile. Then looked again. Five. She could only count five men now.

She hesitated. Had she imagined—

She abandoned the terrace in a rush. She heard Thomas call as she hoisted her skirts through the doorway, tilting to get their width through the French doors. Just in time. She hadn’t been mistaken. A gentleman was coming down the far stairs, two at a time. And he was more than well turned-out. He looked royal. Blue velvet coat and breeches, several inches of Mechlin lace bouncing against dark fingers. Rings, watches—several watches crisscrossed his coat! He glittered. His very shoes sparkled—diamond buckles! She had never seen anything quite like him before. He was a dandy. Of the first order. She tried to see his face, but he was traveling too quickly. She caught just the impression: dark skin against volumes of white neckcloth; black hair, shining, thick, clean. In back, his hair curled over his cravat to lie against velvet: jet-black against azure-blue.

He avoided the dining room and made straight for the entranceway.

She called to him. “Wait!”

He turned at her call, a kind of graceful pivot, and walked three steps backward, looking at her. He seemed taken by surprise. There was a rare gentlemanliness to him. Gentlemanliness that seemed not mere politeness, but a vocation, as with diplomats and kings. This politeness held him there for her, a few feet from the front door.

Christina remained by the stairs, the length of the foyer separating them, yet their eyes held. She could not look away.

He was perhaps thirty. With the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. They were fair—his dark coloring trumped by an unnatural, arresting blue. He had a sharply planed face, a broad jaw, a wide mouth. His body was slender, loose, long-limbed rather than compact. He was strikingly handsome. And a little eccentric. His clothes were fussy, excessive, full of pomp. They were more showy than merely upper class. The odd thing was he somehow carried it off. Another man would have looked ridiculous. He looked extraordinary. Christina could understand how—if he was who she thought—he should easily live the reputation he had.

He stood, as if waiting, while she, with timid curiosity, closed some of the distance.

Then, quite surprisingly, he asked, “Will it do then?”

Christina blinked. His voice was deep. Perfect vowels, the intonation of public school and university. “Will what do?”

“I’m not sure. But I can’t remember when I was last inspected so closely.” When she appeared awkward at that, he shook his head. “No, no, I rather liked it. Are you finished?”

“I…I didn’t mean…”

He raised his brow. “I am not offended.”

She pulled her mouth. As if offense to him were something to be avoided.

He glanced toward the door. An eagerness to go manifested itself briefly. Yet it didn’t take him away. His face came back to her. He tilted his head. “Come closer. Let me look at you.”

She was wary. The bloom of self-assurance, all over him, rankled. Yet it was also terribly attractive. She walked toward him.

He held out his hand, inviting hers. In the dining room behind them, the quartet began to play again. Soft music, the misleading tones of a single violin before the other instruments descended on it. Why she gave him her hand, she couldn’t imagine. Or did he just take it? But the sensation was devilish. His hand was much warmer than hers. And it did not touch her delicately. Richard Pinn had touched only her fingertips when greeting her tonight. This man’s thumb pressed into her palm, while his long fingers wrapped around the back of her hand, a grip that was gentle, yet brooked no resistance. Then he didn’t kiss her fingers as Richard had done. He drew her hand instead straight up over her head.

Alarmed, she tried to pull her arm down. But a hand touched her shoulder and turned her under his arm, as if the music in the distance was for them.

“Very nice,” he said as she came around. Still he held her hand in the air. Then, with his other hand, he took her chin and lifted her face to him. “You’re very pretty. Why don’t I know you?”

“Do you know every pretty woman?”

“Yes.” He smiled.

His smile didn’t seem wicked. It was very nice. It put creases at his eyes and softened some of the blistering arrogance of him.

“Should I have your name then?” he asked.

“No.”

She lifted her chin from his fingers. When she tried to free her hand, he would only let her lower it. He was frowning, staring at her so hard—

“Why don’t I know you?” he repeated.

“I was at dinner.”

“Were you?”

His smile showed a trace of surprise. “I came late. And, alas, am leaving early.” Much more sincerely now, “Won’t you tell me your name?”

“No.” She smiled. She liked this game.

“Are you someone’s cousin come to London? Someone’s sister?” He raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s wife?”

This made her laugh. “No.”

“If you don’t say, I won’t know where to find you. I’m going to France tomorrow, but I’ll be back and would like to call—”

“No, you mustn’t call—”

“Why?”

“My father wouldn’t permit it. He doesn’t approve of you.”

He was taken aback. “You have me at a disadvantage—or do I take the blame for another man’s—”

“The Earl of Kewischester.” She spoke his name as she’d heard it,
Kester,
with not only letters but whole syllables unpronounced.

He took a breath. “And do you share your father’s opinions?”

“Not all of them.”

“Then meet me.”

She looked at him. “What?”

“Tell me a place. Get me a message. Meet me.”

Another small laugh escaped. “You’re daft. I don’t know you.”

“But you’ve just said you do.”

“No, I don’t.” Yet still she was laughing. Why did this amuse her?

Then less amusing, he pulled her by the captured hand up against him. His arm dropped around her back.

“Sir,” she protested. But she liked the feel of him, the warm, rushing sensation he caused in her. Beneath the velvet of his coat, she could feel his chest, as mysterious and foreign as a Roman breastplate; it pushed against her palms.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ve never kissed a total stranger. In
fact, I think I prefer you don’t tell me your name.” He bent his head toward her. She could smell the brandy and cigars of the upstairs room.

“No—” It was mildly alarming, his nearness, his forwardness. But what could he do with fifty people in the next room? “I shan’t permit you to kiss me,” she murmured. Though she knew she was going to.

She waited. Seconds stretched out, delicious in their slow deliberation…

And he let her go. She almost fell from sheer surprise.

His laughter was quiet, more breath than voice.

Christina looked away sharply. “Am I so funny?”

“Yes. Are you truly so ruffled I didn’t do as you wanted?”

“Wanted?” She glared at him. “You surely don’t imagine I—”

“I didn’t imagine anything. I know a token resistence when I’m holding it.”

“You, sir, are exactly what they say: a cad.”

He laughed aloud. “Though not cad enough for you.”

“You’re horrid.”

“I know what I am.” He leaned and sent words back at her, articulating each one, like little stings. “And you, my dear, are a Hot. Game-playing. Little Baggage. Whoever you are.” He laughed again. “Albeit a very beautiful one.”

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