literature

The Brides of Avermore, Ch 8

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Victoria had done her work well, despite having had her arm twisted by Bea throughout the alterations. The horrid Paris dress was now stripped of its devilish laces and ribbons. The too-wide waist had been narrowed from behind, the pins hidden beneath the pleated train that trailed down the back. There'd been no time to shorten the hem. Instead, the girls had scavenged through their amassed belongings to find a pair of ivory boots with towering heels that laced tightly around the ankles and calves. The footwear had been too large for Beatrice, but once the toes had been stuffed with folded kerchiefs, the fit was tolerable. The same hanky trick had been used on Bea's breasts, lifting them and helping fill the sweetheart neckline that had been designed for a much older and better-endowed woman.

The Lord's page was knocking on the cottage door just as the girls were making their final adjustments: Anne twisting the last of Bea's long locks into a demure chignon; Victoria fastening a strand of Jane's pearls around Bea's neck; and Lucy—yes, Lucy—tucking a white rosebud into the carefully combed knot of hair. "A bit of paint?" she asked no one in particular.

"No!" Beatrice ordered. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to heighten their color, then gave herself one last inspection in the tall glass Mary held tipped before her.

The harlot costume had been turned into a simpler gown, the lines caressing the bodice of her slim figure, and then flaring out where needed around her not-yet-formed hips and legs. A chemise peeked from between the split front. Made of layers of ivory gauze it was embroidered with a subtle motif of white grapes.

Bea nodded in relief. The combination of her pale complexion against the gown's ruby silk now made her think of strawberries and cream—not of wenches who sold their intimacies for a coin. True, the sleeves still stopped too high on her forearms and the neckline still cut too low across her bosom, but Victoria had loaned her a fringed shawl of ivory silk that Bea could adjust to cover or reveal as much of her scant attributes as she saw fit.

She scowled at the unfamiliar figure in the mirror and reminded the girl not to sit all night with the thing clutched around her shoulders like a blanket. The Lord of Avermore must be made to blush at his unconscionable actions in sending such an unsuitable garment in the first place—and to acknowledge that Beatrice Whistler had the wherewithal not to wear it as it had been intended!

With a quick spin that set her skirts whirling, Bea gestured to the door with long white fingers. "Well, I be as presentable as God and soap can make me. So we best let the feller in."

The boy, too, was young. But not blind. He blinked several times and swallowed hard, setting his Adam's apple bobbing. "G-g-golly, but you be pretty, miss," he stammered.

Heat rose to Bea's cheeks. She hadn't been aiming for pretty. Enterprising? Bold? Stubborn? A bur to get under a man's follies and scratch at 'em so's he never forgot 'em? Aye. But pretty?

Still, being admired was a pleasant feeling. She turned to the circle of girls, and found each one blushing as though the compliment had been intended for her. As well it should have been.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper. Then, snatching up the shawl, she rushed out into the gathering night.

"We shall wait up!" someone called.

The thought of five hopeful faces peering after her gave Bea pause. She slowed her steps and discovered she was… smiling! Oh, all right then. She would try to remember every detail of the dinner to share later. They might not be true friends, but they deserved a good tale, at the least.

Light poured from four long windows set into the second story of Avermore Manor. As Beatrice and her escort approached, the glow caught in the sheen of her dress, igniting its color into flame. A shadow in the window directly above the path shifted, stilled, and then moved away. It be him, she thought. She hoped he couldn't see the details of her altered gown. It would give her much satisfaction to spring the changes on him unawares.

The page moved ahead of her to open a great arched door. It swung wide on silent hinges.

Bea's steps faltered.

Beyond the entrance a grand stone floor in mottled shades of gray and mauve seemed to stretch on forever in four directions. Flanking it on all sides were twenty-foot high walls topped by a soaring barrel ceiling—all cut from the same imposing granite. Torches flared in sconces, the wavering illumination causing flecks of crystal to dance and sparkle in the chiseled stone like diamonds. Rugs of every shape and size overlapped each other throughout the room, the weaves a multi-color mystery of spirals and geometric patterns unlike anything Bea had ever seen. Like from another world, she decided, not knowing how close she was to the truth.

At the end of one long runner, a broad marble staircase curved upwards like a sickle moon to a balcony that extended the length of the near wall.  

"Miss?"

