She peered up at him from the corner of her eye, and whatever it was in her gaze made his head spin.
Yes. Yes, apparently, one could get drunk on a woman. Damn the obedient Stevens for putting an end to their cozy twosome.
* * *
“Annabelle, you must give me your measurements before I leave today,” said Hattie.
Annabelle raised her eyes from her correspondence.
The gray light of the afternoon filled the parlor. Hattie was lounging on the settee like an empress, a bowl of grapes on the low-legged table before her.
“And why is that, Miss Greenfield?”
“Because I have a feeling that you will be invited to Montgomery’s New Year’s Eve party, so you will need a ball gown.”
“That’s hardly likely.”
“You’re going to Lady Lingham’s Christmas dinner.”
“Because I’ll still be stuck at Claremont when that takes place.”
“Very well. Just imagine another unlikely situation occurs that leads to an invitation to the biggest house party of the year, and you have to decline because you have nothing to wear.”
“Imagine I ordered a ball gown and wasn’t invited to the party.”
Hattie popped another grape into her mouth. “Then you would have a ball gown, which is never, ever a bad thing.”
Annabelle sighed. “Catriona, say something.”
Catriona, curled up in a large armchair, obligingly looked up from her notebook. “I’d stay away from any ball I could, but since my father insists I go, I’d rather we all go together.”
Annabelle narrowed her gaze at her. “You’re not helping, dear.”
“Celeste has a new emerald silk in store,” Hattie said. “My sister told me.” She waved at a letter next to the fruit bowl. “You would look splendid in emerald.”
Celeste. The Bond Street seamstress who was so famous, she could afford to go simply by Celeste, and people like Annabelle only knew her from the high-end fashion magazines Hattie smuggled into their college’s common room. Her silks flow like water . . . her creations do for a lady what a gold setting does for a diamond . . .
Annabelle glanced down at her letter to Gilbert, where she claimed that she was convalescing in Catriona’s Oxford residence at St. John’s College. If she announced that she was spending Christmas with the Duke of Montgomery and was discussing silks by Celeste, they’d suspect her mind had derailed after a mere three months in higher education, and she’d be ordered back to Chorleywood quicker than she could say Merry Christmas.
She lowered the pen back onto the paper.
“You won’t even think about it?” Hattie sounded disappointed.
“I cannot afford a ball gown.”
A delicate little pause ensued.
“I was wondering what to get you for Christmas.”
She fixed her friend with an incredulous look. “Hattie. I am not your noble cause.”
At least the girl had the decency to look contrite—for a moment. Then a sly look entered her eyes. “But of course not,” she said. “It’ll cost you handsomely. Five hours a week sitting as Helen of Troy.”
Helen of Troy again?
“Emerald silk,” Hattie singsonged, “champagne, waltzing, eligible bachelors. And—”
Annabelle threw up her hands. “All right, all right. You will get my measurements, and Helen of Troy.”
Hattie’s face lit up like the enormous Christmas tree in Claremont’s main sitting room. “Fabulous!”
In the corner, the pendulum clock bonged, once, twice.
“Do excuse me,” Hattie said, “Aunty will be waking from her nap.”
Catriona looked on in awe as the door fell shut behind their friend. “She has just talked you into sitting for a painting you don’t want to sit for in order to get a gown you don’t want.”
Annabelle gave a shrug. “It is of no consequence. I won’t be invited.”
“I think Hattie is not entirely wrong,” Catriona said, her expression pensive.
Annabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just a feeling.”
That was suspect. Catriona never just had feelings; there was usually a long list of facts underpinning the things she said.
“What dress are you going to wear for the Christmas dinner?” Catriona asked.
“The light blue damask.” It was the finest one she had been given, but she had worn it before, here at Claremont. It had to do.
“I heard that Lady Lingham and the duke . . . have an arrangement,” Catriona said.
Oh.
The blush tinging Catriona’s cheeks left little doubt over the nature of that arrangement.
Why should this surprise her? Men of Montgomery’s standing usually had a mistress tucked away somewhere. But an arrangement with a social equal?
She kept her voice neutral. “What is she like, the countess?”
“She’s his neighbor. Older, and widowed,” Catriona said. “She might have influence over him, so perhaps we should target ladies like her with our campaign.”
“That’s a grand idea,” Annabelle muttered. She shifted on her chair, her skin itching uncomfortably underneath her walking dress. “You know, that blue gown looks ghastly on me.”
Catriona looked confused. “It does?”
“Yes. The color doesn’t suit me and it adds bulk in the wrong places.”
“Can you add a ribbon?” Catriona tried.
“I could, but it would be like adding a ribbon to a train wreck.”
“You’re not normally prone to exaggerations,” Catriona said slowly. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” Annabelle said, tapping her pen on the letter and splattering ink. “I’ve just remembered that I’m not that old, and I don’t recall the last time I have worn a pretty dress.”
A lifetime ago, she used to have taste, an interest in braiding ribbons into her hair and matching her earbobs to her eyes. She hadn’t taken any joy in that since that summer with William; her looks were an empty promise at best, a liability at worst. And now . . . now she was almost writhing with the need to burst out of this drab gray shell she had cultivated for so long.
But she couldn’t. Right now, she was exactly as she had to be to move forward on a respectable, independent path.