Page 11 of Venus in Disguise

Delia paused, narrowing her eyes. “Whatever were you thinking about? You’re bright pink.”

“I wasn’t thinking about—” Narcissa protested, but Delia gave a delighted bark of laughter.

“Oh, oh, I know,” she crowed. “You were dreaming of Ashton Anson!”

“Delia, hush!” Narcissa hissed, for Delia had no concept of how to keep her voice down. “You dreadful girl.”

Delia snorted, grinning unrepentantly. “I’m right, though, aren’t I? Not that I blame you, he is quite splendid,” she added with a sigh. “He’s very charming, too. Oh, and he dances like a dream. It’s quite something, you know, being held in his arms for the waltz. Just thinking of those big shoulders and muscular arms makes me feel quite silly. I should love to see him fight.”

Narcissa frowned, not entirely comfortable with Delia’s enthusiasm, nor the realisation she seemed so very well acquainted with the man. She liked the idea of seeing Mr Anson fight even less. The thought of him being hurt bothered her more than was good for her.

“Oh, stop looking so mutinous. I’m not about to steal him from you. As if I could,” Delia added with a snort. “This cake, however…”

Delia snatched up her fork and broke off a large piece, putting it in her mouth and chewing with an expression of dreamy delight.

Sighing, Narcissa shook her head. “I suppose I’d best save you from yourself,” she muttered sadly, taking her fork in hand once more. “I can’t have you exploding all over Bond Street. We’ve a good deal of shopping to do yet.”

With a laugh, Delia pretended to fight off Narcissa’s fork with her own and by the time they had reduced the cake to a few meagre crumbs they were both in a far better humour.

They exited the elegant interior of Claridge’s arm in arm, having deposited the morning’s purchases with Narcissa’s footman. Delia’s maid trailed behind them at a discreet distance whilst the ladies window shopped and stopped now and then to pass the time of day with acquaintances. Pausing to admire a cleverly arranged window display of this season’s spring bonnets, Narcissa was torn from her survey of a pretty chip bonnet lined with pale green satin by the sensation she was being observed. She looked up, turning to her right and left and seeing no one, before turning back to the window display and giving a gasp of surprise. Behind her own reflection in the glass stood another, much taller. Narcissa turned, glaring up at Mr Anson.

“Are you shopping for a new bonnet too?” she asked him gravely. “I should choose the one with the blue silk roses. It will go beautifully with your eyes.”

Mr Anson considered this, folding his arms and regarding the window display with an expression of lazy interest. “The blue is insipid,” he declared. “The pale green is the only one worth your time. I should snap it up before someone else does, you’ll look quite charming in it.”

Narcissa huffed, annoyed he’d singled out the one she liked. Now, if she bought it, he would think it was to please him. “I had already chosen that one,” she replied rather crossly.

“Of course you had,” Mr Anson replied with a patently false tone of reassurance.

“I did,” she insisted. “Oh, you wretched man, now I can’t buy it, and it would have gone perfectly with my new green redingote.”

Mr Anson laughed, shaking his head. “What a ridiculous girl you are. Just buy the bonnet if it pleases you.”

“No, because it pleases you,” she said sulkily, which made her sound like a spoiled child, but she didn’t care.

“Then I shall buy it for you,” Mr Anson said, heading for the door.

Narcissa stifled a squeal of anxiety and caught at his sleeve. “Indeed, you will not, you madman! Do you want to set tongues wagging?”

“You’re wrinkling me again,” he said reproachfully, gazing down at her fingers.

“I beg your pardon,” Narcissa said, letting him go.

“No, I beg yours,” Mr Anson replied, his voice dripping insincerity. “I would not wish for anyone to believe you had an interest in me, or vice versa. How terribly shocking. Your papa would suffer an apoplexy.”

“Not before he’d murdered Cissy,” Delia said frankly. “She’s got to marry someone ghastly, or he’ll not be satisfied. Don’t be vexed with us, though, Mr Anson. Please.”

Narcissa elbowed Delia and shot Mr Anson a sharp glance, wondering if the knowledge her father disapproved of him hurt. She hoped not, for surely everyone knew her father was a hard and unsympathetic man who was not well liked. Mr Anson ought to care nothing for such a man’s good opinion, for it was not worth having. She wondered, not for the first time, why on earth she tried so hard for it, but he was still her father, and her only living parent. The only time she got a modicum of respect from him was when she behaved like a spoiled child and demanded her own way. With a sudden burst of clarity, she wondered if this was why she behaved so ill around Mr Anson.

Mr Anson regarded Delia for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Narcissa. “Buy the bonnet,” he said shortly. “It’s perfect for you and it would be a shame not to, for the sake of pride.”

“What would be perfect for me, Mr Anson?” Delia demanded, before Narcissa could speak. “You’ve such a good eye for fashion and I’m perfectly hopeless, as I’m sure you are aware,” she added sadly.

Mr Anson regarded Delia with an expression of blunt amusement and Narcissa stiffened with anxiety in case the man was unkind to her friend. Delia was a beautiful girl, but she loved frills and bows and adornments. Somehow, she managed to look perfectly charming in them, when any other woman would look as though she’d narrowly escaped an explosion in a draper's shop. But Delia was rather out of the ordinary… and Narcissa did not wish Mr Anson to hurt her friend’s feelings.

“Indeed, you have a style all of your own,” Mr Anson said kindly, though he gave her over-furbished bonnet a slightly pained glance. “I think perhaps something in pink.”

“Oh, I love pink,” Delia said, clasping her hands together with delight. “That one with the roses?” she asked hopefully, pointing to a monstrosity of lace and petals that Mr Anson was regarding with undisguised horror.