Pleasure for Pleasure

Page 29

A few moments later she confirmed that opinion. Lady Gemima was uproariously funny. She no sooner sat down than she had them in stitches, telling them exaggerated tales of the kind of exploits that an unmarried woman obviously shouldn’t know about.
“Am I horrifying you?” she asked Sylvie at one point. “I believe you’re engaged to the Earl of Mayne, so I thought you were probably unshockable. If not, you soon will be.”
“I am,” Sylvie said, although it was quite untrue. She was rewarded with one of Lady Gemima’s warm smiles.
“I didn’t think you were one of those tiresome debutante types,” she said. “Lord, but I’m tired of young women. Men are so much more interesting.”
“I don’t agree,” Lucy said.
“Neither do I,” Sylvie said. “I find men of all things tiring and inevitably troublesome. There is nothing more pleasant than spending the afternoon in this way.”
“Well, of course, amongst ourselves,” Gemima said. “But I am bored by endless conversations about reticules. You can’t even discuss a petticoat without it being a bit too risqué for someone.”
“I heard the funniest thing about petticoats the other day,” Lucy said, giggling again. “Lady Woodliffe told me that she ordered all her petticoats in pale gray silk so that they would suit whatever garment she wore. She intends to stay in half-mourning for her darling Percy the rest of her life.”
“Ridiculous,” Gemima said. “Considering that the man died in the arms of a strumpet, by all accounts. You’d think she’d be wearing pink ruffles.” Her lifted eyebrow was so funny that Sylvie kept laughing. “But you do know, don’t you, that the oh-so-righteous Lady Woodliffe was seen coming out of Grillon’s Hotel last spring?”
“No!” Lucy gasped.
“Indeed. I heard it from Judith Falkender, who’s a very reliable source. Of course, she may have been trying to catch her husband in the act.”
Sylvie wrinkled her nose. “Why would she bother? And what is this place, Grillon’s?”
“Oh, it’s the only hotel in London worth visiting,” Gemima told her. “All the ambassadors stay there. I stayed there for a fortnight a year ago, just to see if I would like it, but even though I took a whole floor, there really wasn’t enough room for all the people it takes to put myself together. You’d like it, Lucy. Are you still interested in all things Egyptian?”
“No,” Lucy said. “I stripped the ballroom of all those odd statues and things. Feddrington is quite displeased because they cost so much, but I gave them all to the British Museum and now he’s happy because they’re going to name a room after him.”
“The Room of Feddrington Monstrosities,” Gemima said, laughing. “I thought it was a bit much when you had those death gods overlooking the ballroom.”
“They added atmosphere,” Lucy said, shrugging off her criticism. “And look how well it turned out. The director of the museum almost fainted when I showed him Humpty and Dumpty. That’s what I called them,” she told Sylvie. “They were great monstrous things, around ten feet tall.”
“I’d love to go to Egypt,” Gemima said lazily. “I’m thinking of starting to travel, you know.”
“Alone?” Sylvie asked.
“Well, since I dislike the idea of taking a husband merely as an umbrella stand,” Gemima said, “I expect I shall travel alone. Although to be quite honest, that would be merely a figure of speech.”
Lucy laughed. “You don’t know Gemima yet, Sylvie. She has the largest household of anyone I know. How many personal maids do you have at the moment, Gemima?”
“Three,” Gemima said, “but only because I’m so very difficult. If one poor woman had to deal with me, I’d have to give her a hardship allowance.”
They all laughed, and for a moment the pale English sunshine turned the whole racetrack into a delightful place, full of women with brains, temperament, and beauty. “I am enjoying England!” Sylvie said, delighted.
Mayne was dodging around crowds of chattering men to return to Sylvie when he caught a glimpse of her laughing in Lady Feddrington’s box and sighed with relief. Thank God, that little French face of hers wasn’t looking at him with an expression of gentle disappointment. She was laughing harder than he’d ever seen her laugh, so hard that her parasol had actually slipped to the side. Then Lady Gemima turned her head so that Mayne caught her profile, and he saw the reason. Everyone he knew adored Gemina, except for a few carping Puritans. He could leave Sylvie with Lucy Feddrington for at least another half hour.
He turned around and headed back toward the long, low stables where Sharon was waiting for her race. There was something odd about Sharon this morning, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but that didn’t feel right. His jockey had sworn up and down that Sharon was absolutely herself.
“Mayhap a little spooked by the crowds,” Billy, his stablemaster, had said.
But Mayne wondered. He started plowing back through the crowds, head down, when he heard someone call his name. He looked up and there was his sister, Griselda, and next to her, Josie. She looked none the worse for all that champagne; it must be her youth. He had a distinctly heavy head himself.
“Darling,” Griselda said lavishly. She seemed to be in extraordinarily high spirits. “We want to see your horses, of course. We were on the way to the box, but now you can take us to the stables.”
Josie was smiling at him without a trace of shyness. Shouldn’t she be the least bit shy after last night? Well, why should she?
“I’m not sure you should come to the stables,” he told Griselda. “There’s so many ruffles on that costume that you might frighten the horses.”
“Nonsense,” Griselda said, waving her parasol about in a manner guaranteed to strike fear into the heart of a skittish thoroughbred.
Mayne tucked Griselda under one arm and Josie under the other. Josie wasn’t wearing the corset. In fact, she was showing a rather delectable figure, although her costume was rather oddly designed, with seams leading here and there that hardly accentuated her better features.
She looked up at him and said something he couldn’t hear, so he bent his head to her.
“We went to Griselda’s modiste this morning,” she whispered in his ear.
“I trust that you bankrupted Rafe,” he said back, loving the way her eyes were shining with excitement.
“I expect so,” she said impishly. “We didn’t inquire into such pedestrian details.”
He gave a mock groan. “It’s a good thing he’s on his wedding trip. You could—” But he bit it back. What on earth was he thinking, about to suggest that she charge her clothing to him?
She looked up at him, eyebrow raised, but now they were in front of Sharon’s box. The filly looked very small for such a large box.
Griselda was perfectly happy to peep over the top, and made clucking noises at Sharon, rather as if the filly were a kitten who might be coaxed into purring. Sharon ignored her. But Josie opened the box and went straight in.
“Don’t mess your slippers,” Griselda cried. “You know that animal likely—” She waved her parasol to illustrate her point.