Chapter 7
Somehow, Joan returned to the ballroom, hoping no one would be able to tell by looking at her what had happened.
She didn’t even know what had happened; the mere facts of the story didn’t begin to explain it.
Tristan Burke had danced with her. She could reason that away as part of his plan to torment her at every turn.
He had apologized for saying she looked like an umbrella, which was surely just some vestige of good manners, even if it was done in his usual arrogant way.
But then he had called her bosom delectable and implied he would like to see it.
He hinted that her virtue might not always be safe with him.
And then he kissed her, the way a rake would kiss his lover.
The way a man would kiss his wife after a year’s absence.
The way Joan had dreamed of being kissed for the last eight years.
Fortunately she was saved from Abigail’s and Penelope’s curiosity by her father. “Joan, we’re going now,” Papa asked, catching her just before she reached the Weston sisters. “Mother’s unwell.”
“I—really?” Over her father’s shoulder, she could see Penelope almost dancing on the spot with impatience. Even Abigail was watching her with naked curiosity. A fiery inquisition awaited her. “That’s—that’s dreadful. Is she very ill?”
“Well, I hope not, but she needs to rest. Are you terribly disappointed to leave early? I could ask Douglas to bring you home—”
“No, no,” she said quickly. Douglas had given her a dark glare when he saw her dancing with his friend.
She didn’t want to have a scolding from him, of all people.
“I’ll come now.” She raised her hand in farewell to her friends, ignoring Penelope’s outraged look, and followed her father from the ballroom.
They found her mother resting on a sofa in a small salon off the main hall.
Lady Bennet looked pale and tired, and she coughed as they came into the room.
“Mother!” Joan forgot her anxiety over Lord Burke. She wasn’t used to seeing her poised, fashionable mother laid low, and certainly never in public. “What happened?”
Mother smiled. “A spasm, dear. I’ve got a sore throat and can’t seem to stop coughing. Your father was worried, but I don’t want you to miss the ball—”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she replied hastily. “But it’s more than a scratchy throat. You’ve been coughing for days now!”
“Do you see?” Her father stepped up, his arms folded across his chest. “Joan’s noticed. Marion, you must see a physician.”
Mother flipped one hand. “He’ll tell me to sip warm tea and rest. I shall be fine, George.”
“Then I need to see the physician, so he can prescribe me some physick that will keep me from worrying about you,” returned her husband. “I’ve already sent for him.”
Mother sighed. “Very well. But you must stay here so Joan needn’t miss the ball. She looks so lovely, George, and took such time over her hair—”
How long it did take to make these ringlets?
echoed Lord Burke’s wicked voice in her head.
“Nonsense,” cried Joan. “To tell the truth, Mother, I was a bit tired and don’t mind leaving at all.
” She leaned forward to take her mother’s hand, and felt a crinkle along her spine.
Oh yes; there was also that. Funny how she hadn’t thought once of reading 50 Ways to Sin since Lord Burke kissed her.
A footman came to tell them their carriage was waiting, and Papa helped Mother to her feet and led her out to the street. Lady Malcolm came hurrying up to wish Mother a quick recovery, and Papa thanked her. Joan gave a quick curtsy and murmured her own thanks, and then they were on the way home.
For once the ride was quiet. Normally Mother would have asked her how she found the evening, if she’d seen any intriguing fashions or met any gentlemen or heard any interesting on dits.
Tonight, though, she leaned on Papa’s arm and closed her eyes.
Papa met Joan’s gaze across the dark carriage and he gave her a smile.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. It was safer than saying anything.
“I thought I saw you dancing,” he added. “Who was the gentleman?”
“Just a friend of Douglas’s,” she said, hoping he really hadn’t seen who it was and praying he wouldn’t ask more. “I saw Douglas dance twice with Felicity Drummond,” she went on, trying to keep the subject off herself. “He looked halfway besotted. Mother’s plan may come to fruition after all.”
Eyes still closed, Mother smiled. “I knew he would like her, if he could only be made to meet her.”
To Joan’s intense relief, no one said anything more of dancing.
They reached home and Papa all but lifted Mother down from the carriage and helped her into the house.
