The Dress of the Season (2 page)

“Mrs. Grace,” Felicity dipped to a curtsy. Osterley was left to blindly wonder when they had been introduced. “Thank you. It was a gift from my guardian, Lord Osterley.” Her eyes flitted to him, wide and full of gratitude. “It’s the most wonderful gift I have ever received.”

Osterley felt something warm and strange go through him, settling like happy butterflies in his stomach. But then Mrs. Grace said the sentence that turned a tenuous situation into a disaster.

“My poor Miss Grove, I fear I should warn you: that is not the kind of gift one receives from a guardian.” Her voice grew louder, just enough to draw the attention of those standing near. “It is the kind of gift one ‘earns’ from a protector.”

A horrid silence filled the space between them.

That was all it took—in that one sentence, the sensational silver dress was transformed from ethereal to lurid. And it could not be changed back.

“Do you deny it, Lord Osterley?” Mrs. Grace said, her voice sticky with malice.

A deaf roar of anger filled his ears, but his jaw stayed unerringly, austerely, shut.

“Why . . . you horrid cow!” Felicity cried, and Osterley cringed. He put his hand on her arm to still her.

“Please,” he begged. “Do not make this worse than it already is.”

Although, in all honesty, it could not get much worse.

Because, by the time Osterley entered his library, Felicity in tow and Aunt Bertha behind her, everyone in Almack’s had heard of Mrs. Grace’s comment, Felicity’s indelicate response—and Osterley’s lack of one.

“There are two ways I can see this turning out,” Aunt Bertha was saying as she entered the library, snapping Osterley’s red focus to her calming voice behind Felicity’s outraged frame. “Either people will believe that you have made Felicity your mistress, in which case, I suggest you marry her immediately.”

“Marry! Him?” Felicity’s nose turned up. “Thank you but I’d rather not spend the rest of my life being instructed and ignored in turns,” she quipped.

Instead of rising to that bait, Osterley concentrated on his voice and regaining some veneer of control. “What is the other option, Aunt Bertha?”

“That everyone will realize Mrs. Grace is a silly woman eaten up with jealousy, because she has been going on and on about that silver lace from Madame LeTrois for ages now. Kept saying it would be her first out-of-mourning costume.” Aunt Bertha sniffed. “I would think the latter outcome more likely, but it will depend on how we handle the situation now.”

“Right,” Felicity agreed. “Aunt Bertha and I will go out and make certain everyone knows that Mrs. Grace is a jealous harpy, and that will be that. I have far more friends than she, I’m certain.”

“No.” Osterley said abruptly. “You cannot go out, paying calls on your friends.”

“And why not?”

“Because . . .” he drawled, as cold and disapproving as he could make his voice, “I have no doubt you would use the phrase ‘jealous harpy’ verbatim, and only make matters more difficult.”

Relief, mingled with a tinge of regret, shot through him as he saw that his set down had worked. Perhaps too well, as hurt filled her eyes. She looked as shamed as a child, too shocked to retaliate.

“Perhaps it would be best,” Bertha interjected calmly in the charged atmosphere, “if we approached this from another angle. Madame LeTrois obviously delivered the wrong package. So, let us apply to her.”

“To what purpose?” Osterley grumbled, stepping to the sideboard and pouring out a glass of brandy. The decanter had a slight sheen of dust, so rare was it that he took a drink. He would have to speak to his housekeeper about her standards, he thought vaguely. Then he remembered that he had issued an edict months ago that his library was not to be touched, and the Felicity had informed the household staff as much. Apparently, they listened to her.

“While you may disapprove of Felicity and I spreading our message of innocence, Madame LeTrois, by the barest whisper in her client’s ears, would be able to spread the word quite effectively,” Aunt Bertha replied. “And considering how much she is to blame, she should be quite happy telling people that this dress is not the one you purchased.”

As Osterley considered this option, Felicity’s syrupy voice floated across the room. “Oh, but there is a problem with that, Aunt Bertha.” Osterley’s eyes flicked to hers, and he read triumph in those sparkling brown orbs. “For you see, he
did
buy this dress.”

Aunt Bertha turned to her curiously. “My dear?”

“There was a note, included with the dress,” she replied calmly, her eyes steady on his. “In Osterley’s hand. Surely you remember it, my lord?”

