Pleasure for Pleasure

Page 21

“Precisely. I have had to put away my ardent desire to become a bishop, but perhaps I shall still give up the world and its vanities.”
“I shall have to test you,” she said, giggling a little. “You know all good men go through some sort of temptation.” His arm was warm and strong around her waist as they danced.
“In the desert, I believe,” he said, looking around in a way that made her break into laughter. She caught the startled eyes of a friend, Lady Felicia Saville. Felicia had never quite recovered from a bout of lovesickness she suffered over Mayne, and Griselda tried to avoid her as much as possible. But now she gave her a laughing smile. She was dancing with one of the handsomest, most intelligent young men in the ton, and she was enjoying herself.
“There’s no desert in England,” Griselda observed.
“That’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve heard tell that people go quite unclothed in the desert.” His eyes danced with laughter. For a moment she thought he was trying to seduce her, but that was ridiculous. “Consider Lady Stutterfield in that state, for instance.” He nodded toward a rawboned woman who moved by in a stately fashion, clothed in great quantities of starched taffeta.
“Perhaps it is just as well that England has no desert,” Griselda agreed.
“One never knows, of course, when the earth’s magnetic poles will change their position and turn this country into a sandy wasteland,” he observed. “I learned very little in school, but I do remember that.”
“I’m quite certain that I’ve heard it said that you took a First.”
“Firsts are so easy to obtain these days,” he said. “Especially if one is partial to gossip, as I am. History is nothing more than a large collection of such tales, and my First is in that subject, which should qualify me in your esteem.”
“History is made up of gossip? I thought it was made up of grand events and grander people. And dates. My governess quite despaired of my ability to keep dates in my head. I could never see the point of it.”
“Neither can I,” he said companionably, and she could tell he meant precisely what he said. “But think about gossip. What do you most prefer to gossip about?”
“People, I suppose.”
“Yes, but people doing things. I think that there are three truly interesting sources of gossip. One is eccentrics, and another is financial failures. One can practically sum up the history of the world in those terms. Alexander the Great? An eccentric, and then a financial failure. Napoleon, Charlemagne, our own English Henry IV…all make interesting history, and each of them is either an eccentric, a financial failure, or both.”
“You haven’t told me the third category,” Griselda observed.
“Shouldn’t you like to guess?”
She thought for a moment. “Adultery…or possibly murder. But on the whole adultery is so much more interesting to discuss; murders have a dreary similarity at the base.”
“One could argue the same of adultery, but I won’t,” he said, laughing. “You see, Lady Griselda, you would have had a top First, if only the universities weren’t such fools about allowing women to attend.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t want one.”
“Why on earth not?”
“So that I could predict at what year England would turn into a desert? And pray, sir, what possible use would that news be to me?”
“You could prepare the ton for the eventuality of waltzing with no clothes,” he said.
He was flirting with her. Really, she thought that as a woman who was ten years older than he, she would have to carry this conversation all by herself. But he was surprising her. First he swore to cease his talk of sausages, and now he was engaging in a flirtation.
“I’m afraid,” she said in a melancholy type of way, “that I would have to leave the ton if that became the normal way of things.”
“Couldn’t stomach it?” he said sympathetically. “Whenever I have to visualize something of an unpleasant nature, I think about muffins.”
“Muffins?”
He twirled her around the bottom of the room and their legs brushed together. “Muffins are very helpful in these situations,” he said gravely. “For example, if I think of Lady Stutterfield without her support garments, not to mention all that taffeta, I might feel faint. So I think of a hot, buttered muffin and I feel much better. On the reverse side, if I think of you, Lady Griselda, without your garments, I also feel faint, though for different reasons.”
“So you think of muffins?” she asked, her eyes caught by his intent ones.
“Dry, horrid muffins,” he said.
“I think you show a remarkable attachment to nursery food.” She drew back as the music came to a close, and curtsied.
“Will I see you tomorrow in the park?” he asked.
“Shall you be there, pursuing a marriageable young miss?” she teased.
“Yes,” he said baldly.
She was a bit surprised, but then realized that Darlington was presumably the sort who could flirt with a willing, presumably available widow and blatantly pursue a wife at the same time. She kept smiling and withdrew her hand. “Perhaps I shall see you there,” she said.
“Lady Griselda—” he began.
But she turned away with a dismissive flutter and a polite smile. While he was a most enjoyable man to share a waltz with, she had no particular desire to watch him hook poor Letty Hotson and her dowry of lace.
9
From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Sixth
There we were, with our omelettes quite besmiring our garments—Dear Reader, remember your promise to me that you will make no attempt to discover the identity of my Hippolyta—and she said to me, in the prettiest manner imaginable, “Dearest Sir, will you not aid me in removing this unsavory breakfast from my person?” Reader, may I say that it was a meal I shall never forget?
T he door opened, and Josie slapped her arms back in front of her breasts. They were far too large; she couldn’t say how it happened, but in the last year, her breasts had grown enormously. At least you don’t gain in your legs, Imogen had told her when they were looking at her reflection without The Corset. That was true. Her ankles and legs were fairly slim, compared to the rest of her. It was her hips and breasts that were vulgarly rounded.
Mayne handed her a gorgeous flowered dressing gown, keeping his eyes on the far wall. She slipped her arms through the sleeves. It was a sensual delight: smooth, sleek silk in a dark violet color, covered with arabesques and wild curls of Indian leaves. “This is so beautiful,” she said, tying the sash. “Have you traveled to India?”“Good lord, no.”
“Clothes matter a great deal to you, don’t they?”
“Absolutely.” He turned around. “You look better in that robe than you do in a gown that doesn’t fit you.”
“My gown does fit me,” she said with dignity. “With the corset.”
He handed her glass of champagne back. “Now. You sit down and I’ll give you a lesson in how to walk.”
“So as to make a man slaver,” she prompted, sinking into a chair. It felt wonderful to be out of the corset. She crossed her legs and relished the sensation of being able to curve her back. The champagne slipped down her throat in a now familiar rush of apple bubbles. A queer rush of affection bubbled with it, for this exquisite dandy of a gentleman who was taking such time to show her how to succeed on the marriage market.