CHAPTER SIX
“If you don’t hold still, I’m going to stab you,” Alexandra warned, hand poised overhead, her weapons of choice a selection of ruby pins.
“I’m almost finished,” Francesca promised. She lifted her knee and pressed it into Cecelia’s hip, causing Cecelia to emit a little cry of surprise.
Francesca gave Cecelia’s corset strings one final, two-handed tug, and cinched them off with all the alacrity of a sailor mooring a ship to the dock.
As was their habit, they’d eschewed lady’s maids for the evening in favor of unbridled conversation.
Cecelia ran a hand down her newly compressed figure, splaying her fingers over a waistline several inches smaller. “It’s so tight, I’ll have to speak in a whisper all evening.”
“Should we loosen it a little?” Alexandra suggested.
“No.” Cecelia’s lips parted in a triumphant smile. “That means it’s perfect.”
“Besides, we can’t undo my concentrated efforts.” Francesca would have wandered off had Alexandra not seized her shoulder and thrust the ruby pins home, completing the magnificent coiffure.
“Really, Cecil, you’ve a lovely figure.” In lieu of a corset, Alexandra rolled the wide panels of silk over her chemise, flattening her breasts to her ribs. “I don’t think you need to accentuate it so dramatically that you’re miserable all evening.”
Alexandra didn’t miss the subversive glances her friends gave her wrap when they thought she wasn’t looking. They refrained from commenting, as they understood this had been a practice of hers for years, one meant to divert the male eye as often as possible.
“If I cannot breathe, I shall be deterred from the refreshment table.” Cecelia settled the cage of her bustle to her generous hips and checked her reflection in the mirror before gathering her petticoats. “Besides, I want to look especially good for this occasion.”
“I don’t see why.” Francesca accepted Alexandra’s assistance with pulling her crimson skirt over her head while avoiding her hair. “If all goes as planned, this won’t be an engagement masquerade, but the unmasking of a massacre plot.”
“Should we find anything condemning in the duchess’s rooms, do you have immediate plans to unveil it publicly?” Alexandra queried. “Tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
The vehemence of Francesca’s reply drew the corners of Alexandra’s mouth down. “Are you certain that’s wise?” She pictured the duke’s features, scarred and weather-beaten and absolutely furious as his family was deposed and dishonored in his ancient keep.
Something about that scenario tugged at her heart just as much as it terrified her.
It shouldn’t bother her so much, most especially if Redmayne was complicit in evil. But what if he wasn’t? Should a man be crucified for the sins of his family?
She thought of the charming, self-effacing man who’d strolled with her along the cliffs. His wit such a contrast to his bearing. To look at him, one could imagine the Terror of Torcliff. And not because of his scars, but because of the violence of which he was capable. Because of the predatory way he moved. As though he owned the very land he trod upon.
Which, come to think of it, he did.
“The more quickly any Redmayne or Ramsay involvement is exposed, the less likely we are to have a repeat of yesterday,” Francesca said sensibly as she turned her back to Cecelia, who abandoned her hair to fasten Francesca’s crimson bodice. “If we were to reveal the truth, we would be much safer than if we were to enact our own private revenge.”
“In light of recent events, I’m inclined to agree.” Cecelia nodded, her voluminous curls, caught in violet ribbons and pearl combs, threatening to come tumbling from their confines at any moment. The effect was marvelous, as one might catch oneself wanting to pluck out a comb or pin in order to make it do just that. “Should anything happen to us subsequent to the reveal, the finger of guilt would automatically point to Redmayne or Ramsay.”
“Precisely.” Francesca, in turn, fastened and flounced Cecelia’s teal gown, settling the train over the bustle in a fall of shimmering silks. “And since it was confirmed that the gunman was after me, it’s more imperative than ever that we act quickly.”
The morning prior, Alexandra had found her friends instantly upon her breathless arrival at the keep. She’d informed them of the paper the duke had found in the gunman’s pocket and a great deal about her interactions with Redmayne.
She’d studiously left out the physical parts of their interaction, though she didn’t want to examine why. It had only been a tumble, hadn’t it? So why couldn’t she bring herself to speak of it?
Because he’d been on top of her? Because, for a moment, she’d looked up at his bold features weathered by the foreign sun and fearsome scars, and she’d seen something she’d recognized.
A weariness. No. A wariness.
Something familiar reflected from eyes as blue as the sky and fierce as the sea. Something tired and wounded.
When the tip of his tongue had tested the scar interrupting his lip, the uncertainty of the motion had elicited something tender within her. An emotion warmer than pity, softer than curiosity. It had tugged at her and, for a miraculous moment, she’d forgotten to be afraid.
A strange awareness had flooded her. A shocking sense of something she distantly identified as … shelter? Safety? His body above her was solid and heavy. It didn’t seem ludicrous to imagine that he was invulnerable, a bulwark against all that would do her harm.
And for a moment she’d felt as though she could have remained beneath the temple of his strength forever. Safe. Protected.
Until his eyes had found her parted lips. And the warm, yielding muscle above her had become hard as iron, and the uncertainty had heated to …
She didn’t want to think the word. Men didn’t desire her anymore. She made certain of that. No, Redmayne had reacted like any man might do with a woman beneath them.
Any woman.
Mortification still needled at her when she thought of her response. She’d threatened him with a pistol. If she wasn’t mistaken, to do so with a duke might be considered criminal.
She’d been beyond caring. Helpless terror had lanced through her with such violence, her options had been to escape or pitch herself off a cliff.
She’d die—no—she would have murdered him before considering the alternative.
Alexandra pulled the unfussy silver gown up over her hips and slipped her arms into the long, gossamer sleeves. She eschewed a bustle or corset, or anything else that might garner her favorable male attentions.
To avoid unfavorable attentions of the female variety, she acquiesced to fashion with artful gathers of material for her train, and the tight silk wrap that, on her trim figure, imitated a corset without accentuating her curves. Even if she sparkled with diamonds and gleamed with muslin, she’d be covered from throat to toe.
“Don’t you find it passing strange that the Duke of Redmayne was in the ruins yesterday morning at the same time we decided to take our exercise?” she remarked.
“I found it exceedingly strange.” Francesca pulled her skirts up past her thighs, revealing surprisingly muscular legs as she fiddled with the ribbons securing her stockings.