Osterley simply closed his eyes, resigned. The note. The blasted note. Of course he remembered it. He had dashed it off when he received word that the dress was ready for delivery.

My dear lady—I hope the silver lace meets with your approval, and I with your affection. Osterley.

One could never accuse Osterley of being sentimental, thus he chose to be straightforward. He wanted Mrs. Grace to know that it was he who bought her the dress, and the reason behind it. After all, with someone of Mrs. Grace’s life experience, there was no need to be coy. Little did he think that if read by someone else—say, his ward—that the note might be misinterpreted as an altruistic bit of goodwill.

“No reply, Osterley?” Felicity continued, leaning against the desk. “Again?”

Her voice was triumphant. But that was not what caught Osterley’s attention in that moment. It was the way she leaned against the desk, her hip resting on the dark wood, her heavy velvet cloak, a dusky rose in color, fell open revealing the slinky fabric of her skirt peaking through. It shone in the candlelight, from the sconces on the wall, illuminating the curve of her thigh, the length of her leg beneath the fabric. Underneath the cloak, the skirt receded into shadow, where her tiny waist was only located by the slightest sparkle from the small crystals sewn onto the bodice.

And suddenly, Osterley was very, very angry. At what he could not pinpoint, not in that moment, but he knew it had to do with Felicity, that dress, and the way she just . . . cut through any sense of propriety!

“Yes, Felicity, I remember the note.” He replied softly, steel lacing his words. “But it matters very little. What matters now, is that we weather this storm. And I cannot see how that can be done here. We must remove you to Croft Park.”

“What?”

“My dear nephew!”

“You cannot remain in town, Felicity, not while there is this gossip swirling about you.”

“Harris, be reasonable,” Bertha began. “If we were to abdicate town, it could be seen as an admission of guilt!”

“I cannot have my home dragged through the mud, not with the work I’m trying to do in Parliament . . .”

“You’re working on legislation to improve field dredging, I think a little mud might be fitting,” Felicity replied, too smart for her own good. Realizing her mistake at his silent stare, her mouth snapped shut.

“And it is that kind of speech that makes me believe I am right to send you away. Pack your things. You leave at first light.”

The room fell silent. Osterley let his eyes flit to Felicity’s face, and was horrified to see tears there, threatening to fall from her eyes. His jaw twitched slightly, but his resolve held. He would not be moved.

“You cannot—” she tried, her plea strangled with emotion.

“I can. And I have,” he replied. He could only watch as Felicity, gulping breaths to hold back her tears, turned and fled the room.

“Well, my dear boy, you really have done it now,” Aunt Bertha finally breathed. “Would you be so good as to pour me a small glass? I feel I could use it as well.”

He returned to the sideboard. “Aunt Bertha, how could you have let her—” but he was quelled by his great-aunt’s austere gaze. He relented at its sight. After all, he knew that look’s effectiveness; he had copied his own from her.

“Don’t, Harris. We both know very well, the blame for this debacle does not rest at my door. Nor does it rest at Felicity’s.”

Bertha was the only one who still called him by his given name, and the only one he would accept admonishment from. He gave the smallest of nods acknowledging her point, as he poured her a short drink out of the dusty decanter.

“I assume that dress, while purchased by you, was not for Felicity. I merely wish you had better taste than Anna Grace,” she sniffed.

“I promise you,” Osterley replied coldly, “Mrs. Grace has lost favor in my eyes.”

“For what little good it does Felicity,” Bertha countered. “You are making a mistake to send her to Croft Park, Harris. It only makes it harder for her to reclaim her innocence. Besides, she has not been back in four years. She was not even allowed to return for the funerals—the pox was still too rampant.”

“Well, then,” he countered, “perhaps it is time she saw it again. You can take her on a tour of the village, become reacquainted.”

“Not I,” Bertha replied in a huff. “I am not your ward to be ordered about. Nor do I live on your charity. I agreed to stay with you four years ago for the sake of that sweet girl, whom you foisted on me with such relief I’m surprise your sigh wasn’t heard all the way in America.” She held her head high. “I have no desire to travel to Croft Park, and since I disagree with your decision to send her, I see no reason to follow.”

