He wasn’t even looking at her, but Josie slung her arms across her thin chemise and tried not to think about all her unbounded flesh. “It made me thinner,” she snapped.

“You don’t need to be thinner,” he said. Then he glanced at her. “Are you cold? Put your gown back on.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Josie said in a stern little voice, “I can’t, not without the corset. It won’t fit.” That was one of the gifts of The Corset. She was able to wear gowns that were almost—not quite—the same measurements as those worn by Imogen.

Mayne tossed the corset to the side, where it fell with a dull clang and a tinkling of lead-covered tips. “I’ll get you something to put on,” he said. Before she knew what happened, he was out the door.

Josie spread her arms. It was…glorious to have the corset off. Glorious. She was wearing a chemise of the lightest lawn. It felt like air, billowing around her.

8

From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Sixth

For some time my Hippolyta made me the happiest of men, and though her interest turned to another, I still dream of the luscious fruits of our friendship. I think I may say that we were both at the Countess of Y—’s garden party in ’07. You will recall the fashion for omelettes eaten in the garden that raged that year. Well…

G riselda’s first husband had been handed to her on a platter by her father. “I’ve had an offer for your hand in marriage,” he had said.

“Who?” she had gasped, thinking of Lord Cogley, with whom she’d danced the night before.“Willoughby,” Papa had said, impatient as always. “I accepted him. Decent family, very nice settlement, you’re not likely to do better.”

“But—” she had cried. And cried.

It was over.

Ever since poor Willoughby had died, facedown in a plate of jellied fowl, Griselda had looked to men for an occasional, discreet amusement. Only twice, if the truth were known. And neither of those petites affaires lasted over one night. She considered those two a judicious distraction from the round of visits, balls, and events that made up her life.

One more flirtation…and then she would put her mind seriously to the question of matrimony. She was frightfully aged: almost thirty-three, although she would rather expire than admit it. And she didn’t look that age.

Finally she saw him. Darlington was on the other side of the room, talking to Mrs. Hotson and her daughter. Griselda paused thoughtfully for a moment. Mrs. Hotson was, of course, famed for the large amount of money her husband had made investing in some sort of machinery that produced lace, of a crude nature and fit only for undergarments. Not Griselda’s undergarments, naturally; she prided herself on wearing chemises as beautiful as her outerwear. Just because there was no one but a maid to see did not mean that a woman should relax into slobbery.

Darlington was quite handsome. He had those tossed curls that all the men were affecting these days, from the Bishop of London (who should have known better than to have curls peeking out from under his hat) to her own brother Mayne. Mayne’s were, at least, natural, and Darlington’s appeared to be as well. There was nothing more unappetizing than the thought of a man patiently waiting while a servant crimped his hair. Darlington was lean and tall, and beautifully dressed, for all she knew that he didn’t have a penny to his name. Well, perhaps he had a penny or two. One had to think that the Duke of Bedrock wouldn’t toss off his youngest son to live in the gutter.

But Darlington needed to marry well. He was obviously trying to interest himself in Letty Hotson. Letty was standing next to him, her mouth slightly ajar, listening closely as he bent his head to tell her something. Even from across the room she could see the trace of self-loathing in his face, almost hear the detached sound of his voice. Dear me, Griselda thought, I shall be doing the man a favor by extracting him from that company. If there was one thing she knew about, it was marriage between incompatible persons. He and Letty would never share an intelligent conversation.

A moment later she was standing beside Mrs. Hotson, complimenting her on her daughter’s dress; Letty was swathed in lace from head to toe. And two minutes after that, Griselda was strolling away with Darlington’s hand under her arm, having cut him from the herd.

“Aren’t you going to regale me with a clever phrase about Letty’s lace?” she asked a moment later. “Lacy Letty?”

“I am too busy trying to ascertain why you wish to speak to me, Lady Griselda,” he said. “I fear that my sins have come home to roost.”

“Calling Josie a sausage was indeed a sin,” Griselda said, and her voice came out harder than she meant it to be.

“I vow never to do so again.”

She turned to look at him in surprise.

“I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry.”

He had queer gray-green eyes with thick eyelashes. The odd thing was that he actually did look rueful. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of speaking to him before? Perhaps she could have cut off poor Josie’s miseries after the very first ball in which they heard giggles about the Scottish Sausage. “You’ve made her season a horrendous trial,” Griselda observed. Again her voice was more critical than she meant it to be, given that she was supposed to coax him into a flirtation and then extract a promise of better behavior.

It was a trifle disappointing to realize that she could simply walk away right now and consider their flirtation at an end.

“If you had asked me to close my mouth, I would have.”

“Why?” she asked, and then: “Not that there should be any reason for stopping behavior so cruel and—” She stopped.

“Ill-bred?” he put in, with an odd twist of his lips.

Griselda felt like saying the truth, so she did. “Aye, ill-bred. It is ill-bred to mock those who are less fortunate than you.”

“You’re right in every particular.”

“Although,” she added, “obviously you are not truly ill-bred.”

“One would hope not,” he said, but there was something sardonic in his voice that suggested that he, at least, felt that a father’s title as duke did not necessarily constitute good breeding. “May I ask you to dance with me?”

Griselda knew she probably should go back and report victory. If she hurried, she might even find Sylvie, Tess, and Josie still in the ladies’ retiring room. Rather oddly, Sylvie seemed to enjoy herself far more in seclusion than she did circling the ballroom floor. Earlier, Griselda had seen her circling the floor with Mayne, and Sylvie had looked almost—almost—bored.

But Griselda was never bored on the dance floor. “I shall dance with you, but only if you treat me to a taste of this oh-so-precious wit that I hear about.”

He shook his head. “I’ve decided to stop making my reputation at the expense of others.”

“It’s all very well to eschew unpleasant comments about defenseless girls,” she said tartly, “but surely you’re not planning to enter a monastery?”

The strains of a waltz began, and he smiled down at her as she put a hand high in his. “I thought perhaps I would become a truly boring person now. One of the ones whom everyone looks up to.”

He was a beautiful dancer. “I see precisely what you mean. There is something about you of the Puritan. I suppose you have a sweet and modest disposition, and you’ve merely been pretending to be wicked these past few years.”