The Bride Behind the Curtain Read online

It’s not a silly dress, Adele wanted to shout. It’s . . . it’s everything. She twisted her hands.

  “I have nothing else to wear,” she said. “I must wait, and you must go. Good luck, both of you.”

  Adele embraced her friends and then had to quickly find a handkerchief to keep Madelene’s tears from dropping onto her silk gloves and spotting them.

  “Come along, girls,” said Miss Sewell quietly. “The horses cannot be kept standing in this cold.” She held open the door and let them file out into the hall. She looked again to Adele and nodded once, but her face was unreadable.

  As soon as the others left, the house became deathly still. Adele had no idea what to do with herself. Her hair was done; her chemise, stays, and stockings were on underneath her quilted wrapper. All that was missing was the dress.

  What had happened? Adele was filled with visions of accident, of robbery, of Patience bribing Mademoiselle Marie to divert the gown. But in the end it didn’t really matter. What mattered was tonight was their moment. In a very real way it was their debut. If it went well, they stood a chance of effecting a lasting transformation, creating a genuine future for themselves. She had to shine for the world to see, or the world would never believe James Beauclaire could love her. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. And so the dress mattered and the party mattered. Everything mattered, and here she sat, listening to the clock tick.

  Oh, James. I’m sorry. I tried. I did.

  The doorbell rang. Adele was on her feet, down the stairs, and across the entrance hall before she could even think. She was still in her wrapper, and Bridget was nowhere to be seen. Adele didn’t care. She threw open the door.

  ***

  Adele.

  She stood in front of him, eyes and mouth wide. She wore nothing but a thin wrapper that plainly showed all her beautiful curves. She looked stunned, she looked lovely, and here he was standing like a footman with this great box in his arms.

  She was beautiful. More than beautiful. After all these weeks of only glimpsing her from a distance, now here, now there, the sight of her standing in her slippers and wrapper was almost more than he could bear.

  “My beauty,” he whispered.

  She took a step forward, her hand out. Her face was flushed.

  She got no farther. A maid, a serious, thin girl, was hurrying down the stairs. “Oh, Lady Adele!” she cried, horrified to see her mistress standing in front of a gentleman in such a state. “You must get yourself upstairs at once!”

  Adele’s gaze met his. They both knew what they should do. He should put the box on the table, and he should leave. Now. This moment. Without touching her. Without a exchanging a word, never mind a kiss, never mind running his hands across her shoulders, never mind . . . anything. They must just wait a little longer, that was all.

  James bowed his head and began to turn away.

  ***

  Adele watched James turning, and all her hesitation vanished in the space of a heartbeat. “Bridget,” Adele whispered to the maid, who was hurrying down the stairs. “I . . . I have something to say in private to this gentleman.”

  The maid drew herself up, prepared to be righteous and insistent. Adele was her responsibility tonight, and she was loyal and would not fail.

  “This once, Bridget,” Adele said. “Never again. Please.”

  Bridget opened her mouth. She closed it. She turned around and bowed her head, and Adele had the feeling she might be asking forgiveness from a much higher place than the girl whose family she served.

  “I’ll see to your wrap, miss,” Bridget whispered and walked away without turning around.

  Adele did turn. Her mouth was dry, and her heart was pounding at the base of her throat.

  What am I doing?

  But she knew. She was walking up the stairs, her fingertips brushing the railing, her feet fairly floating an inch above the floor. Impulse was carrying her, and the wind. Because this could not be her doing. She could not be walking into Miss Sewell’s spare bedroom with James Beauclaire following behind. She could not be closing the door and stepping aside so he could place the box with her ball gown in it on the bed, or standing frozen in place while he turned, breathing so deep his shoulders were shuddering. While he opened his arms so she could run, fly, into his embrace.

  But she was and she could and his arms closed about her and they were kissing. Frantically. Passionately. Little bursts and bites alternating with long, slow, deep, open kisses. Her breasts crushed against his hard chest. He lifted her up onto her toes so their hips could press together, grind together; her most sensitive and private parts rubbed hard against the length of his erection, barely contained by white silk breeches.