Bea startled. She'd been gawking, unmoving. 'Tis a castle! she  marveled. The exterior of the building had never hinted at the scale and majesty that waited within. Still. It be just a place to lay his head. Bigger than most, but in the end, just a bleating house.

The girl wrapped the scarf about her shoulders, gathered the ends in one hand above her heart, lifted her chin, and stepped inside.

"Welcome."

It took her a moment to find her host. When she did finally spy him in the shadows of the upper hall, the only thing she noted was that his mouth had been open but was now settling closed. He might have been astonished. He might have felt guilty or contrite. Guessing one or the other was not good enough—not near good enough!—to declare the dress a triumph. Bea made a production of stroking her hand down the wide skirt as though to smooth a wrinkle, her eyes remaining fixed upon his face.

Nary a twitch.

She pouted.

"Evenin'," she finally answered. "Nice cottage ye 'ave 'ere." It was the same quip she'd used that afternoon in the classroom, but this time it sounded snide, rude… thwarted.

Edmund Avermore lifted a hand and made a brisk shooing gesture with his fingers. Bea heard the page clear his throat, followed by the thud of the door swinging closed at her back.

To her, the Lord made no gesture, no comment.

In the far recesses of the immense hall, a clock ticked determinedly, as though it could break the tension. No other sound was audible. Lurching forward, Beatrice stepped onto the runner. Her oversized boots made her feel graceless; but movement—even clumsy movement—was preferable to the silence growing above her.

Edmund Avermore mirrored his guest's actions, matching her slow pace as he strolled along the balcony to the top of the staircase. When he emerged from behind the railing and placed a foot on the first riser to descend, Beatrice had to wonder: had he taken great care in his appearance—or none at all? His shoes were black and of simple design, but the buckles were carved from heavy silver that glinted in the torchlight. His hosiery was unadorned and also black, but woven from silk—not everyday wool. His breeches? Black again, in a fabric that shimmered. More silk? she wondered. Or could it be some sort of supple leather? It mattered little, for the thing that drew Bea's most ardent attention was what the great Lord had chosen to wear atop all this dark splendor. Draped carelessly over his torso was a loose shirt with dropped shoulders, fashioned in lightweight lawn.

It… it… it be more dressing gown than eveningwear!

The sleeves were full and gathered at the wrists, and the neckline was edged in similar wide ruffles. It had ties at the throat to keep it closed but he'd left them unbound. No cravat. No waistcoat. No tailcoat. His ebony hair was pulled back in a loose tail at the nape of his neck, held in place by a black thong. Careless. Indifferent… like he could bother less wi' who or what 'as come to sup wi' him! Yet, somehow Bea knew better. Edmund Avermore had spent a great deal of time creating this effect. She was sure of it. He'd fussed over every tuck and fold. For her.

A grin escaped her thoughts and made it to her face. For Beatrice Whistler—the barkeep's bastard daughter.

Maybe it was the thick pile of the wool rug that made Bea's boot heels catch, or maybe it was her foolish notions. In any case, she suddenly found herself stumbling, her balance teetering close to a fall—her arms flailing in search of support. The toe of a too-long boot tangled in the hem of a nearly too-long dress, and she lost her hold on the scarf. In a heartbeat, the pattern of the rug was rising to meet her.

Out of nowhere, Lord Edmund appeared in a blur at her side, a hand extended to cup her elbow. "Steady, child," he cautioned. "It's all right. I have you."

She had no idea how he'd gotten down the stairs so swiftly, but he had, and now he had her upright on her feet again.

She'd nearly made a spectacle of herself! Yet his eyes were soft on her face—not a trace of humor in their brown depths. She smiled faintly in gratitude.

But then his gaze trailed down her neck to the slack ends of her dangling scarf. His irises darkened. And not with anger. When his gaze shifted to follow the rise and fall of her chest, it left a warm path, as though the girl's flesh had been touched by a shaft of sunlight.

At last, Beatrice had her answer. The altered dress was a success—though not exactly in the way she had imagined.

A flustered Bea yanked her arm free and fumbled for the scarf, pulling it tight. "Ye can put yer eyeballs back in yer sockets, unkind sir! Ye most certainly do not have me." Then she stomped her foot. And did it again, furious that the sound was swallowed by the thick wool of the rug. "And ye ne'er shall!"

