Chapter Eleven #2
Nell nodded and allowed both her and Sabine to help her dress, as if she were a mighty lady. Fatima had also brought over a small bottle of sherry, which Sabine brought two dainty glasses for Fatima and Nell to drink out of while Nell went about her ablutions.
Even with the fortification of a glass of sherry, Nell said little as Fatima and Sabine went about their work. They brushed and oiled her hair so that it would shine in the candlelight. Then they pinned and combed, braided and twisted, and pinned and combed again.
“I have no jewels. Not even paste ones,” Nell said, as the other two women discussed putting an adornment in her hair.
Fatima nodded, and thought. “Let’s see what you look like when you are fully prepared. Then we will know what to do.”
Nell stepped into her gown. Fatima secured the hooks while Sabine sewed her in and pinned her skirts, so that no matter her posture, the gown would lay as it should. Fatima and Sabine stepped back and stared.
“Nell, you look—” Fatima shook her head.
“You look a treasure, ma’am,” Sabine said, her hands clasped as well as she could manage with her pin cushion at her wrist.
“Am I in need of adornment?” Nell asked, moving to where she could see herself in the mirror.
But once she caught sight of herself, she realized that she did not.
The dark-wine color of the gown contrasted with her pale skin, and the dark-walnut luster of her hair drew the eye.
She was no debutante, lithe and na?ve. She was a woman of her own making, powerful and singular.
Now she understood what Fatima meant about feeling beautiful.
For Nell was objectively beautiful tonight, polished as a gemstone, as lustrous and gleaming.
Simple, yes, but not in need of more. What was more, she felt beautiful but also felt like herself.
There was no pretense here, no dumbing down of her intellect or sidestepping her oddities.
She was a force who needed no thing and no one.
“What do you think?” Fatima asked.
“Thank you,” Nell said, wondering if it was the sherry that made her want to weep with gratitude. She did hope Beckett showed tonight, wanting him to see her like this.
Her friend put her arm around Nell’s bare shoulders, and they both stared at their reflections. “I’m glad to help you realize your beauty. Your friends have always seen it. I have always seen it.”
Nell covered Fatima’s hand with her own and squeezed, hoping Fatima would feel not just the gratitude for her aid, but for her years of steadfast friendship. It was as close as Nell could come to an embrace.
“You should leave soon if you do not wish to be late,” Sabine said.
They all glanced at the clock, knowing she was right.
Soon, they donned pelisses and warm bonnets to cover their ears, leather gloves, and pattens to keep their slippers in good standing.
Jacobs walked behind them, as neither woman had a carriage to convey them to Jane’s family’s home.
They arrived with bright cheeks and running noses, but were afforded a moment to compose themselves in the powder room, which did not house a crate of paintings to be stolen.
Jane ushered them into the sitting room to chat and await a dinner bell.
She was costumed like a pretty snowflake in an ice-blue gown trimmed with white fur.
She wore a thin gold necklace and matching earbobs.
Jane leaned close to show them off to Fatima and Nell, whispering that they were her betrothal gift from her Rafe.
“Very beautiful,” Fatima said.
Nell, feeling very much ill at ease, couldn’t think of anything different to say, and instead said, “They look very expensive.” Which was factually correct and likely not insulting.
Jane’s pale-blue-and-white skirts belled out, pushing against Nell’s own wine-colored skirt. In the direct comparison, Nell could see that the fabric of hers was of a higher quality, thicker and smoother than Jane’s. Perhaps that was what prompted Jane’s compliment.
“Nell, darling, you look stunning.”
Fatima beamed, which Nell interpreted as pride for having dressed her. “Doesn’t she just?”
And Nell wanted to smile and thank her friends, wanted to make light of the change in her sartorial habits, but the close-fisted panic she felt at the prospect of seeing Beckett, or even not seeing him, made acting like she could function in public impossible.
And then, despite not knowing each other overly well, her friends exchanged looks.
“Shall I introduce you round?” Jane asked, slipping her arm through Nell’s. “We can take the long way about the room.”
Nell nodded, letting her friend guide them, her brain full of bees.
She took deep breaths to calm her heart, which had taken to ratcheting up its tempo.
Opposite them, Jane’s parents looked proud as they tried to circulate the room as the hosts for the evening.
Their age showed in the contrast to the crowd of younger people, mostly women, who were in attendance.
A loud knock on the front door stunned them all into silence. Nell’s stomach clenched. He had come after all. She squeezed Jane’s arm. From behind, Fatima put her hand on Nell’s other elbow, as if to steady her.
The manservant escorted the new guest in, and Lord Beckett looked every bit as commanding and imperious as his rank demanded.
The other guests, almost as one, sank into curtsies and bows to the nobleman, the rustling and shuffling coming to a silence as they performed their obeisance.
While Nell performed her curtsy, she could not take her eyes from him, while he looked everywhere but at her.
He was dressed as if it were an evening at Almack’s, and his finery put their clothing to shame.
The black trousers and coat were of a fine black weave, crisped to perfection; nary a wrinkle had ever dared think of touching it.
He wore no adornments, no color. His expression was as cold and remote as it had been the first day she had met him.
Jane’s parents, as hosts, were the first to greet him.
Given their small numbers and lack of other ranks, they did not have a majordomo to announce him, nor a receiving line to welcome him, as he might have had in a place such as Almack’s or a private ball of the ton .
But to see Jane’s mother and father, smaller and injured, looked like two wrens confronting a gyrfalcon.
Nell’s arm slipped from Jane’s, and she gripped her hand and Fatima’s for support.
He was handsome to her, despite his imperiousness.
She realized that part of her panic was not just that he knew something of her past—could expose her and take her whole life from her if he so desired—but that she had wanted him.
She wanted the whole future he represented, not because he was a nobleman or was wealthy, but because he was him.
Because Beckett had become the stalwart of her daily routine and his preferred absence unbalanced her in the extreme.
Talk resumed amongst the other guests and Nell could not hear what Jane’s parents said to him, or what he said in return.
“Everyone is staring at him,” Fatima said.
“He hates that,” Nell said.
Jane’s mouth quirked to the side, and then excused herself, leaving Fatima alone to hold Nell upright. But Jane gathered up her fiancé, spoke to the manservant at the door, and then joined her parents in welcoming Beckett.
The dinner gong sounded, which was not a gong at all, but rather a light tinkling bell rung by the manservant. Unlike a great house, where guests might have to traverse stairs and long halls, here, the dining room was only a doorway away.
Jane’s father escorted Beckett over to Nell, as her dinner companion for the evening.
Cold air prickled Nell’s bare shoulders, and she regretted the en vogue style of such a daring neckline. She wished for her shawl. Her dressing robe. Her bed. She wished she could curl up and die.
Fatima squeezed her hand harder, which made Nell straighten. She was cowed, but she did not wish him to think it. So she donned her most imperious expression and faced him. The only man who had ever tempted her. The only man that made her believe that love was an emotion she was capable of feeling.