  Yes. Yes. She wanted this. She’d wanted this for weeks, for months. She wanted more. Her hands flew across his body, touching everywhere; back and shoulders and taut buttocks and hips. His fingers brushed the sides of her breasts, and when she groaned, he smiled into their kiss and leaned her back so he could cup her and caress her and toy with her nipples until she gasped and moaned.

  “Adele. Mon Dieu, I’ve missed you, Adele.”

  “James.” It was all she could say, all she could think. “James.”

  James bent down and kissed her again. His mouth was soft and warm and gentle. His tongue touched and teased and tasted until her lips parted for him. It was enthralling. It was the sensation she remembered, but honed and purified by imagination and longing. The exquisite touch of James’s mouth and hands tightened every muscle in her body until she felt she must break from the strain, but she wanted it to never stop. She was vaguely aware of his hands at her waist, working at her wrapper’s sash, but she couldn’t remember why that was important.

  Until her wrapper fell open and she felt the heat of James’s body against her naked skin. She stiffened, but she did not pull away. James’s tongue delved deeper into her mouth, stroking her, urging her, and she let him. Just as she let him curve his hands about her shoulders and push the wrapper away. The silk slithered deliciously down her back and her arms and puddled at her feet.

  She felt him smile into their kiss as he tasted the corners of her mouth and sucked gently on her lower lip. He was backing her up, almost dancing with her. He put both broad hands on her bare shoulders and pressed downward until her knees bent, and she sat on the dressing table chair.

  James knelt in front of her. Now their eyes were level with each other, and the fire in his gaze was enough to set her trembling. He must have seen, but he only smiled. He lifted her foot, delicately, as if she were made of finest porcelain, and pulled off her slipper. He cradled her heel in one hand, while the other caressed her toes and instep, and it tickled and she laughed and squirmed.

  “Ah-ah,” he murmured. “This is serious business. I cannot risk ruining these lovely stockings. My lady must hold still.” Desire smoldered in his eyes and in his smile. Adele’s heart couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stop beating or gallop out of control.

  He stroked his hand up slowly, caressing her ankle, her calf, the outside of her thigh. He teased and tested at the knot in her garter, and she groaned. She couldn’t help it any more than she could help gripping the sides of the chair.

  James saw. Of course he did. His eyes missed nothing. “Don’t do that. You might hurt your hands.”

  “I have to hold on,” she answered. “I feel like I’m going to fall.”

  “Would I ever let you fall?” He was caressing the inside of her thigh now, so lightly. How could such a light touch reach down into her blood and make her moan yet again?

  “Hold on to me,” he urged her. He had her other ankle now, and he’d moved forward so that his body was between her thighs.

  At once, she wrapped her legs around him and he put his arms around her, and nothing had ever felt so wonderful as when he kissed her again. She clenched herself tightly against him, almost sure she would hurt
him, or herself, but he did not stop kissing her. His hands did not stop caressing her. His muscled body was hard and hot and wonderful between her thighs. She was burning. She was swollen and weeping with sensation. Her fingers wanted to be everywhere, on his shoulders, his arms, down along his back, as if she was trying to memorize him with her touch. He was growling, deep in his throat, and the sound thrilled her almost as much as his relentless, burning caresses.

  “Do you feel me, Adele?” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “Do you know what you are doing to me?”

  She did, actually, thanks to Helene’s very instructive books. The books, however, had not mentioned how very good it would feel when that thick erection pressed up against her most sensitive point.

  Exquisite fire lanced through her. She pressed closer, she shimmied, and she rubbed. She knew what would happen, or she thought she did. She’d touched herself in the dark, knowing it was as wicked and as forbidden as anything she did now, and she didn’t care then and she didn’t care now. She pressed closer, kissed him harder, intent only on his body and hers. On his heat and pleasure, and hers.

