Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) * Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England * Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) * Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) * Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India * Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) * Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

THE DRESS OF THE SEASON

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation eSpecial edition / April 2012

Excerpt from
If I Fall
by Kate Noble copyright © 2012 by Kate Noble.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-57258-0

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For my lovely agent, Annelise.

Who handles my writerly weirdness with a laugh and aplomb.

Chapter One

Many remember the London Season of 1823 as being fraught with passion, excitement, and more than one act of derring-do. But more than anything, they remember that 1823 was the year of the color gold—what with the popularity of the Golden Lady, and every young debutante trying to copy her style. But what most people do not remember, is that before the Golden Lady burst onto the scene, there was a brief, explosive, Sensation in Silver.

“How am I to design a dress, monsieur, without a lady to design it for?” Madame LeTrois, preemininent clothier for the fashionable women of the ton, said with a sigh of frustration.

Harris Dane, Viscount Osterley, kept his fingers gripped loosely to the arms of his chair in this puffed-up mantua-maker’s parlor-cum-showroom. Just a slight tightening at the corner of his mouth gave away his impatience. “Madame, as I’ve explained, the dress is a gift. There is a lady for it, she is simply unaware I’m having this dress made for her.”

“Oui,”
Madame LeTrois replied, “but I do not design gowns that just
anyone
can wear. I design gowns for the woman herself. I drape on her, I cut, I pin and tuck until the lady is as beautiful as possible, and she knows it. The dress is unique to the wearer.”

She sat very primly on her chaise, samples of fabric laid here and there, dress forms, wearing creations of fluff and bother than Osterley would himself never understand, looming over her shoulder like jail guards. Yes, Madame LeTrois sat there very primly, as she poured him tea and wheedled and negotiated with him for every last groat in his pockets. Instead of playing out this scene, which would take far too much time, he decided to cut line and move to the end of the business.

“Surely there must be some way to convince you to alter your mode of doing business,” Osterley drawled. “Perhaps, at double your normal price?”

He saw the light of commerce flame in Madame LeTrois’s eyes. But then it was vanquished by what seemed to be some kind of ridiculous seamstress’s morals. “Perhaps I did not explain myself clearly, sir,” Madame LeTrois tried again. Interesting how her French seemed to slip away with her increased exasperation. “I would need the lady here. In many ways, the dress chooses the lady, not the other way around.”

“In that there is no issue,” Osterley replied. “For the lady has visited your shop many times, and has told me precisely what she would like.” As Osterley described the cut and proportion of the dress in his mind’s eye, Madame LeTrois took up a sketchbook quickly, and began jotting down notes, drawing long lines on the paper, sketching out a dress that met with his approval.

“Like this?” she said holding up the sketch. “Do you like the lines, sir?”

“Madame, whether or not I like it is of little consequence. In truth, I would not be able to tell a sleeve from a pantaloon most days. All that matters is that
she
like it.”

Likes it enough to admit him into her good graces, and then to her bed, Osterley thought, the zip of lust running down his spine.

“Yes,” Madame LeTrois was saying, pushing a graying curl behind her ear. “I must warn you sir, this dress is very daring. It is not for a young debutante.”

“Luckily it is not for a young debutante,” Osterley ground out, unhappy to be disclosing that much of his personal life. He was not pleased to be here, in this epicenter of feminine explosion, let alone having to make clear his intentions to this . . . this . . . tradeswoman. For the fourth or fifth time since this scheme had been cracked in his brain, he wondered if it was worth it. Why could she not simply want jewels, like every other potential mistress? No, she wanted a gown.

But not just any gown. A Madame LeTrois.

“It is for a lady who has . . . aroused my affections,” he said low, hoping his words were veiled enough to keep him gentlemanly, but frank enough to get his point across.

“Oh. Then I know exactly how to make this dress, my lord,” Madame LeTrois replied sagely, making a few notes on the drawing in her nearly illegible shorthand. “The gown of a seductress. And I have just the material too—there is an excellent midnight blue satin we just received from Paris . . .”

