Page 14 of Venus in Disguise

“Unexpected. Yes,” Narcissa replied faintly, whilst inside a little voice was repeating, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear… for she was horribly aware that her interest in Mr Anson had evolved, turning far too swiftly into fascination, into the need to know everything about him, and to be in his company again no matter what she had to do to make it happen. He was quite the most captivating and aggravating man she had ever met, and she was in deep, deep trouble.

Chapter 4

Dearest Emmeline,

Well, here I am, thrown headfirst into the season and doing my best to behave like the well-mannered young lady we both know I am not. Still, things are looking up, for Lady Narcissa is here. We met last season, though she could only go to a few of the smaller events, but the duke allowed me to visit her and for us to walk out together and to visit museums and the like. He’s not a very nice man, I’m afraid, but dukes generally are not. Just look at my Papa.

Still, Narcissa is a lovely creature, named the diamond of the season, for obvious reasons, though some call her the pocket Venus on account of her being rather petite.

We did some shopping today and ran into Mr Anson, who I believe is a friend of yours. He was so very kind as to take us to a new modiste and help us choose gowns for Lady Roxborough’s ball. Not that we did much choosing, the occasional nod was all he or madame seemed to require, but I believe the gown will be a thing of beauty. Narcissa will look quite stunning, of course, and throw the rest of us in the shade but I do not mind that. Now, if I can only try not to say something that makes everyone stare, I shall be doing remarkably well.

Do write back at once, Em darling. I long for news from home. How does Suki go on, and my scrumptious little Jasper? Give them big kisses and lots of hugs from their Auntie Delia and tell them I miss them. I miss you all horribly, in truth. Even Wrexham. I can’t wait until March when you all come to town.

Give everyone my best love.

Delia x

―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Cordelia Steyning (youngest daughter of Philip Steyning, The Duke of Sefton) to her sister-in-law, to the Most Hon’ble Emmeline Steyning, The Marchioness of Wrexham.

30th January 1850, Claridge’s, Bond Street, London.

Ash strode away from the two women, though he was certain he could feel Narcissa’s gaze upon his back as he lost himself in the crowd.

“Idiot,” he muttered furiously.

What the devil had he been thinking? Taking them shopping, of all things! He must be losing his wits. Lady Cordelia was a sweet creature, too kind-hearted and gentle to survive the ton, but she had no side to her, she was not anything but what she appeared to be. Lady Narcissa, however…

He ought to have sense enough to stay away from her. Whilst it might be fun to work her father into a lather of bigoted fury, or perhaps even to rile her vile older brother enough to force him into settling their differences in the ring, it was not worth the risk. Ash was many things, but he was not dishonest, and the truth was the Lady Narcissa tempted him like the sirens had tempted Odysseus. If he was not very careful, he would need someone to lash him to the mast.

He told himself that was ridiculous; he was overstating the attraction he felt. It was no more than any man would feel for a beautiful young woman. But… it was not like any other attraction he had ever experienced, not even close. Whenever their eyes met, he felt the connection like a snap of electrical current. Whenever he looked upon her, he could not help but wonder what was going on behind her eyes. Did she feel the surge of heat as fiercely as he did? He was certain she did. Even if, perhaps, she did not understand it, she felt the pull of attraction.

Forbidden fruit, he thought sourly, wondering if that was all it was for her. Perhaps for him too. For hadn’t the duke forbidden him to lay his filthy hands on Fidelia? Now her even lovelier younger sister was here, flirting with him. Naturally, he was tempted to behave badly. He was a man, wasn’t he?

Yes, that was all it was. Desire for a beautiful woman, and one, moreover, from whom he had been told to stay away. A recipe for obsession if ever there was one. The thought was comforting, but the real truth nagged at his consciousness, nipping at the edges of his mind like a vexatious little mongrel. Lady Narcissa intrigued him.

Ash groaned inwardly. There it was, staring him in the face. She might act the sweet little innocent who nodded demurely when a prospective husband blathered on about how women ought to confine their attentions to the home and child rearing and leave politics, finance, art, and literature—basically anything of interest—to men. He had seen her accept the most outrageous statements with apparent equanimity, but if you studied her closely you saw it, felt it even. If you paid enough attention, you saw the glittering flash of anger in her eyes before she quelled it, saw the barely perceptible stiffening of her shoulders, her fingers twitching with the desire to… to do what? Deliver a slap? Throw something? Ash was desperate to find out.

Then, too, one had to consider the characters of the men she cultivated the most. Not one of them could be considered over-endowed in the brains department. Financially endowed, certainly, with the requisite title, of course. Men she could probably manipulate without ever exerting herself. Was that it, then? Was that what she was after with this saccharine little façade? Why not? Inside that demure little half-wit could lurk a woman with a will of iron, a volcanic temper, and the intention to make a slave of whatever poor fool fell into her trap.

The idea of such a wicked, not to mention lovely, young woman ending up the property of some thick-headed oaf who wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to handle her, made resentment and something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy burn in his chest.

No, he told himself frankly. No. No. No, Ashton, old man. No matter the temptation, no matter the provocation, you will stay far, far away from her.

Ash groaned.

He was doomed.

2nd February 1850, Mrs Bishop’s Rout Party. Mayfair. London.

Narcissa craned her neck, standing on tiptoes, hoping against hope to find Delia was attending the rout party. Certainly, every other member of the ton seemed to have been shoehorned into the house, for it was stifling despite the chilly night outside and there was barely room enough to turn around.

“Stop that,” Mrs Chandler scolded. “You are not a giraffe.”

Maud gave a titter of laughter at this observation. “Oh, no. No, not a giraffe, for she is a tiny thing. No neck for it. Oh, how very droll you are, my dear.”

Mrs Chandler rolled her eyes and moved on through the crush of people, leaving Maud and Narcissa to follow in her wake. Narcissa sighed, having little choice, for she would be quickly left behind and lost if she did not keep up.

As she stepped forward, a glimpse of vivid purple caught her eye, however, and suddenly being left behind did not seem such a bad idea. It only took a moment’s hesitation, her apparent interest in looking up at the staircase to see how many people were crowded on the upper floor, and Maud and Mrs Chandler were out of sight.