Take your hands off me!
Her tone and words were clearly imprinted on his mind. She had been terrified. Furthermore her whole appearance was—unusual, to say the least. Remarkable clothes, enveloped in some sort of eastern robe. And alone. No sign of a maid—not surprising in the circumstances—but neither was there an accompanying groom, not even in the distance. And—of course! Something else that now struck him: she had been riding astride. And if he had not been mistaken, there had been no sign of cumbersome skirts and petticoats. She had been wearing breeches and boots! Well, now!
Perhaps, then, she was merely some less-than-respectable woman to indulge in behaviour so particular—yet he did not think so. The impression was that she was undoubtedly a lady. Certainly not in the style of the notorious Letty Lade, who might have been an excellent horsewoman but who also had claims to being a highwayman’s mistress before her advantageous marriage. No—there was a distinct air of class and style attached to this mysterious horsewoman who had just crossed his path. Moreover, the grey Arab had taken his eye. Now there was an example of superior horseflesh and breeding. And whoever she might be, he had to admit that the lady could ride!
Nicholas turned out of the park and allowed himself to think of that instant of—of connection, he supposed. He had not imagined it. It had held them both in thrall as the world continued round them. Shrugging his shoulders against a slight chill of discomfort, he pushed the memory away of the sudden heat that had spread through his blood as he had tightened his fingers around her wrist and felt the beat of her heart through her pulse. It had taken him aback. But it did not matter since they were unlikely ever to meet again. And what did he want with a woman who galloped her horse across Hyde Park, clad in unseemly garments, and responded to kindness with rude and insulting words? Yet a tinge of admiration crept under his skin, recognition of her courage and spirit, until he deliberately, ruthlessly thrust it away.
Lifting his hand from the reins, he stretched it, then made a fist with a grimace. The welt was red, a little swollen where the blow had broken the skin. He swore at the sting of pain.
Of one thing he was quite certain, he decided, as he turned into the entrance of Grosvenor Square. He had never met the woman before. And he would not be sorry if he never saw her again.
‘It is a very pretty dress,’ Thea acknowledged with what could be interpreted as a most accommodating smile, if one did not know the lady. ‘And I am sure that the colour is most suitable and flattering to any young girl. But I will not wear pale pink.’
‘But it is Maiden’s Blush, miss.’
The four ladies all surveyed the gown being displayed in the arms of the assistant at Madame Therese’s in New Bond Street with varying degrees of appreciation. The assistant frowned, impervious to the débutante’s smile. As Madame Therese’s senior assistant, she was used to dealing with their noble customers with superior and knowledgeable condescension. Dealing with this exacting, although exceedingly polite young lady, she felt her temper was beginning to fray.
‘Maiden’s Blush it may be, but it is still pale pink. It is entirely inappropriate for my colouring, either my hair or my skin. I will not wear it.’ Thea’s opinion was expressed in the gentlest of tones, almost apologetic in its denial, but her refusal could not be in doubt. The assistant’s frown had no effect.
‘Perhaps this would be better suited to you, miss.’ The harassed lady laid the offending gown with its delightfully ruffled skirt and pearl-buttoned sleeves—the epitome of the art of dressmaking and one of their finest designs—across a chair and lifted another with tender care. ‘This is Evening’s Kiss. A most fashionable colour this year. A most exclusive garment, as you can see.’
‘That is pale blue.’
‘Indeed, it is very attractive, Thea. Such precise but delicate embroidery, don’t you think? Will you not try it?’ Lady Drusilla saw the set of her daughter’s lovely mouth, despite the smile, and her heart sank. Not stubborn exactly, just … well, decided. Dressing Thea was never easy.
‘I do not wish to wear pale anything, Mama. How can you ask it of me? You know that I look far better in something with a little—intensity, with depth.’
‘But it is most becoming for a débutante.’ The assistant appeared close to tears. This was the sixth gown that had been rejected out of hand and one of them had been Damsel’s Dreams. How could any young lady reject such a confection of white organdie sprinkled with knots of forget-me-nots?
‘No.’
‘Jonquil?’ suggested Judith. ‘It is such a soothing colour, I always think, and unexceptional for morning wear.’ The Countess of Painscastle had joined them at Madame Therese’s with apologies for her late arrival. Simon had returned home earlier than she had expected, she explained, with a becoming flush to her cheeks. She had been detained.
Thea turned unbelieving eyes on Judith. ‘Pale yellow? It will rob my hair of any colour at all! I shall look even more sallow. How I wish that I had been born a brunette with dark eyes! Or a redhead like you.’ She turned her gaze back to the blue creation, determined that she would not grace Almack’s, or any other occasion, in such an insipid dress, however fine the embroidered hem.
Lady Beatrice sighed and shuffled on her chair. This was going to be just as difficult as she had expected. Theodora had a most unfortunate strength of will. And her mama had apparently encouraged her to exert it with flair and confidence at every possible opportunity. The Evening’s Kiss had been so pretty …
They were interrupted from any further discussion over the maligned gown by a slight, dark lady coming into the room. Her face was thin, her features narrow and prematurely lined, but her eyes were quick and assessing of the situation.
‘Madame Therese.’ Lady Beatrice hailed her in the light of a saviour. ‘Yours is just the advice we need. Here we have Miss Wooton-Devereux who is to go about in society. She is reluctant to wear the dresses we have seen that are suitable for a young girl who is to make her début. Perhaps you can persuade her where we have failed.’
Madame Therese smiled a greeting. ‘I will try. Let us consider what we might achieve for the lady.’ Her accented voice was genuine. A French emigrée who had fled from her home in Paris, she had been forced to sell her skills. She had a decided air of fashion and an excellent eye for what would suit, so she was soon in demand when she opened her select little establishment in the heart of Mayfair. Rumour said that she had been a countess in her past life. It added a cachet so she did not disabuse her customers.
‘Come, mademoiselle.’ She took Thea’s hand to draw her to her feet. ‘If you would stand. And turn a little. You have an excellent figure, if I might venture. And such a slender neck. It will show to good advantage in the low necklines that are so fashionable this year. And with your hair so short—c’est magnifique. You are tall enough to carry the slender skirts with style. I think we shall manage very well. Tell me what you would choose to wear.’
The result was a comfortable and detailed conversation between Madame Therese and Miss Wooton-Devereux, which resulted in the hovering assistant being dispatched to collect a number of garments from the workroom at the back.
‘You are not the traditional débutante, not the shy ingenue. I agree.’ Madame Therese spoke her thoughts. ‘I think we should—ah, experiment a little. I believe that we should try for a little restrained sophistication. For youth, of course, but with a layer of confidence. We will keep it simple but add a little gloss—how you say—town bronze.’ She nodded, pleased with the direction of her thoughts. ‘What a challenge it will be to promote a new style for a young lady who is not merely a child. I think that we might take the town by storm. I vow that you will wear any of my creations with panache, mademoiselle’
‘I do not think that we wish to draw too much attention …’ Lady Drusilla was quietly horrified. It