“No.” Osterley announced abruptly. “Silver. She said there was a silver lace that she must have.”

Madame paused. “Are you certain, my lord? That material is quite . . . special.”

“By special you mean expensive,” he grumbled. “Which I will compensate you for, I assure you.” His eyes caught hers then, and in them he read, of all things, offense. As if he was wholly off his mark, and that it was not the price that made the material special. But he was paying too much money to feel guilt. ’Twas just the environs, he told himself. The sooner he could leave this claustrophobia of tea and lace, the better.

“Delivery in a week’s time will be sufficient, I presume,” he intoned, and watched as Madame LeTrois harrumphed and snorted and then conceded that yes, she was being paid enough to warrant the rush, and that yes, she would send her best seamstress to fit the dress to the lady and do any last minute alterations before the evening of said date.

“And the lady’s name and direction, my lord,” Madame LeTrois asked clinically, absolutely no judgment in her tone. But still, Osterley felt himself holding back a blush.

“Mrs. Grace,” he replied, stone-faced. “In Upper Grosvenor Street.”

“Did you say Mrs. Grace?” came a pert voice from behind him. Osterley turned and found himself staring into the cornflower blue gaze of Lady Phillippa Worth, who stood in the main showroom just beyond Madame LeTrois’s private—but open, for propriety’s sake—parlor doors. Lady Phillippa Worth, who was known for her beauty, her money, and her absolute social control, had just stepped into the middle of Osterley’s private life. And he could not like it.

“I had no idea Mrs. Grace was back in town!” Lady Worth said, inquiringly. As an afterthought she added, “How do you do, Lord Osterley? I wonder at finding you in the highest circle of ladies’ fashion however.”

“No,” Osterley blurted. Then, recovering himself to his normal, austere visage, explained. “I, ah, I did not say Mrs. Grace.” Luckily, his brain did him a favor for once and he found the smooth easy lie. “I said Miss Grove. My ward. I’m . . . purchasing a pair of gloves for her. Embroidered ones—those, in fact.” He pointed to a pair of gloves in glass display case, with twining vines of violets running happily over the back of the hands.

“Oh, I think she will adore them,” Lady Worth said, smiling. “Although you shall have to order them smaller, I believe your ward has more delicate hands. I should point them out to my friend, Miss Forrester,” she replied, stepping into the private parlor, as if she was the mistress of this establishment. And she might as well, considering that she was Madame LeTrois’s most famous client. But thankfully, before she could call her friend in, Madame LeTrois exerted herself.

“Lady Worth, my dear, I am just finishing up with Lord Osterley. Can I have Collette show you the latest samples while you wait?”

“No need to wait, Lady Worth. Madame—I believe our business is concluded.” Osterley stood up in haste.

“Of course, sir, of course,” Madame LeTrois replied. Then, coyly, she added, “We were just confirming Miss Grove’s address. For the gloves. It is the Osterley town house in Berkeley Square? The same as where the bill should be sent?”

Oh hell. The mercenary creature was actually going to make him order the gloves, too, wasn’t she? Osterley smiled tightly.

“Yes, it is. Erm . . . now, madame, if you would just have the
gloves
, delivered to Miss Grove—my ward—in a week’s time?”

As madame nodded, Osterley made his escape, giving the most cursory of bows to Lady Worth as he fled the establishment. Once outside, he breathed deeply, happy to find the air unfettered by cloying perfumes and starched muslin.

That was a very close call, he scolded himself, thrusting his hat upon his head as he walked. He could only hope Mrs. Grace proved worth the trouble and effort.

Chapter Two

One week to the day later, two shop girls set out from Madame LeTrois’s establishment off of Bond Street, one with a large package and the directions to Mrs. Grace in Upper Grosvenor Street, and one with a smaller package intended for the home of Miss Grove, at the Osterley town house on Berkeley Square. Since they were both headed toward Mayfair, and the packages were delicate and expensive, the girls were given leave to hire a hack to take them as far as Green Park, from which the walk would be easy and the streets much cleaner. Then they would deliver their packages, and be on their way.

