The Secret Life of a Debutante (Determined Debutantes Book 1), page 8
“Brighton wasn’t always exciting, was it?” Sabrina asked.
“I’m certain it wasn’t,” Eloisa said. “It was probably a frightful shock to her when Prinny decided it was his favorite place to do debased things.”
“And she was probably far too attached to her routine to do the proper thing and move to neighboring Eastbourne,” Leonora asked.
“Is Eastbourne dull?” Sabrina asked.
“Of course. All cities besides Brighton are dull.” Leonora shot her sister a stern look, and Sabrina looked appropriately reproachful.
“The point is the viscount thought his great-aunt too set in her ways to mention in conversation,” Eloisa said. “After all, why mention great-aunts when you can expound upon fishing and hunting?”
“I suppose so,” Timothy said.
Eloisa smiled. Timothy took great pleasure in both activities.
“Anyway, I should go. Goodbye, darlings!” Eloisa lurched for the door.
The butler’s eyebrows jolted upward, and he quickly pulled the door open.
Unfortunately, he did so with such force that the door collided with her forehead, and she nearly toppled.
Eloisa placed her hand over her forehead, feeling an odd dampness.
Shock spread over the butler’s normally placid face. “My dear Miss Eloisa. I am so sorry.”
“I’m fine,” Eloisa squeaked, still clutching her hand over her forehead, lest Timothy or Constance see any blood. “Please do not apologize. It’s just a small cut, I’m sure.”
With that, Eloisa scrambled outside into the bright light.
Chapter Thirteen
Cornelius surveyed the town house. He’d been there many times, of course, but most times, he’d worn clothes carefully chosen by his valet. Blair had most certainly not chosen this, even if he had been tasked with asking the housekeeper for assistance.
Cornelius didn’t step from the carriage, lest his driver see him. Dressing in the cramped carriage had sufficed in terribleness.
The glossy black door leading to the Holt home swung open. Then Eloisa sprang outside and dashed toward the door.
She was beautiful. Cornelius’s chest tightened automatically.
Her red hair gleamed under the sunbeams that swathed everything in its light. Nothing, though, could rival Eloisa in loveliness. Not the flowers, not the trees, and not the architecture. She was perfect.
Timothy and Constance exited, and Cornelius’s heart sank.
He’d been prepared for this, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t happen.
Cornelius slowly opened the door to the carriage. Eloisa’s lips parted, and a surge of pride moved through him. She quickly composed herself, but her eyes glimmered.
He remained in the door, conscious of the ridiculous figure he must be and grateful no one would think a woman of his supposed advanced age would be clothed in a corset. Well, perhaps certain women at this age would be wearing corsets, but Cornelius’s great-aunt would not be. He patted his cap as if it might have fallen off. It was still there though.
“I’m certain it’s not necessary to speak to her,” Eloisa said.
“Nonsense,” Timothy replied. “We have not met her yet. It is only proper.”
On another occasion, Cornelius might have smiled at his friend’s thoroughness. Clearly Timothy had changed since his chief pleasure had been tossing his younger sisters into the lake.
Constance and Timothy approached the carriage. Cornelius stayed firmly inside, wishing the sunlight had decided to be less bright. The sun normally relaxed, casting a dim light when it did not decide to let storms replace it entirely, but now it was out in full force.
Blast.
Cornelius made certain the curtains in the carriage were closed.
Finally, Timothy poked his head inside the carriage.
“Ah, you must be Cornelius’s great-aunt.”
“I am,” Cornelius squeaked.
“You have your great-nephew’s eyes.”
Cornelius nodded rapidly, then clutched his white cap.
Timothy’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Now you’ve met her,” Eloisa said. “Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Cornelius told me you need assistance in traveling to Brighton.”
“Yes,” Cornelius squeaked, doing his best falsetto. He suddenly had a rush of appreciation for Shakespearean actors who sustained the illusion.
But then, at least people knew they were actors.
He didn’t want to think what would happen if Timothy discovered Cornelius had disguised himself as an octogenarian woman in order to travel alone with Timothy’s younger sister on a multiday journey to Britain’s most eyebrow-raising city.
Cornelius yawned.
Then he closed his eyes and kept them closed.
“She fell asleep,” came Eloisa’s voice.
“But I wanted to ask her more questions,” came Timothy’s.
Cornelius let out a tentative snore.
Constance’s voice reached him next. “You are doing a very good thing by assisting her. You should be very proud. Don’t you think, Timothy?”
“Er—yes,” Timothy said.
Shuffling sounded, and a most delightful fragrance filled the carriage.
“Goodbye!” Eloisa said, and the carriage began to move. “It’s safe now.”
Cornelius tore off his cap and opened his eyes.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Eloisa said.
“I can’t believe you made me do that.”
Eloisa smiled and settled into the seat opposite Cornelius.
Her slender figure, luminous skin, and entirely appropriate forest-green traveling gown made him feel even more absurd. Traveling gowns were not known for their beauty. No woman—and he’d met many—had ever discussed the fashionableness of traveling gowns. Certainly they lacked the ribbons other women said were essential to a fashionable ensemble. And yet there was no better word to describe Eloisa right now than beautiful.