  And all at once he had hold of her hands again. But this time his wasn’t bringing her close; he was pushing her away. She cried out in frustration and alarm.

  “Adele,” he breathed her name. “Adele, listen to me, my beauty. If you want this pleasure, you will have it, but not like this. Not in haste. I want . . .” His voice shook. He grazed his knuckles down her cheek. “I want to give you all the time you deserve. I want to savor your delight. But we have to remember who and where we are.”

  “I . . .” Something was happening. Something important that she had forgotten. Something seeking to disturb this moment, bank the fires inside her. Inside them.

  It was the clock. The case clock, down in the hall. It was chiming, distantly, insistently. The quarter, no the half, no three-quarters.

  Three quarters to nine. The others had left at eight. Left for the party. The party they’d all been looking forward to. That was vital to their plan. That was their first act.

  Adele sucked in a shuddering breath and met James’s gentle, deep gaze.

  “I want this,” she told him. “I want you. More than anything. But I promised Helen and Madelene I’d see this through with them. It’s bad enough that I’m so late. I can’t . . . I can’t let my friends down.”

  He ran his thumb across her lip, which had been left exquisitely sensitive from all his kisses. “I would not want you to. Come, my beautiful. Let us get you dressed.”

  It was absurd. She was tingling and shaking and still alone in a borrowed bedroom with a man. This man, who had only to look at her to send the most luxurious and heated sensations through her whole body. She could not possibly be walking to the bed with him for the express purpose of opening a dressmaker’s box and pulling out a gown; the gown.

  “Hold up your arms,” he murmured. “I will help you dress.”

  She hesitated. “You’ll be careful with it?”

  “Do you doubt me? Hold up your arms.”

  She held up her arms. She also closed her eyes and held her breath. He chuckled, and she felt an unreasonable surge of annoyance. She felt the brush and the weight of the cloth as he drew it over her head. Her hands found the sleeves and the exquisite fabric slid sensuously down her arms.

  “There now,” he murmured. His hands busied with the hooks and the tapes. “Not a curl out of place. That anyone can see, that is.” He chuckled wickedly, and she blushed. He also lifted his hands away, and Adele, breath held, fingers crossed, turned and faced herself in the mirror.

  That was not her. That reflection bore no relation to the Windford Dumpling. This was a tall, curved, queenly woman. Her dress was daring. Inspired by the style of a previous age, it had a lower waist that emphasized her hips and a bodice that accentuated her curves rather than trying to flatten them out. Skirt panels of deepest ruby silk were saved from being overly sensuous by alternating with others of chaste white. Intricate white beading sparkled around the hem, on the long white sleeves, and around the surprisingly demure neckline. Her hair had been simply dressed, with only a single band of cut glass beads threaded through the loose tumble of golden curls. Her red slippers, her white gloves, and her white wrap all glittered with Marie’s patient beadwork.

  She looked new. She looked daring. She looked . . . she looked vibrant and alive.

  “Mon Dieu,” breathed James. “I had no idea I . . .” He swallowed. Her eyes strayed to the knot in his breeches. “I think I must change my mind. I cannot let you go anywhere looking like that.”

  “Why not?” She touched her hair nervously. “What’s the matter with me?”

  “Nothing,” he said as if the word choked him. “You are exquisite. Every man who sees you will be utterly subdued.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “I am in earnest.” He moved closer, but he did not touch her. He could not without crushing the gown, and he knew it. All her work, all her dreams and planning, all the years she had longed to wear exactly this gown before the whole world suddenly meant nothing. She hated the dress and wanted it gone. She wanted to lie down naked with him. She wanted to beg him, no, command him to touch her and stroke her and teach her how to do the same for him, until pleasure shattered them both.

  “I can’t go with you,” he was telling her. “It would not look proper. I had an invitation, but I was not planning on using it.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled and pressed a kiss against her brow. “No need to look so worried. I was waiting for word on some ships coming in. I’ve invested in their cargoes.” He kissed her again. “When they come in, it will be enough to clear the last of my debts, and a little more.”