However, fate—in the form of a loose cobblestone—had other ideas.

For when the front wheel of the hack hit the cobblestone, it popped the stone loose, and caused the back wheel to stumble into the rut, and violently jolt the whole carriage. Packages, cards bearing directions, and shop girls tumbled to the floor. They were righted quickly enough again, and after a brief, panicked inspection of the packages (thankfully no damage was incurred), their uniforms were dusted off, and the direction cards for the deliveries affixed to the proper packages. Then, deciding that they had gone far enough, thank you, the shop girls disembarked, and made their way to their respective deliveries.

However, the names “Mrs. Grace” and “Miss Grove” look remarkably similar, even if they were not written in Madame LeTrois’s artistic handwriting.

Thus is was that Mrs. Grace, fluttering with delight to receive a package from Madame LeTrois’s shop, a gift from Lord Osterley, found herself frowning at a pair of embroidered gloves. And as for Miss Grove . . .

“For me?” Felicity Grove squeaked, admitting Osterley’s great-aunt Bertha to her bedchamber, the shopgirl from Madame LeTrois’s—Madamoiselle Collette, she had said as she dipped to a curtsy—following silently behind her, bearing a massive box. “From Osterley? Are you sure?”

“Yes, miss,” Collette said. “And I am to make final adjustments so you may wear it tonight. Madame would have come herself, but she received an order for an entire wardrobe last week. I am to assure you that I am her best seamstress, and you will be perfection itself.”

“But he’s never sent me a present before,” Felicity was bewildered. Her brown eyes widened like saucers. “Not in four years of guardianship.”

“Just because he’s never given you a gift doesn’t mean he has been a negligent guardian,” Bertha admonished. She was not one to hear any negative words about her beloved—although admittedly distant—great-nephew.

“Of course not—I did not mean to imply that he was!” Felicity hastened to reassure. “Only that . . . what is the occasion?” she asked, her eyes locking on Collette’s—who looked as skittish as a rabbit caught by a gardener’s lamplight.

“The start of the Season, of course!” Bertha said, her mop of light gray curls dancing as she shook her head at Felicity’s foolishness. “Perhaps
this
year he has decided to be more supportive in your quest to secure your future.” Meaning finding someone to marry her off to, Felicity thought sharply, and allow him to be free of his obligation to her family. But she said nothing, as Bertha continued blithely. “Now, since you must be fitted into this dress, you obviously cannot come with me to the Fieldstones’ for tea. And oh dear, I shall have to meet you here right before we head out for the evening, since I am getting ready at Lady Fieldstone’s. I am having my hair dressed by her maid—she wants to experiment on me, you know,” Bertha added, plumping her curls. Even well into her sixth decade, Bertha’s hair was her one true vanity—it retained the bounce, shine, and thickness of youth, if not the fair color. She always preened under the attention she was given for it, by ladies and their maids alike.

“Be ready promptly, and we shall retrieve you at the door,” Bertha was saying, snapping Felicity back to the present conversation. “You know Almack’s rules about punctuality. And oh—I do hope the gown is appropriate, I didn’t even think of that. Collette, what color is the dress?”

The question was because Almack’s had a dress code second only in rigidity to the military, and Collette answered promptly. “It is silver, ma’am. But a very light silver. Almost white.”

“Splendid, good to know that my nephew has paid at least some attention to something other than his field dredging,” Bertha said pulling on her gloves. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and oversee, my dear? I can send a note to Lady Fieldstone—although her maid does have the most marvelous way with hair . . .”

“Go,” Felicity said kindly but firmly. “I’ve been capable of dressing myself for quite some time now, I’m sure Collette and I will muddle through without you.”

And with that, Bertha gave a small wave, and headed out. Leaving Felicity alone with Collette, and the large box in her arms.

“Well,” Felicity said finally breathing out a sigh. “Let’s see this silver dress, shall we?”

