Firestorm by Brenda Joyce

all kinds of careening emotions to the surface. For one, she was furious with him. The night after he had come across her riding alone on the beach, she had been lectured by Paul and restricted to riding with Bart, Paul, or another male companion. Ridiculous! She could take care of herself—she’d been doing it for years. She was used to riding free, like an Apache on the desert, not with a chaperone to slow her down. The new restriction was all Brett’s fault, and she would have a few choice words to say to him when she saw him. He had no right to go ratting on her behind her back.
    Besides, she still hadn’t forgiven him for calling her a child.
    Marie began helping Storm to dress. First came a sheer, lacy chemise, cut so low that Storm’s nipples almost burst free. Never had she seen such a fine garment. Then came silk stockings and pink garters with black rosettes. Lacy, filmy drawers and the hated corset followed.
    Storm hadn’t worn one since she had been fitted by Madame Lamotte. Now, when Marie held up the frilly, frothy, beribboned contraption, Storm scowled. “No.”
    â€œOh, yes, you must.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œMademoiselle, it is scandal not to wear one. You must. Madame Marcy says so.” Despite her small size and softvoice, the French maid was immovable. Storm found herself being cinched up. She groaned. “It’s too tight!”
    â€œIt is not tight at all,” Marie said firmly.
    â€œI can’t breathe!” She couldn’t. Of course, it might have been due to the dread growing in her.
    Marie gave one more tug, making Storm grunt in a very unladylike manner, and began to tie the stays. Storm tried to breathe. She found she could—barely.
    â€œNow hoops,” Marie said.
    Storm was frowning at herself in the mirror. The corset had pushed her full breasts up and out, making her look more bovine than human. “I can’t wear this,” she said huskily.
    A petticoat was plunked over her head, then tied at her waist. Four more frothy ones followed. The last was black, edged with lace and black diamantes. Finally came the cherry-pink dress.
    When Marie had finally finished, right down to dabbing a rose-based scent on Storm’s wrists, behind her ears, and in her cleavage, Storm stared at herself in horror and dismay. She didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. She seemed…elegant…different…a woman .
    She didn’t like the dress. Half her breasts were exposed. “This is too low,” she declared. “I refuse to wear it.”
    â€œIt is not low at all,” Marie responded. “You could show a lot more, and you should. Your body is magnifique, ma petite . You should show it off, not hide it.”
    â€œI don’t want to show it off,” Storm said, flushing. At least her hair had been left alone. Marie had merely pulled its thick, wavy length behind her ears and secured it with a black satin headband encrusted with seed pearls. The headband pinched. Her head began to throb. Even the tiny diamond ear studs that had been her mother’s hurt her ears.
    â€œ Magnifique ,” Marie declared.
    Storm took a few practice steps around the room. Herfeet immediately began to hurt around the toes. The shoes must be too narrow. What she wouldn’t give to wear her worn cowboy boots. She smiled at the thought of entering Marcy’s salon wearing dirty brown boots. There was a knock on the door, and Paul entered.
    â€œStorm, you look magnificent!” he cried, his eyes bright with pride.
    Storm knew he meant what he said, and she took another look at herself in the mirror. “My face isn’t heart-shaped,” she said doubtfully. “Look how wide my jaw is.”
    Paul smiled. “You are not conventionally beautiful, no, but you are striking. I can’t think of another woman who even touches your beauty, Storm.”
    She wondered if he was just flattering her, but then she