“Aunt Bertha—”

“No. If you want her to go so badly, you take her. I will remain in town, and make certain Madame LeTrois drops the right story in people’s ears, and that horrid Mrs. Grace pays for her foolish jealousies. And hopefully I will do this swiftly enough that you will bring that child back here before you can utter the phrase ‘I was wrong, Aunt Bertha.’”

“I cannot simply leave, Aunt, I have work to do—” Osterley began, but was cut off with a shake of her head.

“So do I, my boy. You will simply have to pray that I do it quickly.”

Chapter Three

Felicity sat in the dark, the silver gown pooling around her, her sniffles the last remnants of her crying jag. She was not ashamed by her crying. Far from it. When the world comes crashing down about one’s ears, a good cry is often the only way to expel all the difficulties, and clear your head to face the aftermath. At least, that was Felicity’s theory. And at that moment, she was putting it to the test.

It wasn’t
fair
. How could Osterley have acted so appallingly? How could he be so cruel as to take them from London just as the Season began? And the worst of it was, she was in the right! He did purchase the dress, and she did no harm in wearing it! It was the vicious Mrs. Grace’s words that did the damage, not Felicity’s. Indeed, for once her less-than-decorous reply had fallen on deaf ears.

It was Osterley’s silence that had spoken volumes.

And to think, mere hours before Felicity had been standing in this very room, being pinned to death by Collette, and staring in wonder at her reflection in the tall glass, as she was transformed.

“It’s so stiff!” Felicity had said, as Collette pulled a bit here and there. “Look here, at this spot across my ribs? The lace and mesh, it has no backing—you can see my undergarments straight through it!” She found her brown eyes wide with shock as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—which was difficult to do as Collette bobbed and weaved and pinned around her, ordering her more than once to stand perfectly still.

“
Non
, mademoiselle,” Collette had said, her words awkward not only because of the French accent, but because of the pins she held in her mouth. “The dress is not to be worn with undergarments. One is meant to see the hint of the woman beneath the lace. Which is why the bodice is so stiff—it had been starched to hold up your décolletage. Which is less than we expected, I’m afraid.”

“Less?” Felicity said, instantly worried.

“
Oui
, but it is not a problem—since the back is open, we simply pull in the shoulder pieces a bit. Men have large imaginations when it comes to the bosom,
non
? We will make you as curved as you are in his dreams.” Collette laughed at her own joke, but masterfully went to work pinning the shoulders of the gown so it pulled up the bodice just so, making her breasts look round and full, even without the advantage of a corset.

“There, mademoiselle.” Collette stood back, surveying the dress, pinned into place on Felicity’s form. “What do you think?”

Felicity met her own eyes in the long oval mirror that stood in the corner of her room, and did not recognize herself.

The dress had changed her body. What had once been somewhat slight, was now lush and full. The bodice was silver lace over starched silver silk, pushing up her bosom to full ripeness, the little crystals sewn into the hearts of the lace, catching the light and giving her shimmer. Beneath her breasts, little slashes of her skin showed through tiny gaps in the lace, under the mesh. One would have to look very closely to know about it. But Felicity did know about it—and it made her cheeks warm.

Under the bodice, the dress fell in silver silk, the absolute lightest layers, but woven to catch the light, and showing where it sat against her body. Her tiny waist, her long thighs. The back was truly remarkable. The absence of a high back allowed for the line of her spine—one of her most beautiful features, Felicity thought privately—to be shown at full advantage.

And the color! Oh the color, just the lightest of silvers—almost white, but not dull. Instead she was ethereal, glowing, her skin warm and rosy against the fabric, the dark brown, almost black hair catching the shine in its loose waves.

Now, Felicity, in her normal life, was not a dowd. Far from it, in fact. She enjoyed fashion, like many young ladies. Enjoyed her friends, her ribbons, her gossip, her life. In fact, she had more than once been accused of enjoying her life a bit too much. She found enjoyment in just about everything society had to offer, and everyone liked her.

Everyone except the one who mattered most
; the thought wandered across her mind. But she quickly put it aside.

“All of my friends are going to be so terribly jealous!” Felicity squeaked with pleasure, enthralled by the sight of herself in the gown. “I will dance every dance and they will die of envy.”