If only Cornelius weren’t wearing a blasted dress. This was time for him to look handsome, not ridiculous.
“I have to change.” He grasped the back of his dress, and his brow furrowed in irritation. “This is impossible.”
“It’s a wonder you managed to put it on.”
“I made my driver go multiple times around the neighborhood. He must have thought I’d developed quite a fascination with Mayfair, after years of living here.”
“Carriages aren’t the most convenient location for dressing,” she admitted. “I’ll help you. I am greatly experienced with dresses.”
Eloisa scooted to the seat beside him, and Cornelius fought the urge to inhale the floral scent that wafted over him.
Eloisa unbuttoned the dress, and it occurred to Cornelius that this idea possibly lacked brilliance. Her fingers might be gloved, but a jolt of heat burst through Cornelius when they grazed his skin. His heart lurched, and he battled the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her over and over again.
He’d almost kissed her the other night.
His cock stiffened, and he tucked his top hat onto his lap.
He was tempted to simply propose, but he refused to make her feel compelled into a marriage for the sake of propriety.
No, Cornelius kept his gaze averted from Eloisa’s as she pulled the oversize dress off him.
She giggled. “You have your normal clothes on.”
“I didn’t want to be utterly scandalous. Thankfully, my cook has generous proportions.”
Eloisa folded the dress.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said.
She smiled. “You have powder on your face. Very last century of you. I’m certain the king would approve.”
“I’m not going anywhere near the king,” Cornelius grumbled.
Eloisa glided her delicate fingers over Cornelius’s face. “See? It rubs off easily. Let me get a handkerchief.” Then she removed it from her reticule. “Did you bring any liquid?”
“Brandy.”
She smiled. “Would you prefer reeking like brandy or having powder on your face?”
“The former option is clearly superior.” He handed her a bottle.
She nodded solemnly, then poured some brandy onto her handkerchief. The alcoholic scent flooded his nostrils, though it could not displace her alluring rose scent entirely.
Her soft, gentle fingers dabbed the now wet handkerchief over his face, her lips drawn in concentration, and his cock hardened.
Damnation.
He willed his cock to not swell. “Have you been to Brighton before?”
“Yes. You haven’t?”
She snorted. “I’ve been to my family estate, finishing school in Hampshire, and London. That’s been the entirety of my travels.”
He widened his eyes. “No trips to the Riviera of England? Cornwall?”
“Mama almost managed to take us to France, but Papa forbade her.”
“Quite right, I would imagine. Guillotines are hardly improvements to French squares.”
“Yes, Papa was always most sensible. But it does mean I’m untraveled. Mama’s family estate bordered my father’s estate, so we didn’t even have to travel far to see cousins.”
“A bit like my parents,” he said.
“They were neighbors?”
He nodded. “Their fathers arranged the match. Unfortunately, both my grandfathers were far more practical than romantic, and sometimes a marriage requires sentiment.”
“Tell me about your parents. You’ve met mine.”
Cornelius considered his own parents. “They were nice.”
“That’s good.” She continued to remove powder from his face.
“And now they’re both dead.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wanted to write when I learned, but I thought you might think it strange to receive a letter from a girl in finishing school.”
“I always thought my parents were happy,” he mused.
“Indeed?”
“Yes, there were no arguments between them.”
“You mean in contrast to the arguments between my parents?”
He grinned. “Yes, I did hear some of those.”
“It would be hard not to.” She sobered. “But your parents weren’t happy either?”
“I went through my mother’s things recently,” he said. “My housekeeper found her old diaries and gave them to me.”
“Did you read them?”
“I shouldn’t have. But I thought she would be writing about visits to her sister and reflections on whatever sermons the vicar had told that week.”
“That’s the sort of conversation she would have with you.”
He nodded, relieved. She understood. He’d known she would understand. Eloisa understood everything. “She wrote in her diaries of her dislike of my father.”
“Oh.” Eloisa’s hand stiffened. “Is that so?”
“Indeed. But why should it have been happy? They’d barely known each other when they’d married, and Mama had only given my father me. He always joked about requiring a spare. I used to tell them I was in no danger of dying.”
“Well, you look exceptionally healthy.”
“Do I?”
She nodded and handed him the brandy. “The powder is officially removed from your face.” She gave a dour glance at her satchel. “Which means I should do some knitting.”
“Excellent. Though you needn’t do any knitting.” He smiled, then halted. He already missed the feel of her fingers. Even though they could only have been two inches apart, the distance felt impossibly large, as if he was some explorer in South America confronted with a wide, churning river and an adamant desire to cross.
“I didn’t realize before how miserable marriage could be,” he admitted.
Eloisa tensed.
“I know Timothy calls me a rogue, but I simply don’t want to marry someone who is unsure. It’s not fair to anyone.”
She remained silent. Perhaps she was thinking of her mother. Perhaps she was contemplating that her mother was trying to make up for the years when she’d had to be a wife at home and now she was suddenly living a life she’d chosen for herself, no matter if it harmed others.