  “Oh, James!” She threw her arms about him, but that was not enough, so she kissed him as well, and because that felt so very good, she had to press closer.

  At least she did until he separated them, firmly. “You will spoil your gown and your face, and I will not permit it. But looking as you do, I see I cannot let you out of my sight, either.” He stroked his fingers gently down her cheek and dangerously across the skin her décolletage exposed. Adele shivered. “I will follow you to the dance.”

  “I’ll look for you,” she told him. “I’ll find you, and I’ll . . .” Her mouth was dry. She was entirely aware of the flutter of her pulse, in her wrists and low in her belly. “We will find a way to finish what we’ve begun.”

  “Oh yes.” He kissed her, gentle once more, his voice and his eyes filled with wicked promise. “Yes, my beauty, my very dear, we will do that.”

  XIII

  “Adele, thank goodness! We were getting worried,” Madelene said.

  The entrance hall of the Bassett Assembly Rooms was crowded with men and women in their finest evening dress, either giving their wraps to the liveried servants or passing through the open doors to the glittering ballroom beyond. For many, it was their first grand ball of the season, so everyone was anxious to make a good impression. Women and girls all wore their finest new gowns and carried fans of lace and gilt and sandalwood. The men favored deep blues, burgundies, and blacks for the evening. A few “exquisites” stood out in their pale greens, pinks, or sky blue attire.

  “It took a little longer to get ready than I hoped,” Adele told her friends. And longer to say farewell to James than it should have. “I thought you would be inside already.”

  “There was an overturned carriage,” Helene said. The silver looked extremely well on her, Adele noted with a surge of pride. “We were delayed by nearly an hour . . .”

  Only an hour. Adele’s head spun. It had seemed like an eternity, and like no time at all. She was gone. She was lost. Here was the moment they’d staked so much on. Helene and Madelene both looked splendid in Marie’s gowns, in her gowns, and yet all she could think about was James. Her eyes kept darting toward the door, to
see if he was there yet.

  “Are you all right, Adele?” Miss Sewell asked.

  There was a world of meaning under those words, and while there was warmth and understanding, there was also that core of steel that had been there from the beginning.

  “Yes,” Adele answered. “I am perfectly all right.” She thought of James’s eyes blazing with desire, of his hands, so knowing and strong, his mouth against hers. She was blushing and she knew it. She avoided her friends’ eyes and busied herself with taking off her cloak to hand to Bridget.

  “Oh my!” Madelene breathed. “Adele, you look wonderful!”

  “All right, ladies,” Miss Sewell said briskly. Miss Sewell had no need of Adele’s designs. She wore a deep forest green that set off her merry eyes and auburn hair. Gold beading and embroidery trimmed the skirt and sleeves. The décolletage was saved from being shocking by the sparkling fichu pinned in place with a brooch shaped like a spray of feathers. “Fix yourselves. It’s time for us to go in.”

  Madelene blanched white, but Helene took her arm firmly. “You can do this and you are ready,” she said before Madelene could utter a single protest. Madelene, as Adele had pictured at the New Year’s party, was in a gown of shimmering champagne silk with clear beading on the hem, and only the simplest cream sash, a shawl dyed rich gold, and white roses to adorn her strawberry blond hair. She glowed.

  Adele had replaced Helene’s usual aggressively plain grays and blues with a simple silver sheath, trimmed in cut glass beading around her waist. More clear beading glittered like diamonds on the band that held her curls. With silver slippers and pearl white gloves, she looked like Athena come to earth.

  Madelene’s hand went up to her wreath of roses. Helene took hold of her hand and gently but firmly pressed it into place against her side. “You are perfect.”

  Miss Sewell stepped up to the footman, who gave her a conspiratorial wink so quick Adele wondered if she saw it at all. Then, he straightened up and solemnly intoned, “Lady Adele Endicott, Lady Helene Fitzgerald, Miss Deborah Sewell, and Miss Madelene Valmeyer.”