Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (14 page)

Genova had given some lessons on the handling of a fan, and so Claris turned her wrist. It flowed smoothly open. When she reversed the action it smoothly closed again.

Carefully chosen?

No, the perfection must be from luck.

She opened the fan again, remembering that it could be used in many ways. An open fan could conceal or express emotions. A closed one could be a weapon. She would be permitted to rap an impudent gentleman on the arm or even upon the knuckles.

A weapon in the war between the sexes.

Genova had said that, clearly meaning it lightly, but a truth lay beneath. This was a man’s world, and a woman needed all the weapons she could find.

Genova had taught her how to handle a pistol, using her own. It was a pretty little weapon with silver mountings and pearl inlay, but lethal all the same. Claris had practiced with it in the gardens and had once hit the piece of wood set up as target, splintering it.

She didn’t have her own pistol yet, but she’d sent off an order to Ashart’s London gunsmith for one similar to Genova’s. If Perriam kept his promises, she’d have enough money to pay the shockingly high cost. If he didn’t, she’d have reason to shoot him.

She returned to the packages, unwrapping each with care. Six pairs of plain cotton stockings and six of wool, for winter wear. Useful but disappointing.

Then she unwrapped three pairs made of silk.

She had been using Athena’s cream, so when she tentatively picked one up, her fingers didn’t harm it. It was as smooth as Aunt Clarrie’s fichu and just as delicate.

She wouldn’t dare wear such stockings for fear of ruining them, but they were unbearably pretty, clocked up each ankle with embroidered flowers, one pair even embellished with gold thread that sparkled in the light.

As tempting as sweet ginger.

As seductive.

She carefully rewrapped them in muslin, where they’d probably stay forever.

Gloves of plain white cloth, gloves of lace, and one pair of supple tan leather. Then she noticed something—wear along the seams.

These weren’t new.

He’d purchased secondhand goods for her?

Tears threatened, and over such nonsense. Why should he go to the expense of buying new? She was merely the woman he had to marry to secure Perriam Manor. He’d have married Aggie Putbeck, who was short of most of her wits and skew eyed as well, if that had been the price.

She was tempted to hurl the whole lot through the open window, but she wouldn’t embarrass herself that way. Instead, she’d open everything.

Another package contained handkerchiefs, some of fine lawn with cutwork design and others plain. At least three of the plain were clearly not new. One even had a darn and wasn’t much better than her own. Three cotton fichus, new or not she couldn’t tell. One was trimmed with lace so must have cost a fair amount, even from a rag shop.

A larger package revealed a dressing robe in a lovely shade of pink. When she picked it up, she realized it was made of heavy silk. That couldn’t have been cheap either.

What was she to make of this mixed collection?

Perhaps that he’d first spent lavishly and then regretted it?

It was a lovely garment, however, designed for a lady to wear over her nightgown, or over her undergarments if she paused in dressing.

She draped the robe over a chair and reached for another package—a very light one. She opened it and discovered a fichu of silk.

Claris let it fall to the bed.

How had he known?

How could he have known about Aunt Clarrie’s fichu?

She inhaled and carefully picked it up. She spread it over her hands, as light as air, so fine that she could see her fingers through it, beautifully embroidered.

It wasn’t the same exactly, for the embroidery was of curlicues, not flowers, but when she put it around her shoulders, she shivered with awareness that it was forbidden. Now, however, it was allowed.

She sat at the dressing table and considered herself.

In the portrait, Aunt Clarrie had worn her fichu with a low-necked gown so that it covered, or rather veiled, the upper half of her breasts. Claris’s gown was modest, but the silk whispered against her neck like sin.

She snatched the cloth off and wrapped it up again.

At Perriam Manor she’d have no more occasion to wear the fichu than to wear silk stockings, and it was better so. Silk was dangerous. It could enchant the mind. She would be a sturdy countrywoman, just as she’d been at the rectory and at Lavender Cottage, only in more comfort.

All the same, she knew she would take the fichu out of its wrapping to admire now and then without fear of a birching. She’d think of poor Aunt Clarrie and hope she’d found solace in her niece’s marriage, in her niece achieving the place at Perriam Manor she’d believed would be her own.

Perhaps even her mother’s shade would garner some ease from that.

Despite the curse, it was easy to think of Aunt Clarrie in heaven, but impossible to imagine her angry, bitter mother there, despite her piety.

She quickly went through the rest of Perriam’s purchases, not checking to see if the items were new or used. A needlework case, a delicate hand mirror, a set of perfumed sachets, a silver-backed hairbrush and a bone comb.

She’d left the largest item to the last. It was a dome-topped tapestry-covered box with a lock, and she feared she knew what it contained.

Trinkets.

When she opened it, she gasped at the array of jewels in the upper tray but then realized they probably were trinkets in his mind. She touched a string of green beads, a silver bangle, and a brooch of translucent purple stones. Trinkets to him, but she’d never possessed any ornament other than her silver cross and chain—and now a diamond ring.

Her mother had owned some jewelry, some of which had been inherited from Aunt Clarrie. When she’d died, Father had sold them and given the money toward the building of almshouses.

Claris lifted out the top tray to find compartments below, each containing a treasure. She picked up a ring with a clear blue stone surrounded by tiny pearls. It fit her middle finger, pretty and glittering, as tempting as sweet ginger and oranges. He probably intended the jewelry as additional persuasion in case her resolve was wavering, but she was delighted to have such things in her life.

She added the silver bangle and a silver filigree brooch to her bodice. There were earrings, but she’d never had her ears pierced. Then she saw that they didn’t have a loop of wire, but instead wires that formed a sort of clip.

Did he notice
everything
?

Slowly she took off the jewelry and put it back in its place. She’d not give him the satisfaction. She’d wait to wear it until he’d taken her to Perriam Manor and gone on his way.

A knock on the door and Genova came in.

“I’m longing to know what he brought.”

Claris gestured to the bed, where most items were still unwrapped. “All that a lady might be expected to own. Not a grand lady, but one of modest origins and fortune such as I.”

“How clever!” Genova either had not noticed or chose to ignore Claris’s tone. “When the servants at Perriam Manor see your possessions, they won’t wrinkle their nose at signs of poverty, but they’ll not be made suspicious by new luxury, either.”

So that was why some were used. He
did
think of everything.

“Pestilential Perriam,” Claris muttered.

“A clever husband isn’t a bad thing.”

That rather depended, Claris thought, on whether the husband was ally or enemy. Perriam was intent on securing Perriam Manor for his family, and her own needs would always be secondary to that.

T
he next morning Claris prepared for her wedding.

She’d become comfortable at Cheynings but must leave for the unknown. Perriam had described the manor as modest and comfortable. She didn’t think he’d lied, but that left much undescribed, in particular the servants.

Whatever the servants at Cheynings thought, they were restrained by the presence of the Asharts. At the manor, she would be on her own. She’d have Athena, but even Athena wouldn’t be able to awe and quell disdainful domestics.

At least Alice had agreed to come with her for a while.

Perhaps she would stay, and there’d be Ellie as ally among the servants. Or would there? What would Ellie’s position be at Perriam Manor? It didn’t seem right that she be a servant. She was part of the family. But could she be comfortable in the drawing room and dining room?

Ellie, she decided, would do just as she wished.

She was already in her shift—one of the new ones—and put her arms into her new stays so Alice could lace up the back.

She’d never owned boned stays before, and she’d been reluctant to make the change, but Genova had been forceful. “Your unboned ones are acceptable for everyday, but beneath a formal gown, you must wear proper stays.”

She’d commanded a stay maker to Cheynings to make a first pair and instructed Claris to have at least one more pair made as soon as possible. Because of Perriam’s impetuosity, they’d almost arrived too late. This was the first time she’d been laced into them, and she was struggling to adjust to the fit and feel.

“Not too tight.”

“Of course not, ma’am. Don’t want you fainting at the altar.”

Lord above, absolutely not.

Claris checked that she could breathe deeply. She could, but she was aware of the stiffness encasing her. A prediction for her future life?

Nonsense. She would be mistress at Perriam Manor and wear unboned stays at all times if she wished, style and fashion be damned.

She bit her lip on that mild curse. Genova was somewhat free in her language and had infected her. Well, if she wanted to say “damnation” or “devil take it,” she would.

Genova came in, her eyes bright. “May I attend the bride?”

“Of course. You see the changes begin. I’m appropriately confined in whalebone.”

“And looking well. Do they pinch or squeeze?”

Claris had to admit that they didn’t. “They’re very well made, but I won’t be able to work in them.”

“Which is why you have the others. You’ll see the benefit when we put on your gown. Petticoat first.”

