“After which the festivities will commence.” Ro smiled tightly as he went up the stairs; he had indeed remembered Barham’s program-he intended to have Lydia safely back at the inn, with her sister’s letter, by four o’clock. “Thank you, Grafton. If we need anything further, we’ll ring.”
With similar obsequiousness, the footman led them through a gallery and down a corridor to a large bedchamber overlooking the woods to one side of the house.
The instant the door shut behind him, Lydia put back her hood, carefully lifting the material over the knot of sheeny walnut curls that her maid, under Ro’s direction, had fashioned. “Well! That wasn’t so hard.”
“That,” he informed her, his accents clipped, “was the easy part. The part that comes next, and the one after that, might not be so much to your taste.”
Untying her cloak strings, she opened her eyes at him. “So what comes next? A gown?”
He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll go and fetch a few possible outfits, and you can select whichever you fancy.” He headed for the door.
“Wait-I’ll come, too. I can choose the gown there-it’ll be faster that way.”
“No.” His hand on the doorknob, he looked back. This entire plan of his was insane, yet here he was, doing what she wanted. Indulging her with an adventure. Be that as it may, given the other items for borrowing for his guests’ indulgence displayed in Stephen Barham’s Green Room the last time Ro had seen it, he wasn’t prepared to indulge her that far. “You stay here. The fewer people who have any chance to see your face, the better.”
He didn’t wait for any argument, but opened the door and went out, closing it firmly behind him.
They were safe enough for the moment; Barham and all his guests would be sound asleep. They wouldn’t start to stir until after three o’clock. He and Lydia had until then-over two hours-to find her sister’s letter and depart.
But first she needed a disguise.
The Green Room was as he remembered it, but choosing a gown proved more problematic than he’d expected; not one garment hanging in the big armoire was in any way decorous. In the end, he picked out three gowns; with them draped over his arm, he made his way back to their bedchamber.
Lydia was standing by the window looking out; she turned as he entered, then, curiosity in her face, came to join him at the foot of the bed as he laid the gowns out.
He stepped back. “These were the most…normal gowns there.”
“This one’s pretty.” She picked up a sleek gown in cerise silk, reminiscent of something from a sheik’s harem with its overlays of gossamer and tulle. He watched as she blinked, then stared as the various layers shook out-revealing that the opaque silk reached barely to mid-thigh, and featured a plunging neckline that would expose significantly more of her breasts than a chemise.
Lydia swallowed. “Perhaps not.” She could feel faint color in her cheeks as she laid the scandalous gown back down.
An errant thought swirled through her head: Had Ro imagined how she would appear in each gown? Was that how he’d chosen them?
The second gown was fashioned from the palest of pale green satins. She held it up. It took a moment of puzzling before she worked out that it was designed in the manner of a Roman toga-of sorts. It hung from one shoulder, and the drape covered her breasts entirely-but the back was all but missing, down to well below her waist…“I…think not.”
Laying it back down, she reached for the last of the three gowns, a confection in white silk and dark blue lace, praying for a miracle. She couldn’t help but wonder if Ro had deliberately chosen gowns she couldn’t possibly bring herself to wear so she would have to, by her own choice, remain in the room while he searched for the letter.
The last of his selections, however, restored her faith in him, at least as far as his willingness to allow her to join him in the search.
Holding the gown up, she studied it, then turned to the cheval glass in the corner of the room and held the gown against her. “Is it supposed to be a milkmaid’s dress?” Ro shifted to stand behind her. She looked at his face in the mirror.
Studying her reflection, he grimaced. “More along the lines of La Petit Trianon, I expect.”
She looked again at the gown. “You may be right.” The gown was waisted in the style of the last century, the skirts quite full with a ruffled petticoat beneath; her legs would be amply screened. The back neckline was high, shallowly scooped and edged with the dark blue lace, perfectly acceptable even though the dark blue lacings down the center back were far more obvious than the current mode-almost an invitation. Both bodice and skirt were constructed of vertical panels edged with the lace; overall it was a very pretty, frothy gown.
The risqué part-there was one, of course-was the upper bodice.
It was scooped, but the white silk was cut wide and low so it framed rather than concealed her breasts. However, the space between was filled with blue lace; fitting the gown against her, she judged that the lace infill was both dense enough and rose high enough to conceal all she needed to conceal.
She nodded. “This one.” She made her voice firm and definite; she didn’t want Ro trying to argue her out of the adventure. Especially as she was enjoying it-enjoying the excitement, the thrill of the illicit, the unexpected titillation of looming danger.
Glancing up, she saw Ro’s face harden. He’d still been studying her reflection. Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes in the mirror-curtly nodded.
Turning away, he looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You’d better get into it then. The sooner you do, the sooner we can search.”
And the sooner he could end the torture. Ro couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this escapade, that he’d actually planned it. He was already in pain, and that was only going to get worse.
Holding the white and blue gown, Lydia looked around, but of course there was no screen in the room. Feeling as if his jaw would crack, he said, “I’ll stand at the window and look out. You’ll need help with those laces. Tell me when you’re ready.” He managed not to growl.
With every evidence of cheery enthusiasm-she was patently enjoying every moment-she watched him stalk to the window, then turned to the bed.
Over the rustle of silks, he heard her humming. He tracked what she was doing by the familiar little sounds; he stared out of the window, but saw absolutely nothing of the trees and unkempt lawn.
In his mind’s eye, the vision of her in the gown took shape. He saw…considered, then decided speaking was the less painful course. “You won’t be able to wear a chemise under that.”
The sudden silence spoke volumes; even the rustling stopped. But then she made a little huffing sound; a second later, he caught a soft swish-and tried not to dwell on what it meant, not to let his mind form the image…
“I’m ready.”
He wasn’t, but…mentally girding his loins, he turned.
She was standing before the cheval glass, the gown’s skirts a froth of silk and contrasting lace about her; she was holding the bodice in place with both hands cupping her breasts-and frowning.
He focused on her back-much safer than focusing on her front. The sides of the gown gaped to well below her waist, waiting to be laced up the center, exposing an expanse of naked porcelain skin he tried hard not to see. Halting behind her, he caught the ends of the laces, and started threading them through the eyelets, expertly tugging them tight as he went.
It was a service he’d performed for countless ladies before; he didn’t need to think to accomplish the task. He fought to keep his mind blank instead, devoid of lecherous thoughts.
He was succeeding reasonably well until she wriggled and said, “I hadn’t realized it was so small.”
He glanced up, into the mirror, directly at the delectable ivory mounds more revealed than concealed by the dark blue lace. Swallowing a curse, he immediately looked down at the laces between his fingers; since the age of sixteen, she’d grown-rather more than he’d imagined.