Edmund's hand fell away as though scalded. His jaw hardened. A flush darkened his brow. With a brusque bow—a single quick jerk from the waist—he clasped his hands behind his back. "My apologies," he said through stiff lips. "But if you were not so…"

The sentence ended with a sigh. Whatever he had intended to say was tucked discreetly away.

"Ah, Miss Whistler, are we destined to start every new meeting twice?" He tried a smile, his eyes remaining steadfast above her neck. "Please, let me begin again… Welcome, dear lady. Avermore Manor is graced with your presence." He held out a palm, as though to take her hand and kiss it… or perhaps to ask for her wrap. In the end, he did neither, returning it quickly to join its mate at the small of his back.

Bea considered chiding him further for leering at her, but then thought better of it. Be fair, girlie. He could have let you fall on your face. Worse, he could have laughed when you did. Instead, she crisscrossed her shawl more firmly to hide the front of her gown, and gave him a timid curtsey—still wary of the rug and its hold on her shoes. "Thank you for the gracious invitation, milord," she murmured.

Happily, her voice didn't squeak as she had feared it might. At least, not much.

His laugh took her by surprise. "Ah, aren't we a pair, my dear Bea. Truly? The very souls of hypocrisy!"

This time, it was her turn to open and shut her mouth.

The man's entire body seemed to laugh with him, as though a knot had been severed that might normally hold his spine soldier-straight. "Let us be honest, shall we? Honesty suits us so much better than false courtesies. 'Gracious' indeed. This afternoon, you called me a coward. I called you a tart. There was nothing gracious about that.

"Admit it: you are angry at me. I, in turn, shall confess that I am embarrassed by my actions a moment ago, and…" He fanned a hand at the red dress. "And at my insulting gift."

He stepped back, turned to face her directly, and bowed—this time, long and deep, his head nearly brushing his knees. When he rose, she noted the clenched jaw, the furrowed brow. "You shame me with your transformation, good lady. That you came to dinner at all, in light of what I'd done, humbles me. That you came in the gown I had intended as a joke—looking like one of Europe's most stunning beauties—well, it is far more than I deserve."

He waited a moment, perhaps hoping for an offer of truce. When he didn't receive one, he nodded ruefully. "And it is true that I did not invite you here out of kindness… which I am sure you knew. I was…" He turned his face away, but not soon enough for her to miss the ruddy flush that touched his cheeks. He made a huffing noise deep in his chest. "I was… running away. Your questions were too astute… and disturbing. Dinner was merely a chance for me to regroup."

Bea began to speak, but he held up a hand.

"I sent the dress in a foolish attempt to… well… to disturb you in return."

He looked back at her and shrugged. The white shirt shifted, revealing an expanse of hard, coffee-colored chest. If he'd wanted to disturb her, this was far more effective. Bea pulled her eyes away before he could accuse her of leering in return.

"Will you forgive me, Miss Whistler? Will you allow me to make amends?"

For a moment, he looked like a small boy: his eyes bright with fear, his hands clasped behind his back. He was sorry. Heartily sorry. She could not doubt it.

"Wellll…" She let the sentence hang unfinished long enough to make him fidget. "You be too old to send to the woodshed, Master Edmund, but a punishment is required, wouldn't you agree?"

He tipped his head, and tucked his chin, a question in the tilt of his brows. "A punishment?"

"Aye. Let us say… hmmm. Three extra questions. That should suffice. One for ogling me like ye be a farmhand with no breeding…" She raised a hand above her head and held it out, palm down. After a moment's hesitation, he took it. She did a slow pirouette under his arm. "And two for the dress."

He smiled. She smiled. Both were genuine expressions of their feelings.

Edmund Avermore tucked Beatrice Whistler's hand into the crook of his arm and turned her toward the wall opposite the balcony. "Three extra questions it is. But before you begin…" He steered her toward a line of portraits. "Perhaps I can satisfy some of your curiosity with a brief family history."

Bea doubted it, but she let him lead her along, her feet no longer touching the ground.

He'd called her a beauty. A beauty!
As any romance writer knows, there have to be moments when the hero and heroine clash, and moments when they nearly like each other. And of course there has to be ambiance... and a few heaving breasts, both male and female. I hope I satisfied all requirements here without being too over the top.
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safia3's avatar
Indeed, there needs to be more of this. Immediately. *taps her foot impatiently*