of the silk gown against her skin. Not until this moment, the smoky-green fabric swirling about her, did she realize just how much she’d missed what Lady Catherine would call “pretty dresses.” After the door shut behind the departing maid, with a giddy laugh, Laura lifted her arms and waltzed around her narrow chamber, dipping and turning in the embrace of her invisible partner.
Cinderella in truth, for the dress was no more substantial than moondust and starlight. After months of wearing the stiff, heavy brown bombazine favored by Aunt Mary, so sheer and weightless did the garment feel Laura could scarcely believe she was clothed at all.
She stopped dancing and cast a worried glance down at her chest. Though fashioned with a délletage nowhere near as deep as the style favored by Lady Ardith, the dress was still much lower cut than any she’d worn during her brief Season. Perhaps she should have protested more strongly when Lady Elspeth absolutely forbade Jane to sew a lace tucker into the bodice.
Nonsense, she reassured herself. With Lady Ardith present in all her scandalous finery, who would spare a look for little Laura Martin?
Nonetheless, her disquiet increased after she left the secure cocoon of her chamber. Since her near-miraculous recovery from the fever that had almost killed her, she’d worn naught but the mud-brown camouflage of her new identity. Daring to appear in public without it made her feel even more unclothed than the gossamer gown.
Still, if she meant to put off for an evening garments guaranteeing obscurity, nowhere in England could she do so in more safety than in Squire Everett’s drawing room. The only guests present would be neighbors who’d long ago accepted Laura Martin, or relatives of the boy whose life she’d help to preserve. None of those, she believed, would consciously seek to do her harm.
Honesty forced her to admit that her unease at descending to the drawing room was directly related to the tall, commanding earl about to gather there with the assembling dinner party. A man who inspired in her this perilous swing of emotion from attraction to avoidance, the man she’d felt impelled to give, for one brief evening, a glimpse of the woman behind the mask.
A man who, should he decide to tempt her out of sanity into temporary dalliance, would tryst with her and forget her the moment his carriage passed beyond the gateposts of Everett Hall. In truth, no matter how glorious such an interlude would prove—and every inexperienced but acutely sensitive nerve shouted that it would be glorious indeed—she could not afford for him to remember her longer.
Laura Martin, you’re an idiot, she concluded as she reached the floor on which the main bedchambers were located. As she started past the door to her patient’s room, she paused. Perhaps she should check on Kit.
Glad to have a responsible reason to indulge her cowardly desire to dawdle, she knocked on the door. When Kit’s valet, Peters, answered it, instead of standing aside to let her enter, he simply stood for a moment, jaw dropped, staring. “Cor, ma’am,” he breathed, finally remembering to step back, “but you do look fine.”
“T-thank you,” she stuttered, not sure whether to be alarmed or flattered.
“Who is it, Peters?”
“Mrs. Martin, master—I think.”
Kit Bradsleigh lay propped against his pillows, face pale and drawn. Only in the past two days had her patient been conscious and coherent enough to converse, though his lung ailment perforce limited speech. Still, she’d already come to appreciate the young man’s unpretentious charm.
As she approached, his pain-shadowed eyes brightened with interest. “Fine indeed! Excuse my bad manners … not rising … to kiss the hand … of a lovely lady.”
She smiled. “After all the hours Dr. MacDonovan and I have expended the last week to bring you to this evening, should you attempt so reckless a feat I’d be more tempted to bash you with the hand than let you kiss it.”
“Then I am safe.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Already attempted it … when Ellie stopped by. Found movement … most unwise. Must lie here … and admire from afar.”
“It is a lovely gown and I do thank her for it. Shall you fare well here? I feel somewhat guilty going down to join the company, leaving you alone but for Peter’s care.”
He waved a hand. “If anyone deserves … an evening off … ‘tis you, ma’am! Afraid I’ve not … been in right frame … to express appreciation … but I want—”
“None of that,” she interrupted. “Just praise heaven, as I do, that Dr. MacDonovan’s skill and your own strong constitution were sufficient to bring you through.”
He nodded, his thin face serious. “No more, then. But an evening … of Peter’s company … is small recompense … for my debt …” His words trailed off, lost in a fit of coughing. Concerned, Laura leaned to press firmly against his bandaged shoulder, trying to immobilize the wound until the coughing subsided.
“Hush, now,” she said when at last he took a gasping, cough-free breath. “Enough pretty speeches, though I do thank you for them. Peters, make sure he finishes the broth I send up, and no more conversation! You will call me on the instant if you feel I’m needed?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll bring up an herbal tea later.” She squeezed Kit’s hand. “‘Twill ease your breathing and help you sleep.” After he nodded acknowledgment, she looked with reluctance to the door. “I suppose I must go down.”
She’d moved several steps away when his voice halted her. “Mustn’t … be afraid.”
Startled, she stopped short and turned back to him.
He managed an encouraging smile. “Beau intimidating … but kind. Never … hurt anyone good.” He paused to put a hand to his chest, grimacing through another short cough. “Smile. You have … a lovely smile.” He fluttered his fingers at her in a gesture of farewell and then closed his eyes, slumping back against his pillows.
Laura descended the stairs, more pensive still. Was her agitation when around Lord Beaulieu so obvious? Or had Kit, knowing the reaction normally evoked in underlings by his lofty brother, merely been trying to encourage her?
Too late now to debate the wisdom of coming tonight. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the parlor door.
A din of massed voices rolled over her. Startled by the noise after years of self-imposed social isolation, Laura halted, alarm skittering across her nerves. Forestalling the butler from announcing her arrival with a short, negative shake of her head, she slipped in, her eyes scanning the room to identify the company.
Lady Winters sat in her customary spot, several neighborhood ladies gathered around her, Lady Elspeth and another guest on the sofa opposite. The squire and his son held forth by the sideboard, glasses of spirits in hand. By the window, surrounded by most of the men of the company, Lady Ardith sparkled in low-cut golden splendor.
A shiver passed through her as she recognized the tall figure toward which Lady Ardith was leaning her impressively bared bosom. The shiver magnified to a tremor as Lord Beaulieu, as if cued by some invisible prompter, turned toward the doorway and saw her.
His look of mild annoyance vanished and his body tensed. While she waited, unable to breathe, his gaze swiftly inspected her—his frankly admiring gaze. And then he smiled, a warm, intimate message of welcome, as if she were the one person
