Page 10 of Lady Daring
“I don’t suppose you know where I might find a retiring room,” she addressed the amused man.
He held out his elbow, clad in a gorgeous silk coat embroidered with silver thread along the long formal tails, which draped in the most attractive fashion over a set of knee-buckled breeches. Henrietta tried not to stare at his very shapely male legs.
“If you dare be seen with me, I can find you a spot, and Aunt Davinia need not be disappointed.” His mouth curved with a hint of mischief.
Why shouldn’t she be seen with him? Because they had not been introduced, or because he was expensive-looking and therefore undoubtedly of higher rank? Henrietta couldn’t afford to quibble. She gathered up her skirts, hiding the tatters as best she could, and laid her hand on his arm.
He was firm and strong, and the material beneath her gloves felt warm. Her cheeks heated as she walked beside him through the archway, past the red-coated guards. They stared straight ahead, as if wooden dolls, but she swore one of them surveyed her companion with a raised brow. Had she just fallen into the clutches of a royal duke?
She hadn’t a choice. She stuck close as he strolled into the crush of people milling about a large quadrangle. He appeared unconcerned with the throng, but the assortment of vibrant colors, lustrous gowns, and dazzling headgear made Henrietta feel faintly dizzy.
“The Colour Court,” her escort said, as if giving her a tour. He had a fine, resonant voice. “And through there is the Chair Court, which the royals use, and where the mad needlewoman tried to assassinate the King.”
He drew her through a plain wooden door into a wood-paneled room, oblong in design, with organ pipes set high into the wall and a colored wash of light falling through clerestory windows set with stained glass. They’d stepped into a jeweled secret, and they were quite alone.
“The Chapel Royal?” Henrietta looked about with a thrill of wonder.
“Quite empty, except on Sundays,” her escort confirmed. He pointed to the enclosed box of a pew. “Not a proper retiring room, but private enough.”
“Brilliant.” Henrietta rewarded him with a grateful smile. Her squire positioned himself at the door, and she closeted herself in the pew.
Finding the new tear was an easy task; locating the pins among the yards of silk and lace and repositioning them was less so. The fabric was heavy yet fragile with age, and she feared the repairs would show. Charley had scorned her gown; with a self-consciousness new to her, Henrietta wondered what her handsome, elegant rescuer thought.
“No wonder grand court ladies employed ladies in waiting to carry their trains,” she remarked. “They are a nuisance, if not an outright danger. I do believe most female fashion is designed to keep us helpless and thus in subjugation.”
She glanced his way and met a raised brow, amused but not condescending.
“I wouldn’t call male fashions accommodating by any stretch,” he said.
She regarded his. The tight coat outlined a broad chest and shoulders, and his breeches were as beautifully embroidered as his coat, the satin clinging to his thighs and the white silk stockings revealing a muscular curve of calf. A strange flutter moved through her belly, and when a slant of mockery shaded his features, she realized she was staring. He must be very accustomed to female admiration. Still, good tailoring and clever padding could achieve that exceptional silhouette.
She pointed to his heeled shoes with two large rubies set in the buckles. “I cannot imagine those are any more comfortable than mine.”
“I’ll wish my feet cut off before the afternoon is over,” he agreed.
The trace of smugness disappeared into a genuine smile. Henrietta felt as if she were floating above the ground, a strange, new awareness lifting her. She was alone with a man—an attractive man. She busied herself with repairs.
“And why should court functions require such antiquated dress?” She spoke around the extra pin between her teeth. “It’s risky as well as unwieldly. Why, I could smuggle any number of royal treasures out of the palace beneath these skirts.”
“Do you have plans to do so?”
“Of course I don’tmeanto. But I could.” Wonderful. Now she was not simply a shambles, but a vaguely treasonous shambles. What a marvelous impression she was making her first time at court.
“Margaret Nicholson, the needlewoman, smuggled in a dessert knife,” her rescuer said. “Assassination attempt. She managed to nick His Majesty’s waistcoat.”
“If His Majesty’s coat has as many layers as my stomacher, there’s no hope of a knife cutting through.” Henrietta stabbed at her hem.
He studied her ensemble over the shield of the pew. His bright blue gaze touched the headdress, which she feared was in sad disarray, the fussy cascade of ruffles over her undergown, the glaring gold trim on her robe of jade green silk.
His gaze lingered on the enormous emerald collar at her décolletage, and his eyes darkened. Her breath hitched.
“You oughtn’t be here alone with me,” he said. “There will be any number of yeoman guards about you can ask for direction to the Presence Chamber.”
His voice echoed in the wooden room, emphasizing their isolation. He had the most thrilling voice, the match for his perfect face. Motes swirled in the shafts of light like the remnants of dreams or fairy dust.
“I haven’t the faintest idea where to go,” Henrietta said, her heart pounding. Nervousness, no doubt. “Please don’t leave me.”
That small, peculiar smile showed again, amusement and something else. He had an expressive mouth to match the bold nose and square, solid-looking jaw. He wore no wig but had pulled his hair back in a simple queue. Not a macaroni, then, for all his elegance.
