Chapter 16 #2
But he was more experienced, far more jaded than she was. It was entirely impossible it was all an act.
Lucasta’s chest ached. The shaft of love had already gone deep into her chest. She couldn’t deny it. And it was going to hurt terribly when she yanked it out.
The day of the masquerade was as dry as the rest of the spring had been, and the evening promised to be clear and bright.
The family dined early, as the doors at Ranelagh would open at seven and entertainments began at eight.
The relative earliness of the proceedings, and the assurance of well-lit gardens and walks, were the reasons Lady Pevensey allowed the girls to attend events at Ranelagh when she absolutely forbade them Vauxhall.
Ranelagh was appropriate for the well-behaved and staid, and kept out the riffraff with its higher entrance fee.
Vauxhall was for mischief, which milady could not condone.
“Cici! What have you done to yourself?”
Lucasta entered her cousin’s room to find the lady’s maid scooping clouds of white linen onto Cici’s tiny form. Over this she fitted a thick silk robe embroidered with gold and tiny red flowers. Cici giggled as the maid draped a tippet with equally lavish embroidery around her narrow shoulders.
“Can’t you guess? I’m Pope Joan.” She gestured at the papal miter unfolded on her dressing table and the stave with an elaborate carved cross leaning against the wall.
Lucasta clapped a hand over her mouth. “You are adorable. And so heretical.”
The fabric, Lucasta was certain, came straight from the warehouses of Dixon & Co. Lady Pevensey had not yet given up hope, despite what the Baron thought of Lord Rudyard, draper’s son.
Cici grinned as the maid pinned the embroidered miter onto her powdered, piled-high curls. “Belle-mère wanted me to wear one of my better gowns and a mask, like everyone else does, but I wanted a costume, like you and the Gor—your friends.”
“We’re Greek goddesses. I’m Hera.”
“Your gown is lovely. And very daring.”
“I’d catch the ague if I wore what Minnie wanted for us.” Lucasta perched on the edge of a chair, watching Cici’s toilette. “Mlle. Beaudoin won in the end.”
The gown wasn’t revealing, the skirt reaching to her ankles in a column of artfully pinned draperies, with a long purple cloak swathing her shoulders—more Roman, really, than Greek, but Lucasta didn’t intend to complain.
She’d left her hair unpowdered and much of it loose, only a few curls caught up and pinned into a chignon at the back of her head.
She liked the look very much, and more than that, the freedom of moving about without panniers and pads and endless, inhibiting layers of fabric.
“Have you told Major Mallory how to identify you?” Lucasta asked.
Cici scrunched up her face. “I’ve no doubt he’ll guess and be at my elbow all evening. Given that it’s a masquerade, he’s sure to attempt liberties.”
“But you don’t intend to allow them?”
Cici sighed. “I know belle-mère wishes it—more like, she insists—but I don’t think I need be married bang out of my first Season, need I? It smacks of desperation. As if I don’t have any other thoughts in my head.”
This was a surprise. Lucasta had thought Cici meant to rush headlong into marriage to escape her stepmother’s gimlet eye, establish a household of her own, and begin making babies as soon as possible. It was the done thing for girls of her station.
“There are no clear favorites on the marriage mart this year? Or are you enjoying being the Season’s toast?”
Cici picked up the stave with its cross and regarded the sparkling effect of her gold trim in the cheval glass.
“I think you are the Season’s toast, my dear.
It is marvelous fun for a while, all the parties and calls and drives and merriment, but…
it all comes to seem quite frivolous, don’t you think?
I wish I had a hobby or an interesting pursuit, like you with your music.
All I’ve ever been prepared to do is marry well. ”
She turned with a plaintive expression in her clear blue eyes. “And truly. How do you know when a man fancies you for yourself, and not for your looks, or your family, or your dowry?”
“Oh, my dear girl. I wish I could advise you. But since I have none of those things, neither dowry nor looks, I had always thought that any gentleman who offers for me—I mean, were any gentleman to offer for me, which I don’t imagine will ever be the case—well, I might be sure the only attractions I have to offer are my sparkling wit. ”
“You have family.” Cici reached out a small, ungloved hand and clasped Lucasta’s. “You keep forgetting that. You have us.”
“I have you.” Lucasta wrapped her other hand around their clasped fingers. “And you are very good to me. Thank you for that.”
The warmth of Cici’s fingers, oddly, left a chill on her heart. Whatever the consequence of Rudyard’s games, Lucasta’s downfall would reflect badly on Cici. She’d come to London thinking she’d find one more cousin who scorned her for her mother’s marriage and had instead found as good as a sister.
Trevor, waiting in the parlor, wore a draped tunic of white linen with a purple cloak. Lucasta stifled a moan of dismay. At a masquerade, matching costumes were nearly an advertisement of intent, as good as reading the banns.
“Cousin! Did you plan this?”
His eyes widened, the same clear northern-sky blue as his sister’s. “I am Julius Caesar. Are you Calpurnia?”
She would never know when a man wanted her purely for herself, Lucasta thought churlishly, while she had the promise of Aunt Cornelia’s fortune hanging over her head.
Jem, Trevor, all the other beaux who vied for attention at parties—none of them would have paid the slightest attention otherwise to the orphan of an obscure vicar and the cast-out granddaughter of a viscount.
“I am Hera, queen of the heavens.” Lucasta straightened her shoulders. “And I will turn anyone who displeases me into a cow. Or an insect.”
The carriage bumped its way to Chelsea and Ranelagh Gardens, and Lucasta stared out the window, brooding.
Her father, the immigrant vicar, had loved her mother terribly.
He had risked her family’s wrath and his own career to wed her.
He would have followed her to the corners of the earth, and he let her know every day that the chief joy of his life was to be near her.
But those kinds of stories were fairy tales, rare, and men like Laurence Lithwick even rarer.
Lucasta never expected to find devotion like that for her own.
Trevor’s artful comments, like the attentions of the other young men suddenly approaching her, were self-interested.
They would vanish as soon as her expectations did.
But to think that Jem’s warm interest was not, had never been sincere—that was a stab to the heart, with a twist of the blade for flourish. He had wanted to make a figure of fun of poor, plain Lucasta Lithwick.
And now the damage was done.