Page 8 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur le…” She tipped her head. “Pardon, I do not know your rank, sir.”
“Marquess.” He downplayed the formalities of his position, but he held with them. “Marquess of Carlisle.”
“Ah, mai oui. Which generation?”
“The eighth.” He pursed his lips. Was she building a case that he was too lofty for her?
“The eighthMarquis de Carlisle,” she said. “A gentleman, then, of very high esteem. Monsieur le marquis, an honor to meet you.” A hand out in courtly form, she gave him a grand bow of homage. But her smile was full of a lighter mood than when he’d found her in the foyer. “Tomorrow, shall we say at eleven, we can meet in thereception room and I will bring all we need to make a new kite?”
He was to meet with Lord Langley in the garden of the Prince’s Pavilion at one. “This will be wonderful. Bella will be very excited.”
“May I call her Bella? That is, if you will allow me to address her by her given name.”
“But of course.” He chuckled, reluctant to let her go, though she must to dry off. “She calls herself Belle, so don’t be surprised.”
“Charming. I will remember. See you at eleven.”
“At eleven.”
She swept inside, and with a final smile from those rosebud-pink lips, she closed her door upon him.
He stood a moment, mesmerized by her petite beauty and good humor. Then he sobered.
Who do you meet, Madame Laurant of the pretty blue eyes and abilities to make kites? More importantly, who are you that you go out without escort and stand in the rain alone at night unit you are drenched and risk your health?
Chapter Four
Giselle sank backagainst her door, inhaling quickly to calm herself.
Mad at herself for finding le Marquis de Carlisle thrilling and funny, she plucked off her hat and let it drop to the carpet. Ruined. Not even fit for scraps for kite decoration. She’d give it to the maid tomorrow to throw away. She hurried to her bedroom, picking at her wet pelisse, muttering to herself about Carlisle’s good looks and how easily he had charmed her from her fears just now.
Surprise at that made her smile. Men did not charm her as a rule. She frowned, admitting to herself she was too jaded, too put off by the men who had shamed her or hurt her. Those like Carlisle who treated a lady as their equal were few. Those who treated a lady like a jewel to be protected were rarer. A vision of her tall, silver-haired father, so upright, so principled, and so loving of his family, sprang to mind. The curve of Carlisle’s lips when he smiled, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, recalled the same of her father. Even his humor sparked the remembrance of her sire’s.
But she should not compare Carlisle to her father. She hardly knew the marquis. He could be a card sharp, a gambler, a drunk. Worse, like her husband, he could be an arrogant sort who sought to dominate women. He could frequent whorehouses…though something about the way he took her in so openly told her he was no lecher, no man of ill repute.
Be done with this, Giselle!She shook him from her thoughts as she hung her pelisse on a chair back. It too might have to go. She fingered the coins in the tiny hem of the inside pocket. She’d extract those, if the coat were not salvageable.
Then she pushed down the bodice of her gown. The hem was torn and muddy. No repairing that. She’d dig out her coins she’d sewn into that hem and throw the gown away tomorrow, too. Then order another gown of midnight blue with red ribbons at the bodice and sleeves.
Carlisle had glimpsed the gown beneath her coat and admired the blue and red, just as he had liked her pink-and-lavender gown of this morning. He’d not said a word, but then—she grinned—he did not have to.Argh!She needed no man’s approval.
In a rush, she worked at her petticoat, then her chemise. What would a man like Carlisle think of a lady who could not wait to be naked? Who disliked the attentions of maids? Who wanted buttons down the front of her gowns so that she could remove her clothes by herself? Even do without corsets?As I do most days. Even tonight.
Had he noticed?
No. Not tonight. Her bodice he could not see. But this afternoon, he definitely had when she was soaked, head to toe. From what he did not see tonight, he would assume she wore those hideous contraptions, like every other woman. Modesty demanded it, if health and vigor required a bit of lifting up, correct? Her breasts were sturdy, upright, pointed little things. In her gowns, she appeared well formed. Even generously so. Without stays to pull her up and out.
Did le Marquis de Carlisle like women with heavy breasts?
She arched her back. The instinct to compete had her chuckling.Oh, now you are a naughty cat, Giselle Laurant!
What was wrong with her? She stood on one foot and removed one half boot, then hopped about to take off the other. Stockings, too.She pushed her boots toward the floor of the cupboard and took her socks to drop them in a hamper.
There!She caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval glass. At twenty-six, she was not so badly formed. Petite, she had always been shorter than most other girls. She’d even noticed how far up she had to tilt her head to fully admire the beauty of this marvelous man Carlisle. Her breasts, if smaller than many, stood high. Her nipples, dark rose from her year of nursing her daughter, were large—and yes, erect. Pointed. Thinking of the luscious marquis did this to her.
She did not want to be lured by a man. Nor have a liaison with a marquis. Still, his looks were unusual. His magnetism, inescapable. Usually she saw men for what they were. The honorable, those who kept to their legacies, their estates, and most often their morals, she saw in the shades of blue and purples. The rest she saw in ruby reds as adventurers, bullies, frauds. Struck by the colors of those with whom she crossed paths, she had never been truly entranced with a man before. Let alone a stranger. A tall, gorgeous man whom she was shocked to say she saw in shades of silver and gold.
She shot a hand across her eyes. She had to stop this obsession. She had too many problems to be preoccupied with a man. A dashing cavalier. A gentleman with a child, a family, and a title far above that of the youngest daughter of the Vicomte de Touraine.
