The Debutante's Ruse. Linda Skye

to see. Jia-Li approached slowly with upturned palms that fluttered just inches from the lustrous fabric. She sighed.

      “The robe of the ancient Emperor of the Sun is as beautiful as they say,” she breathed in awe.

      “And it would have been completely wasted on the likes of our dear Miss Wilkinson, don’t you think, Jia-Li?”

      Isabella handed the robe to her maid, who reverently folded it and tucked it out of sight.

      “What will you do with it?” Jia-Li asked as she began to pull other fabrics from drawers.

      “I will go into Wan Chai tomorrow to sell it,” Isabella replied with a shrug. “Now, what have you picked for tonight’s ball?”

      Jia-Li pulled a dress from its resting place in her boudoir and held it up for Isabella’s approval. The scarlet dress was made of Chinese silk, and there was a depth to the shine that could not be imitated by western fabrics. Isabella nodded approvingly; it was a bold choice, just barely conforming to the fashionable silhouette of the day while completely rejecting the traditional assortment of pastel tulle ruffles that usually adorned the sleeves and bustles of summer evening gowns.

      She smiled as she shrugged off her clingy silk jumpsuit and tugged her long, black curls free. If they had all been waiting on her arrival at the party, she had better make it a spectacular sight.

      Chapter Three

      Lord Henry James was restless, and the lingering memory of the strange encounter in the corridor wasn’t helping. Who was she? The question plagued his mind as he scanned the crowded ballroom.

      Earlier, he had instinctively pulled the mysterious woman behind the curtains to hide the evidence of his latest indiscretion from prying eyes—but the mere memory of her jasmine perfume was more intoxicating than any fleeting pleasure he’d ever known. If he closed his eyes, he swore he could still feel the curve of her waist under his hands and the swell of her breast against his. And those green eyes…

      A soft, feminine giggle reminded him that he was already in the midst of a conversation.

      Henry looked down and smiled indulgently at the small group of blushing debutantes fluttering around him like naive butterflies. This first set of hopeful husband-hunters had been the bravest at the governor’s summer ball, flocking to his side immediately. A cursory glance around the crowded ballroom had revealed the thoughts of every aspiring colonial socialite: that the fourth son of the Duke of Exeter would be an excellent catch indeed.

      The bitter thought tightened his throat as his father’s stern warning echoed through his mind. Find a wife, he tells me. Henry almost sighed, and glanced in the direction of his host, the Governor of Hong Kong. He was rumored to have a daughter—and Henry knew nothing would please his father more than having connections to eastern trade.

      A featherlight touch to his arm surprised him, and he turned to see a beautiful woman standing at his elbow. There was a coy lilt to her pink lips, and she rested the tip of her folded fan on her chin. With blond ringlets and blue eyes, she was beautiful—though in a typical, traditional sort of way.

      It mattered little. Hers had been a bold move, one that stretched the limits of protocol even by colonial standards, and he welcomed the break from strict politesse.

      “Fancy another drink, my lord?” She invited with a sly smile.

      “Offering drinks to strange men, are we?” He rejoined, his tone teasing.

      “My good sir,” she replied, flicking her fan open with a quick snap of her wrist, “I’m sure the Lord Henry James is no strange man.”

      “I’m touched by your faith in me.” Henry turned on his charm and reached for her gloved hand, pressing it lightly to his lips. “And what is your name, pray tell?”

      “Miss Caroline Wilkinson,” she said with a barely decent curtsey, “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Lord James.”

      He offered her his arm. As she lightly placed her hand on his forearm, he turned to the young women who were casting baleful glances at Caroline’s smug expression.

      “Begging your leave, my ladies,” Henry said with a disarmingly kind smile, “But I must take this opportunity to quench my thirst.” And curiosity, he mentally added.

      “Miss Wilkinson,” Henry asked lightly, “Do you happen to know anything about the governor’s young daughter? I’ve heard such rumors.”

      “Oh, her,” she snorted disdainfully. “That would be Miss Isabella Hennessey. And that is not even her full name.” She continued, her saccharine voice spiteful. “Her father gave her the most dreadful Chinese name as well: Isabella Lee or Lap or something equally atrocious. And do you know why?” She covered her mouth with her fan and leaned in close, her voice an exaggerated whisper of horror. “They say she is of mixed blood—the result of Governor Hennessey’s indecent marriage to a Chinese woman. Isn’t that simply scandalous? Of course, the woman’s been dead now for a decade. Poor man,” she added with a sympathetic shake of her head.

      “My Lord James!”

      Henry turned to see the governor’s son striding toward him, a strikingly beautiful woman on his arm. Henry paused, his eyes glued to her mesmerizing form. There was an almost regal tilt to her chin, and her posture proclaimed her confidence. Even her daringly cut evening gown added to her mystique. Unlike any other dress, her gown was made of bright red exotic silk—from bodice to train. The bold color served to highlight the pale luster of her skin, the fullness of her scarlet lips and the midnight sheen of her dark curls.