Collette immediately set the box down on a table and lifted the lid. Reverence in her voice, a flush of excitement on her cheeks, she met Felicity’s eyes.

“In this, ma’am, you will be the sensation of the Season!”

* * *

A Sensation in Silver.

Those were the words that greeted Harris Dane, Viscount Osterley, as he had walked through the tittering crowds of Almack’s that he always found so insipid. And those were the words that rushed through his angry mind as he slammed the door to his town house, after enduring a spectacle of an evening that could only be described as humiliating.

“Have you gone mad?” he thundered, the chandelier in the foyer shaking with his rage as he stomped into the library. He expected Felicity to follow him meekly, to wail with contrition and regret, but instead he was insulted by the sound of a harsh, bitter laugh.

“Have I gone mad? No, of course not!” Felicity countered. “After all, I simply wore a dress that was given to me by my
adoring
guardian.”

“That is not a dress,” he growled. “That is barely more than an underthing!”

“Regardless,” Felicity replied tartly, “I’m not the one who purchased it!”

The tips of his ears turned hot—he was blushing. Rightfully so, even though he wanted to bury such embarrassment deep. But what needed to be buried deep was his rage—indeed, he was so far outside of his normal steely control, it shocked him. Shocked him almost as much as the sight of Felicity had earlier that night, on the dance floor of Almack’s.

He had begrudgingly attended Almack’s that evening. He was in no market for a wife, and no mood to deal with wide-eyed young misses frightened by his unsmiling demeanor, and their less easily intimidated mamas. But ever since Felicity had come out three Seasons ago, he decided it was good politics to make an appearance at the beginning of the Season, thereby reminding anyone who might have forgotten that Felicity was under his stern-faced protection.

The fact that he avoided anything to do with the social season the rest of the time—including his ward—was of little consequence, he told himself.

He bowed and made polite his way through the crowd, aware that everyone was being gracious but reserved with him. Not that that was unusual, of course. He was used to people’s nervousness, the way their eyes flitted to his face. Osterley knew what they called him behind their hands, too, whispered in hushed tones. “Austere Osterley.” He didn’t mind it—in fact, secretly, he encouraged it. When his jaw was set, when he didn’t smile, and when he did not engage, he found that people and their frivolities tended to leave him alone.

Which was better. Surely.

But tonight, those whispers had not been about him. In hindsight, he would realize the pointed looks toward him did not contain just fear, but a kind of . . . anticipation. But at that moment, all he did was blithely wander through the foyer and receiving rooms, until he found himself standing on the edge of the ballroom floor.

And he saw her.

She was dancing a reel in line, her back to him, partnered with a young man who tripped over his feet since he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, only little wisps falling artfully against her neck. Having that luscious hair up allowed the work on the back of the dress—or more appropriately, lack thereof—to be featured. Tiny cap sleeves of silver lace held the dress up, crossing her shoulders, but there, the fabric ended, until the thin, clinging silk of the skirt swooped around from the front and came together in a point in the center of her back.

Osterley felt a shot of lust go straight to his groin. He knew Mrs. Grace was a beautiful woman. Young, her beauty only slightly sharpened by her recently ended mourning of her husband, five decades her senior. But he did not expect Mrs. Grace to have such soft, youthful shoulders, or such gleaming fine skin. He also did not expect her to be wearing the silver dress he had given her that very evening. At least, not to Almack’s, that high watermark for propriety. He had expected to see her at one or another of half a dozen parties. Dances and soirees that had dark alcoves and a more permissible atmosphere. Even as his body hummed with excitement, his jaw remained set, a slight twitch of disapproval at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps Mrs. Grace was not naturally the discreet creature she had been while in mourning gray. Maybe she was not the perfect partner for his needs that he had envisioned.

While his lust was stirring, and his jaw was twitching, the lines of the reel exchanged places.

And Austere Ostlerley nearly cried out in shock.

“Felicity?” he said, managing to keep his voice to a whisper. But that did not mean that people nearby did not hear. Including Lady Phillippa Worth, the elegant busybody who had an odd knack for being right where he didn’t want anyone to be.