Claris stepped into it and then tied the laces at the waist. It would show beneath the open front of the gown’s skirt, so the white cloth was prettily embroidered with pink flowers.

“Stockings,” Genova said, but then protested, “You must wear a silk pair.”

“Be sensible. I’m to travel in my wedding clothes, and I’ll not have those stockings ruined.”

“They can be mended. Alice knows how. Don’t you?”

“Yes, milady, but I’m not as skilled at it as some.”

“Then you must practice. Which means,” Genova said to Claris, “that you must damage some to give her cause.”

Claris ignored that and sat to put on the pair of cotton stockings. “These are much more suitable, and they’re new, without mark or mend.”

“If they weren’t, I’d tear them off you. Such plain garters . . .”

“Will they shock the Perriam Manor servants? I’d think they’d be pleased that their new mistress was frugal.”

Genova rolled her eyes but shrugged. “As you will, you prickly thing.”

Thistle,
Claris remembered.

That had seemed like a compliment in an odd sort of way, but clearly it wasn’t.

“Now the gown,” Genova commanded.

Claris hadn’t put on the ivory gown since the final trimming, and she had to smile at how pretty it was with its ruched pink ribbons down the front of the bodice, fixed in place with bunches of tiny pink rosebuds.

She put her arms into the sleeves and drew it to the center to fasten, watching in the mirror. The alterations had been skillful, and it fit her perfectly in every way.

Perhaps too much so now that the stays pushed up her breasts. The bodice rose only an inch or so above her nipples.

She put a hand there. “I can’t go to church like this.”

“No, though it’s lovely for other occasions. You need a fichu.”

“There’s one laid out, milady,” Alice said, picking up the one of fine lawn.

Claris made an impulsive decision.

“Wait. There’s a silk one.”

“That’s packed, ma’am.”

“Can you find it, Alice? It would be perfect.”

The maid knelt by the open trunk, which was almost ready to go. She poked around and then triumphantly produced the muslin package. She unwrapped it and gave it to Claris.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Genova said. “Perriam?”

“Of course.”

“Such excellent taste. Let me arrange it.” Genova took it and put it around Claris’s shoulders. That whisper on the skin again, sending a shiver down her back as Genova carefully tucked it there, and then beneath the shoulders of the bodice. “You do the front.”

Claris looked down as she slipped the silk between stays and bodice; then she turned to check in the mirror.

“Claris, what is it?”

She smiled for Genova and said, “Nothing. Only that it looks so well.”

For a moment, however, it had been as if Aunt Clarrie had looked out at her. Only for a moment, for Aunt Clarrie had been pretty and sweet, and she was neither, but in that painting she’d been wearing a gown of similar color, and a silk fichu so very like this one.

Clarrie Dunsworth had laid down the path to this day, first by allowing herself to be seduced and duped by Giles Perriam, and then by directing that vengeful curse. Surely she must be satisfied now.

Three dead wives and four dead babies . . .

“You’ve turned pale,” Genova said. “Do you want some wine?”

Claris turned away from the mirror. “A bride is supposed to have some tremors. I’m anxious that everything go as it should.”

“Of course it will. You need a bride gift. I have the very thing.”

Genova hurried away and soon returned with a pretty pearl bar brooch. “It will keep the fichu in place,” she said, carefully fixing it. “Don’t worry, I’m not puncturing the silk.”

“You’re very kind.”

“You’re kind to provide this opportunity. I’ve enjoyed the past week.”

“As have I. Oh, I’m not going to cry. I never cry. . . .”

Claris found her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

“Never?”

“No, never.”

It seemed Genova would say something serious, but then she gave her a hug. “I hope you never have cause to. Shoes.”

Claris had new shoes for her wedding, ones made from the ivory cloth cut from the hem of the gown. They really weren’t suitable for traveling, but she wouldn’t commit the sin of putting on dark leather ones.

She had a new pair of sturdy brown leather shoes that had never tramped over fields and down muddy lanes. She’d kept her old pair, however, for she’d be tramping again, she was sure.

She had a wedding hat, also made from the trimmings, decorated with more pink ribbon and rosebuds. It was too small to be practical, but when it was fixed on top of her pinned-up hair, she knew she looked as well as possible.

Perhaps here stood the Honorable Mistress Peregrine Perriam.

She was brown haired and ordinary, but for today, at least, she looked her part.

“Lovely,” Genova declared, “though it’s a pity that lotion didn’t fade your freckles.”