He squeezed her hand. “It is also unfair your mother has done something that has impacted your life in such a terrible way.”
“Is that why you’re helping me?”
“Indeed.”
She gave a wry smile. “Mary Wollstonecraft might consider you concerned with the rights of women.”
“I simply want everyone to be happy.”
She moved to the other side of the carriage and removed her knitting. “You’re a good man.”
Cornelius had the horrible sense he’d said something wrong.
Chapter Fourteen
Cornelius’s scents of cotton and cedar wafted around her, stronger in the small carriage. A bump in the road caused her to topple toward him, and her thighs collided with his. His body warmed her instantly, and a moan threatened to escape her mouth. She stiffened and straightened.
The last thing he needed to think was that she was infatuated with him. She’d heard Timothy speak often enough before he’d married Constance about debutantes who fluttered their lashes at him; who gazed at him all the time, even when he was on the other side of the room; and who always blushed when he neared them, as if he had a special connection with their cheeks.
She couldn’t have Cornelius think the same thing of her.
Besides, it wasn’t true.
At least, she hoped it wasn’t true. She crossed her arms. Cornelius had made it quite clear he was only helping her because he pitied her.
*
Cornelius was in Hades itself. He forced his gaze from the glorious swell of Eloisa’s bosom. He was conscious of her long, thick eyelashes and her rosebud lips.
Sweat prickled the back of his neck, and he was aware of why some people complained about too-tight cravats. He had a sudden urge to tear the linen fabric from his neck.
In fact, he had the sudden urge to do many things. Sitting beside Eloisa, for instance. Sweeping her into his arms. Kissing her.
He closed his eyes, as if the action might halt him from envisioning other things. He averted his gaze, lest his eyes linger on her long, elegant neck. He wanted to claim the curve where it met her shoulder. He imagined the space between her collarbones would be equally kissable. As would the spot below her ear. Or—
He crossed his legs. Many parts of Eloisa’s body were utterly, tantalizingly appealing.
Relief moved through him when the driver finally stopped at a small public house.
“Let’s go eat,” Cornelius said. “I’ll—er—just check no one in the ton is there.”
“Very well,” Eloisa said. “I actually wanted to change my attire. Can you make certain the driver gives me some privacy?”
“Yes.” Cornelius’s voice roughened as he imagined Eloisa undressing in his carriage.
He hastened away from it.
Finally, a figure emerged from the carriage. A figure that looked curiously like Eloisa Holt.
Except Eloisa Holt was generally not clothed…like that.
The woman before him had long red hair that cascaded over her back. Though her shoulders were covered, there was nothing respectable about her outfit.
He longed to remove that dreadful dress from her. That red satin fabric shouldn’t be anywhere beside her beautiful skin. He yearned to run his fingers over it, feeling her softness, her smoothness, her sheer magnificence.
His cock hardened further.
Eloisa stared at him. “Do you recognize me? It’s just me.”
“I recognize you,” he said hoarsely.
The dress was more revealing than any dress he’d seen on her before.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
Eloisa beamed, and the whole world brightened. “I look like a lady of the night. Like in Measure for Measure.”
“Er—yes.” Cornelius couldn’t argue with the veracity of that statement.
He had seen the women who gathered around Seven Dials and the East End. Women who were confident enough to raise the hems of their dresses and call out to coaches, who measured their success in their ability to lure men for payment and not on their ability to remain demure.
“Why are you dressed like a lady of the night?” Cornelius asked finally.
Eloisa gave him a hard stare as if she was displeased at him for not knowing something. It occurred to Cornelius she would make an excellent governess, no matter how much she protested she did not desire that fate. Were he a young child, he would study, lest he be met with that same gaze of shattering disappointment.
“A lady of the night can travel throughout the area without being noticed,” Eloisa said.
“I think people notice them.”
Eloisa gave a dismissive shrug. “And how many ladies of the night are there in London?”
“I’ve never counted.”
“And you couldn’t. There are tens of thousands of them.”
Cornelius blinked. “Truly?”
“Well, I think so,” Eloisa said uncertainly. “That’s what Leonora’s friend Francesca said. And she’s even older than Leonora.”
“Ah. And where did you get those clothes?”
“Sabrina is always making clothes. I only chose the brightest and most striking. Did I do a good job?”
Cornelius nodded, and his nostrils flared. Clearly Eloisa had dabbed herself liberally with perfume. The rose scent emanated appealingly about her, and he fought the odd urge to delve his nose into her hair.
She’d chosen a dress that displayed her figure. The color was garish, and the low cut made him even more conscious of her bosom. He forced his eyes to her face.
Unfortunately, her face was equally lovely. They were alone. If he wanted, he might kiss her.
Just as he could have kissed her the other night.
He had a sudden urge to taste her lips. Though the urge wasn’t, he realized, that sudden.
He’d been thinking of little else since they’d met each other at the ball.
She gave him a bland smile, and it occurred to Cornelius that she trusted him completely. Most debutantes would be nervous to find they were alone with him, just as they would feel nervous to be alone with any man. Cornelius wasn’t her older brother, but perhaps, to her, he may as well have been.