“You like it, then? You do not think it too daring?” Collette asked cautiously.

Daring? Yes, yes it was. It was the utter cusp of fashion, of course. One would expect nothing less from Madame LeTrois. It was also frightening, being so bold as to walk into Almack’s in the silver concoction, with unexpected pieces of her white skin showing. It was wild. It was reckless.

But wild and reckless were never words of warning to Felicity.

However, she realized, as she bit her lip, an anticipatory smile coming across her features, it wasn’t simply the recklessness she loved. It was the fact that she felt . . .

She felt herself. She felt womanly and strong and as beautiful as it was possible for her to be. She felt like she would be seen.

Seen by those who had forgotten her. Her mind flashed to the note that had come with the gown. Seen, noticed, by those that maybe, just maybe, had sent her a dress for just such a purpose.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed, and Collette smiled knowingly behind her. Felicity lifted her hand gently, careful of all the pins, and fingered the lace at her shoulder delicately. “I wish . . . oh, I wish that everyone’s eyes are on me tonight.”
His eyes.
“I wish to have my name on everyone’s lips in the morning!”

Collette met her eyes in the mirror, her smile as mischievous as Felicity’s. “You know, mademoiselle, Madame LeTrois had that lace made by gypsy artisans she met in the French woods. She says the gypsies gave it their magic. Perhaps, you will get your wish.”

And she had. Now, she was in her silver gown, sitting on the floor, crying because of it.

“Well,” she told herself, “that’s enough of that.” She wiped the last of her tears away. Three deep calming breaths and she stood, ready to face herself. She caught her reflection in the long, oval mirror in the corner. In the cool moonlight, she looked ghostly in her silver dress. Her hair full black in the night, her cheeks pale from disappointment. But she was not a ghost, she thought as she straightened her shoulders. Nor was she going to sit quietly while she was sent away to Surrey, a place filled with ghosts, for both her and for Osterley.

Perhaps he, like Felicity, had spent the past few hours expelling his disappointments, and was now more reasonable, thinking less of scandal and more of her hurt feelings. Perhaps now, in the middle of the night, when he could not possibly have an appointment to rush off to, or work to do with his clerk, she could get him to listen to reason for five minutes, and he would not treat her as an afterthought, an obligation.

Perhaps, if she forced him to, he would see her.

*  *  *

She found him in his library, which was none the worse for having her stamp out of the room a few hours before. She found him, too, in much the same position that she had left him: that is, leaning on the edge of his desk, a drink in his hand. Although now, he had discarded his coat, loosened the cravat at his neck. His thick blond hair—so similar to his great-aunt’s—was a messy riot of waves, as if he had been running his hand through it repeatedly.

She, too, had changed her attire, into her night rail, which covered her from chin to toe. A heavy robe tied her into discreet modesty. No need to set him off by the sight of silver, or skin. Her hair was down, in a childlike braid. She put up her chin, and knocked gently on the open door.

“’Bout time. Been expecting you for over an hour now,” Osterley said, not turning his head to face her. His voice was a deep, warm grumble, but the edges of his words were blurred with drink.

“You’ve been drinking,” Felicity said, surprised enough to veer off her planned speech.

“Yes,” Osterley replied. “It seemed warranted.”

“But you rarely drink. And certainly never to excess.”

“Tonight seems to be the night we all break new ground, then,” he added, levering himself off the desk to pour another glass from the depleted decanter. “Would you care to join me?”

“All right,” she agreed impulsively. She should demur, she knew. She had never drunk—what was he having? Rum?—and barely liked more than a sweet wine. Besides, she was trying to convince him of her innocence, her ability to be good.

Then again, he had never loosened himself to do anything remotely as casual as offer her a drink of rum. It was as if, for what was to come next, he was inviting her to meet him on even ground.

She took the glass, his fingers brushing hers. She took a tiny sip of the dark liquid—it was
ghastly
, but she held her expression as still as she could.

It was no good of course; he was watching her closely. And when she finally broke and shuddered from the taste, the corner of his mouth turned up.

“It’s not very pleasant,” she said, putting her chin as high as it would go. “Are you certain it’s good rum?”

“No, but it is excellent scotch,” he replied sardonically.