Claris wrinkled her nose at her. “They’re indelible.”

“And will continue so if you keep forgetting a hat.”

“I’m sure I was born with them.”

“No baby is born with freckles. Hat, parasol, and lotion will eradicate them. We must go down. The carriage will be waiting.”

Claris walked toward the door but then froze in a sudden panic.

Why now? She’d made her decision a week ago, and again when Genova had offered her a way out. This marriage was sensible, rational, and in truth the only decision possible.

Why balk now?

For no reason on earth.

She made herself walk out of the room and even found a smile of sorts.

The marquess stood ready at the bottom of the stairs to escort her out to the carriage.

“Perriam’s gone ahead to be sure all’s in order at the church,” he said and led her outside. Before handing her into the carriage, he kissed her hand. “You look charming, my dear.”

She smiled her thanks, but as she settled on the seat, she was aware that Ashart’s lips on her knuckles hadn’t created the same frisson Perriam’s had. That was as well, given that he was another woman’s husband, a friend’s husband, but it was also worrying.

Perriam was all too beguiling when he cared to be, and Claris accepted that she was susceptible. Probably he’d make no attempt to charm her, but she must be on guard. Otherwise, the clever man would roll her up and do with her as he wished.

Genova climbed in and sat beside Claris, and Ashart took the backward-facing seat. The carriage moved forward.

It didn’t take long to reach the village and the church, where the vicar stood outside awaiting them. Claris had come here last Sunday, so there was no excuse for panic now. When Ashart offered his hand, she took it and climbed out.

Then she did halt. People were hurrying toward them, whispering, chattering, speculating. . . .

“Just village curiosity,” Ashart said. “Because of the license there’s been no announcement, but they must guess.”

Just curiosity, but Claris felt as if every eager eye was on her. She needed no encouragement to hurry into the cool privacy of the church.

Her family was already present at the front. The boys, polished to a shine, stared at her, their eyes widening.

Was she so changed?

She smiled and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

They grinned back.

Then Claris noticed Athena, or rather what Athena was wearing. Claris had never seen the dark blue sacque gown trimmed with lace. It wasn’t ostentatious, but it blared high style and cost like a trumpet, and Athena wore it with ease.

Even Ellie was different. Her gown was gray but almost as stylish as Athena’s and trimmed with silver embroidery. She wore a very fetching hat over a cap, and a necklace of silver and pearls. Athena, Claris now noted, wore amethysts.

She did falter for just one step, feeling severed from all that had so recently been solid and true. She’d expected changes, but she’d thought she’d known what form they’d take.

And there was the cause of all this turmoil, moving into place by the vicar, showing no sign of uncertainty. She was very tempted to turn and walk away simply to upset his plans.

Even he was changed.

Instead of the familiar riding clothes, today he wore a suit of plum-colored cloth, richly embroidered down the front edges and around the cuffs. Cuffs and neckcloth frothed with precious lace. Here was a fine gentleman, suited to the grandest houses, and even for court. Far above her, and only marrying her to secure a manor house for his family.

When she arrived by his side, he bowed, smiling. “You look lovely, Claris.”

She dipped a curtsy. “As do you, sir.”

“Too grand for a country wedding? A marriage should be celebrated with some distinction, don’t you think?”

“I have taken some pains.”

“Was it so very uncomfortable?” he murmured, eyes teasing her.

“Yes. I’m wearing stays.”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes, and perhaps something more as he glanced at her bodice. “They become you. Very much indeed.”

The vicar cleared his throat, and they both turned to him. Claris’s cheeks were burning. What had driven her to mention stays—in church? And how dared he . . . ?

The man could drive her mad.

The vicar moved briskly through the service, and the time for vows rushed upon her. The vows Athena had once spoken and then had to fight to escape. Claris had prepared herself for this moment, however, and her nerve didn’t fail her. She repeated the words firmly, even the one about obedience, accepting as compensation the gift of all his worldly goods.

Perriam Manor, its lands and income.

Her prize.

He slid the golden ring onto her finger, and then all was done save signatures in the register. Once that was completed, her husband linked arms with her and they walked out of the church.

The villagers were still there, even more of them now. They knew nothing of practicalities and cheered the bride and groom. Some had grain and flowers, symbols of fertility, and tossed them along with good wishes.

Why, she wondered, were people always so sure a wedding was cause for joy? Experience should teach them better.