of it. Perhaps we both
should retire to our chambers. Lazarus,” she called to the
servant’s retreating back, “has my small leather bag been brought
up to my room?”
The servant quickly assured her that the
small leather bag, the one Christine knew to contain at least two
dozen assorted creams, lotions, and formulas sworn by their makers
to contain magical restoratives guaranteed to return the blush of
youth to aging, desperate women, had indeed been delivered to Miss
Denham’s chamber.
Aunt Nellis rose from her seat, one hand
still to her face. “Come along, Christine,” she urged, heading for
the hallway, “I don’t have a moment to waste.”
“Yes, Aunt Nellis,” Christine answered
brightly, skipping a bit as she brought up the rear.
Christine turned her body this way and that,
desperately attempting to achieve an angle that would give her a
clear view of herself in the small hand mirror. She was wearing her
new blue gown, the one the local seamstress had vowed matched her
eyes perfectly, but she hadn’t yet convinced herself that she quite
liked the style. The high waist, as well as the wide, silken ribbon
that banded her front to back and hung in streamers behind her,
made her feel overly young and rather vulnerable.
“Just what the designer had in mind when
creating it, I’m sure,” she had told her aunt when first she had
seen it. “I believe we are supposed to look endearingly helpless
and just slightly vacant in our upper stories in order to be
appealing to the gentlemen. No wonder men believe themselves to be
our superiors, if we agree to wear dresses that make us appear to
be mindless ninnies.”
To compensate for this lack of confidence in
her appearance, Christine had earlier crept into Nellis’s chamber
to avail herself of a small pot of rouge. By the light of a single
candle she now smoothed a bit of color onto her lips and then
rubbed some into her cheeks, telling herself that the action was
justified. After all, if the earl could hide behind the cloak of
darkness surely she was entitled to some armor of her own
choosing.
It had been over a half hour since she had
at last been able to bid her aunt good night in the hallway, and
Christine wondered if she could dare quit her chamber without the
woman overhearing her. Taking a deep breath and then wiping her
suddenly damp palms on a handkerchief, she decided she could. Her
heart was pounding. It was either go now, she knew, to beard the
dragon in his own den, or she would lose her courage entirely.
A slight scratching at the door nearly had
her jumping out of her satin slippers in fright. “Who—who is it?”
she quavered in a hoarse whisper, desperately reaching for her
dressing gown while wondering if Aunt Nellis would be able to see
the effects of the rouge in the dimness. Oh, how could she have
been so stupid as to think she, Christine Denham, who had never
gotten away with a single naughty thing in her life, would succeed
now, as she was about to attempt her most daring indiscretion?
“It’s me, miss. Lazarus,” she heard the
servant answer, and she rushed to open the door before his voice
roused her aunt. “His lordship sent me to say he’s waiting on your
pleasure.” Lazarus had actually amended his master’s words
slightly, not believing it would be helpful to relate Hawkhurst’s
message word for word, for the man had said, “Fetch her, man. I
grow impatient waiting on her pleasure.”
Lazarus did not like the role he had been
forced to play. He was a moral man, after all, and this late-night
meeting screamed rather than merely smacked of impropriety. But he
was also a weak man, who enjoyed his position as well as the luxury
of three good meals a day. If Miss Denham was to end up with her
skirts tossed over her head it was—as opposed to an abrupt
cessation of his own continuing comfort—of no great matter to
him.
Christine followed the servant down the
hallway, holding tightly to his bony elbow as he held a
should retire to our chambers. Lazarus,” she called to the
servant’s retreating back, “has my small leather bag been brought
up to my room?”
The servant quickly assured her that the
small leather bag, the one Christine knew to contain at least two
dozen assorted creams, lotions, and formulas sworn by their makers
to contain magical restoratives guaranteed to return the blush of
youth to aging, desperate women, had indeed been delivered to Miss
Denham’s chamber.
Aunt Nellis rose from her seat, one hand
still to her face. “Come along, Christine,” she urged, heading for
the hallway, “I don’t have a moment to waste.”
“Yes, Aunt Nellis,” Christine answered
brightly, skipping a bit as she brought up the rear.
Christine turned her body this way and that,
desperately attempting to achieve an angle that would give her a
clear view of herself in the small hand mirror. She was wearing her
new blue gown, the one the local seamstress had vowed matched her
eyes perfectly, but she hadn’t yet convinced herself that she quite
liked the style. The high waist, as well as the wide, silken ribbon
that banded her front to back and hung in streamers behind her,
made her feel overly young and rather vulnerable.
“Just what the designer had in mind when
creating it, I’m sure,” she had told her aunt when first she had
seen it. “I believe we are supposed to look endearingly helpless
and just slightly vacant in our upper stories in order to be
appealing to the gentlemen. No wonder men believe themselves to be
our superiors, if we agree to wear dresses that make us appear to
be mindless ninnies.”
To compensate for this lack of confidence in
her appearance, Christine had earlier crept into Nellis’s chamber
to avail herself of a small pot of rouge. By the light of a single
candle she now smoothed a bit of color onto her lips and then
rubbed some into her cheeks, telling herself that the action was
justified. After all, if the earl could hide behind the cloak of
darkness surely she was entitled to some armor of her own
choosing.
It had been over a half hour since she had
at last been able to bid her aunt good night in the hallway, and
Christine wondered if she could dare quit her chamber without the
woman overhearing her. Taking a deep breath and then wiping her
suddenly damp palms on a handkerchief, she decided she could. Her
heart was pounding. It was either go now, she knew, to beard the
dragon in his own den, or she would lose her courage entirely.
A slight scratching at the door nearly had
her jumping out of her satin slippers in fright. “Who—who is it?”
she quavered in a hoarse whisper, desperately reaching for her
dressing gown while wondering if Aunt Nellis would be able to see
the effects of the rouge in the dimness. Oh, how could she have
been so stupid as to think she, Christine Denham, who had never
gotten away with a single naughty thing in her life, would succeed
now, as she was about to attempt her most daring indiscretion?
“It’s me, miss. Lazarus,” she heard the
servant answer, and she rushed to open the door before his voice
roused her aunt. “His lordship sent me to say he’s waiting on your
pleasure.” Lazarus had actually amended his master’s words
slightly, not believing it would be helpful to relate Hawkhurst’s
message word for word, for the man had said, “Fetch her, man. I
grow impatient waiting on her pleasure.”
Lazarus did not like the role he had been
forced to play. He was a moral man, after all, and this late-night
meeting screamed rather than merely smacked of impropriety. But he
was also a weak man, who enjoyed his position as well as the luxury
of three good meals a day. If Miss Denham was to end up with her
skirts tossed over her head it was—as opposed to an abrupt
cessation of his own continuing comfort—of no great matter to
him.
Christine followed the servant down the
hallway, holding tightly to his bony elbow as he held a
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