She put the glass down on the little side table beside the leather sofa. Then, without asking his permission, she daintily sat down.

“I do not wish to argue, Osterley. I came here with the hopes to talk with you about what happened tonight, and why . . . why I think it is important to stay in London.” She said all this very calmly, very practically. She folded her hands in her lap and waited quite properly for his reply.

He quirked up an eyebrow. Frankly, she was shocked to see it. The flyaway arches of his brows were so expressive, the dark brown a stark contrast to his lighter hair. When they were younger, before he assumed the responsibility of his title and the ward that suddenly came with it, Osterley’s eyebrows had flown up and down, and Felicity had been able to read his thoughts by their angles. But for the last four years, since becoming ‘Austere Osterley,’ they remained flat, neutral. Now, with his hair a mess, his coat off and cravat loose, and that one eyebrow, Osterley looked . . . rakish.

She kept her eyes trained on his as he moved fluidly from the edge of the desk to the sofa, and seated himself on the opposite side from her.

“All right, Felicity. Let’s . . . talk.”

She kept her face clear of any emotion as she began. “Do you deny having purchased the dress?”

“No,” he answered, equally calm. “But it was meant for someone else.”

“Oh.” Felicity replied. “Oh, I see. Mrs. Grace.”

Of course it was Mrs. Grace. She had been sweeping through town ever since she came out of full mourning into half, her eyes slyly following any eligible man of means around the room, calculating. She had noticed those eyes coming to rest on Osterley—but she had thought little of it, since eyes often did. Felicity’s friends whispered that Mrs. Grace wanted another husband—a young, handsome one this time—but was willing to let a man think she only wanted to be a merry widow to achieve that goal.

“How did you end up ensnared by—” Felicity stopped herself, putting up her hands. “No, no. It doesn’t matter now.”

He lifted his drink to her, a gesture of thanks that she did not pursue that line of questioning.

“What matters is how it’s approached. Aunt Bertha is very correct in how it will be perceived if I am sent away. An admission of guilt. And I have done nothing but wear a gift that I thought was a gesture of my guardian’s affection.” She paused, giving him some chance to respond. When he did not, she continued. “The dress itself is not to blame. It was merely more fashionable than what Almack’s is used to, but I was not cut, or slighted. At least, not until . . .”

“Not until you called Mrs. Grace a stupid cow?” he drawled.

“Not until you refrained from standing up for me,” she whispered, and saw his mouth go hard again, that slight twitch at the corner the only sign he had heard her. “Which can be written off as shock. So can my ill-advised reply. I promise you, if I were to stay in town, I would not give in to such bold speech. I would be practiced in what I am to say, veiled even. I know you think me rash sometimes . . .”

“Reckless. You are reckless in your speech and your action. And all it does is make messes for me to clean up.” He sighed. There was no accusation in his voice. It was a weary statement, a truth. But she could not help but be affronted.

“Such as?” she asked.

“Such as when you purchased that donkey cart?”

“That was three years ago,” she countered.

“What about the time you—”

“That was four!” she nearly laughed, and then remembered the seriousness of the conversation. “I am not that ungainly child any longer, how can I possibly convince you when you do not even know me as I am now!” She shook her head. “For heaven’s sake, Osterley. We were friends once.”

“I suppose we were. Once.” Osterley acknowledged, his head hanging. “And you are correct about many things. Perhaps taking you away would be seen as an admission of guilt—Bertha made a similar argument.”

Felicity felt a spark of hope well within her.

“And perhaps you would be successful in holding your tongue to proper standards, forgiving your previous outburst as shock.”

That spark of hope became a cord, running up and down her spine. She could not fight the smile coming across her face. But it was wiped clean with his next words.

“None of it matters, however.”

“But . . . but why not?” she asked, blinking.

“Because they saw you in that dress!” he roared, nearly coming out of his seat. “They saw you in that . . . thing of silk and lace, and that is all they will see now. You can be dressed to your chin in proper, shapeless cotton and wool, but they will still be thinking of you in that dress.” Lithely, he moved across the length of the sofa, leaning into her. “They will be thinking about the mole that rests in between your shoulder blades, just here.”

The heat from his hand permeated her robe, the back of her night rail.

“They’ll be remembering the way the light caught the line of your leg beneath the thin material.”