Joan was left to herself, which suited her perfectly.
She didn’t wish her mother ill, but tonight of all nights she was glad for a respite from her mother’s usual keen eye.
She bade her parents good night and wished her mother well, then hurried up to her own room, where Janet, her mother’s abigail, was waiting for her.
“Go to Lady Bennet. She is unwell,” Joan told her.
Janet had been with her mother for almost thirty years. Her eyes widened in alarm. “I’ll send Polly to help you, Miss Bennet,” she said before whisking out the door toward Lady Bennet’s rooms.
The instant she was alone, Joan reached for the lacings at her back.
If Lord Burke hadn’t tied them too tightly, she should be able to find the string and get the pamphlet out before Polly arrived to help her.
Not even her imagination could conjure up a suitable explanation for the most infamous story in London finding its way down the back of her dress.
For several minutes she twisted and squirmed, both arms bent behind her in a silent, frantic ballet.
Finally she located the string—he hadn’t knotted it, thank heavens—and pulled, loosening the bodice.
With a heroic stretch she crossed one arm over her shoulder and groped as far down her back as she could reach.
Just as Polly tapped at the door, her fingers closed on a corner of paper and she yanked it out.
“Just a moment,” she called, running across the room to shove the pamphlet under her pillow. “Come.”
“La, miss, I’m sorry,” gasped Polly as she bustled into the room and saw Joan with her gown sagging off one shoulder. “I came as soon as Janet told me, but if I’d known you were that eager to get undressed—”
“No, it’s fine,” said Joan hastily. “My stays were a little tighter than usual and I thought I could untie them myself, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Polly clucked her tongue and hurried over to finish unfastening the gown. “I see what you mean, miss, these are tight,” she said a moment later. “Shall I bring a cool cloth?”
“No,” said Joan, fidgeting as Polly took the gown away to fold it. “Just unlace me. I’m sure I’ll be fine once they are undone.”
And she did feel better when the constricting stays came off.
She took a deep breath and held it a moment, beginning to think she would escape without serious repercussions from this evening’s adventure.
It was only a matter of time before Mother learned she had danced with Lord Burke, but now that she was away from him and that infuriating, unsettling gleam in his eye, Joan was sure she would think of some safe story to explain everything.
Casting blame onto Douglas would be a central part of it, she decided; she would say Douglas had made a wager with his friend, and that was the only reason he’d asked her to dance.
Mother wouldn’t believe Douglas’s insistence that he’d done no such thing—Mother might not want to know how wild her son was, but she wasn’t a fool—and Joan would add that she only accepted the invitation to avoid a scene.
If Mother asked about Lord Burke’s behavior, Joan would say he had no manners and was boring.
There would be no mention whatsoever of potted palms.
“Shall I brush out your hair, miss?” Polly asked.
She looked at her ringlets, the result of over an hour of painstaking work by Janet, and sighed. Unlike the sleek curls in the Ackermann’s illustration, her hair stuck out in all directions, making her look like a poodle. “Yes.”
As Polly tugged the comb through her hair, undoing all that effort, Joan studied her reflection.
She really wasn’t beautiful, but Lord Burke had kissed her anyway.
She tried to tell herself that he had only said it because he was a notorious rake and no female was safe around him, but at the same time .
. . he had called her bosom delectable. She shifted in her seat a little and inhaled deeply, trying to see what he could mean by that.
Like the rest of her, her bosom was full and round.
Janet had laced her stays particularly tight this evening to try to minimize it, but it hadn’t worked.
Joan just felt trussed like a goose, and short of breath all evening.
Ever since she turned sixteen, she had viewed her rounded figure with dismay.
As if it weren’t bad enough to be tall, she had to be plump, too.
It wasn’t a fashionable figure for young ladies, who were supposed to be slim and delicate so they could wear the latest fashions to advantage.
Was it possible some gentlemen might like it?
Not that she cared what Tristan Burke thought. No, she reminded herself, he was a rake. A scoundrel. A rogue. No one she ought to think about. If he was the only sort of gentleman who admired her figure, she didn’t want to know, let alone care.
Although if he thought her bosom delectable, perhaps some other man would as well.