“Yes indeed, Miss Felicity Grove,” Lady Worth replied to his whispered exclamation. “She is truly stunning this evening. It’s a Madame LeTrois, is it not? And you were so sly, saying you were ordering gloves!” She batted him playfully with her fan. “If you had asked me, I would have helped you rein in madame’s tastes a bit. But never fear, while the cut is slightly scandalous, it is nothing more daring than what I would wear in my day. Why, it is the dress of the Season, and ’tis only April!” She smiled at him—straight in the face, as she was an abominably tall woman. “You will have to be careful, Osterley, because you are about to have a sensation on your hands.”

Osterley did not hear as she left him to go attend her friend, Miss Forrester. In fact, he hadn’t heard most of what she had said. But the one thing that repeated over and over in his brain was the phrase
slightly scandalous
.

Slightly?! There was nothing slightly about it! The silver silk clung to her body, draped so fluidly any underclothes would have to be so thin as to be imaginary. And Osterley suddenly found he had quite the imagination. And the bodice—with lace that sparkled, drawing attention to delicately curved breasts, dipping low enough in the front to tantalize, and nonexistent enough in the back to prove the lack of even imaginary underthings.

The dress of the Season, indeed.

How had she been allowed in the front door of Almack’s? How had Aunt Bertha allowed her out of the front door at home? And the far larger question—how the hell did that dress end up on Felicity in the first place?

Stalking across the room, composing angry letters and possible legislation to Madame LeTrois in his head, he was vaguely aware of the whispers around him growing louder.

“It’s just so daring—if anyone could wear it, it’s Felicity!” one girl whispered to another.

“That girl is completely wild. I cannot make sense of Osterley turning down any of the offers he’s had for her.” There was a brief pause in the matron’s voice. “How do you think I would look in silver?”

Wild? Yes, Osterley had to agree. Felicity was wild, but normally the stories that reached him were just inside the bounds of propriety. Wagering a dance at cards, trading costumes with a friend for a masquerade ball—silly things that girls got up to. Apparently, Felicity had grown from an angular, unsure girl of sixteen, when he took over her guardianship, to a vivacious, headstrong young woman. And it was true, he had, over the course of the past two Seasons, turned down four men who wished to court her—but simply because he knew them to be spineless. Someone of Felicity’s temperament needed someone strong enough to handle her. In fact, he had been hoping that this year she would have calmed down a bit, and shown some new maturity. He would like to have her married off before she became of age next year. The thought of her released upon the world to her own devices, with her tidy inheritance from her parents, nearly gave him hives.

Apparently, any new maturity was a hollow hope.

Still, as he hovered on the edge of the dance floor, waiting for the reel to end so he could talk to Felicity without causing a complete scandal, he was aware that, maybe, perhaps, he was blowing this out of proportion. After all, his rationality catching up with his rage, Lady Worth had said it was no worse than what she wore in her time. And she was a very fashionable woman—or so he was told. Add to that, those whispers he overheard could not be described as sinking. They were even admiring.

And the fact of the matter was, in that dress, Felicity had passed Aunt Bertha’s scrutiny and Almack’s.

No, indeed, perhaps it was not so bad.

Little did he realize, however, circumstances were about to darken dramatically.

As the reel ended, Osterley hung back for a few moments, not wanting anyone to read into his urgency. And that turned out to be a mistake. For there was someone, newly arrived, who felt the need to speak with Felicity urgently.

Mrs. Grace.

She swanned through the crowd, floating serenely, but all the while working a mad dance underneath to move quickly through the crowd. She put herself directly in front of Felicity, forcing a conversation.

Osterley could only watch, and slide gently to stand beside Felicity as Mrs. Grace, jealousy flaming in her eyes, addressed her younger counterpart.

“Miss Grove. So delightful. What an . . . interesting dress.” Her too-tight smile strained her cheeks.

BOOK: The Dress of the Season

13.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads