Chapter Two
In Millie’s bedroom at D’Acre House, Adrian and Eliza’s London townhome, Millie looped together the ends of her night rail’s sash and tied them.
Relieved to finally be free of her confining garments, she stretched out her arms. As confusing as the night had been, all she wished to do before climbing into bed was immerse herself in the comforting ritual of combing her sister’s hair.
She maneuvered a chair in front of their shared dressing table, bid Lenora to sit, and picked up their mother’s silver boar-and-horsehair brush. However, no sooner had she started taming Lenora’s locks than Nettie, along with Adrian’s younger sister Lady Emily, burst into the room.
As usual, they were both bubbling over with giggles.
Capped, braided and already dressed for sleep, they climbed up onto the mattress, lay crosswise on their stomachs, and then rested their chins on folded arms. Emily’s dimpled cheeks and chin framed blonde curls.
By contrast, Nettie’s rounder face was haloed by the same thick, chestnut locks that Nettie, like the rest of the Wainwright sisters, had inherited from their mother.
Both young ladies, however, wore mutual expressions of expectant excitement that made them look far younger than their eighteen years.
“So…?” Nettie prompted.
“If you want me to answer you,” Millie replied, “you are going to have to ask a full question.”
“Funny.” Nettie wrinkled her nose at Emily. “Just then, Millie sounded almost as sententious as Asquith’s friend Lord Neville.”
“I did not!” Millie scowled. She never did anything like Neville.
“Nettie’s just teasing, Millie.” Lenora twisted in the chair. “And sententious? Really, Nettie. Have you been reading the dictionary again?”
“No,” Nettie replied. “I’ve been reading English Synonyms Explained, in Alphabetical Order.”
“Come on, Millie!” Emily thumped her leg against the bed. “You know what Nettie really meant to ask: Was this Wednesday night Assembly as dull and insipid as the last?”
“That wasn’t what I was going to ask,” Nettie objected. “Well, at least, not just.”
“Nettie,” Emily sighed. “Facilitating a discussion about any potential courtship follows the same rules as courtship itself—you must finesse your way to the matter’s heart. You cannot skip right to the…” Emily lifted her brows, closed her eyes, and puckered her lips in an exaggerated fashion.
Millie snorted. “There was not any…” She stuck out her lips. “Besides, no amount of finessing would change my answer. And I never said the Assemblies were dull. I said I find Almack’s rules confining.”
“In other words…” Nettie smiled. “Dull.”
“Dull, indeed? Even tonight? How odd.” Emily tapped her chin. “Why, then, would my brother tell me you were very much in demand?”
“An exaggeration,” Millie snapped. “Nothing of consequence happened.”
Nettie’s gaze moved over Millie’s shoulder. Then, Nettie’s lips started twitching. Millie swiveled around to find Lenora shaking her head and repeatedly mouthing the word lies.
“Don’t just tease, Lenora!” Nettie whined. “Give us all the on dits.”
“There are no on dits! And all three of you”—Millie pointed the brush at each—“should know better than to gossip.”
“You can tell us now, or make us wait,” Emily reasoned. “You know my mama is sure to tell me everything.”
True.
The lady Emily referred to as ‘mama’ was her stepmother, Mrs. Vane, who had married the prior Lord Redver when Emily was quite young.
Mrs. Vane had been present at Almack’s with her new husband, so she had witnessed everything.
And she would likely give Emily a full account during her visit on the morrow.
“Besides,” Emily continued, “Nettie is only interested in your welfare, which is not the same thing as wanting to gossip. In fact, as your sister, concern for you is her right.”
Unable to argue, Millie pursed her mouth.
“It’s my turn to brush your hair.” Lenora laid a gentle hand against Millie’s arm. “You’ve had a tiring evening. Why don’t you sit down?”
Millie nodded gratefully, she and Lenora switched places, and then Millie submitted to Lenora’s care.
“You know,” Nettie said, “the other day Cassie let slip that Harbury not only brushes her hair, but he begs her to allow him to do so.”
“Preposterous,” Millie responded. “And tattling on a sister isn’t done.”
Nettie pulled a face.
Oh, dear. Now, Millie heard it. That had sounded self-righteous. And just a little too much like the little lordling.
Millie moderated her tone to be less scolding. “I’m certain you heard wrong. I cannot imagine any powerful peer, even one as smitten as our new brother-in-law, begging to brush a lady’s hair.”
“I certainly never heard of a duke asking to serve as a lady’s maid,” Lenora agreed.
“Well, Harbury does,” Nettie insisted.
“Perhaps,” Emily cut in, “Harbury likes to brush Cassie’s hair because Cassie goes all limp and boneless, as Millie is now. Limp and boneless must be a prelude to the…” Emily finished her sentence with more kissing noises.
“Ew!” Nettie exclaimed. “I’m not sure I want that image in my head.”
Emily snorted. “Not even if you were the lady in question, and the man was Bl—”
“Ssst!” Nettie silenced her friend.
Millie grimaced. As if they all didn’t know Nettie had developed a tendre for Asquith’s friend Blackwell. Why, Millie had no idea.
“Having a man brush one’s hair would be strange…” Lenora’s voice trailed.
“Imagine Asquith doing so”—Emily smirked—“and then tell me if you think it strange.”
Lenora paused her brushing and stared off into nothing, a pleasant smile on her lips.
Millie gritted her teeth. Good heavens. Her sisters could be geese. But was it true that a man could be, not just deluded by love, but truly devoted to the woman he married?
Devoted enough to brush his wife’s hair?
She tried to imagine such a thing, but memories of her father scolding her mother intruded.
She tapped her sister’s hand. “Back to the brushing, Lenora.”
Lenora’s eyes refocused. “Right.”
As Lenora resumed her task, Millie surrendered to relaxation. Sweep by sweep, the troubling night—and its accompanying confusions and complications—faded. She didn’t need to answer questions about devotion. She had something better—a plan. One that would keep her protected from marriage.
And while, at present, she was limp and boneless, she couldn’t see how the state would encourage amorous attentions. Nor did she care. Because if her plan worked, she would never need to know anything about L’Amour.
A light flirtation with Lord Willard followed by playacted devastation would surely see her traveling back to the country as reliably as booking a place on the stage. And, as she’d quickly discovered, flirting with Lord Willard wouldn’t be any hardship at all.
He was a handsome devil.
And, while she hadn’t particularly wanted to dance with him, he had been observant enough to note her distress at Neville’s approach. Moreover, he’d immediately come to her rescue. Why else would he have interceded, if not to be kind?
That alone proved he, at least, was not like her father.
Kindness. And in a man. Wonder of wonders!
Willard had also gone out of his way to show her his favor. At one point, he’d even leaned down to ask, You are entirely unaware of the effect you have on men, aren’t you?
Shocking question.
And not exactly true.
After all, she’d chosen her dress because the way the bodice stretched across her bosom tended to leave men tongue-tied and thus less likely to approach.
But his query had reminded her she was not entirely powerless.
And so the only admonishment she’d been able to summon had been a significant look.
Of course, she’d immediately ruined the effect by smiling.
A hesitant, nervous smile that must have made her look a veritable rustic. But Willard hadn’t been disgusted. He’d only softly added, including me—a claim so absurd, she barely repressed a giggle. But then, her giggle had been followed by a flood of fluster she could not quite define.
At the time, she hadn’t the chance to decide what the flutter might mean because she’d caught sight of Neville’s scowl. She’d instantly deflated. Neville’s scowl tended to have that effect.
Now she wondered…could she be attracted to Lord Willard?
The surge she’d felt when he’d taken her hand hadn’t been warm, just anticipatory. Perhaps her reaction to Willard had been nothing more than dance-induced breathlessness.
Then again, how was she to know what attraction felt like?
Unlike her sisters, she’d never developed a tendre. In truth, but for the unsettling yew maze encounter with Neville, which had left her heated in a way she still couldn’t explain, she hadn’t thought herself capable of having any sort of special, romantic feeling.
And, clearly, she had no partiality for Neville.
Briefly, she recalled a sudden whoosh of onyx wings.
Neville’s hard body. A sense of relief threaded with something more.
Wrapped in the memory, her heart slowed to a low, hard thump.
Then, she remembered the humiliating way he had thrust her away from him before lecturing her on the dangers of her “reckless” behavior.
Reckless behavior? They’d been in full view of the house. Mostly.
“Millie…”
Lenora’s trailing voice brought Millie back to the present.
“Do you think you might like Lord Willard to brush your hair?”
Millie’s eyes flew open, and she glared accusingly at Lenora in the mirror. But Lenora’s expression was not, as she’d expected, a teasing one. Lenora was deeply serious. Serious and concerned.
“Lord Willard?” Nettie squeaked. “Who is Lord Willard?”
“A handsome gentleman who asked Millie to dance,” Lenora explained.