Addicted

Rebecca’s mouth hung open before she snapped it closed again. “You do know what an odalisque is, do you not? You’re aware that you’re going to be baring a great deal of…” Rebecca swallowed and looked pointedly at her. “You’ll be baring a great deal of your person, Anais.”

“Oh, I will incorporate the appropriate modifications that will allow me to be presentable in society—never fear that. But I have it on good authority that I would look rather fetching dressed as an odalisque. Lindsay suggested the idea and I want to please him.”

Her friend’s eyes went round with disbelief. “Icannot believe that of Raeburn. Well, not that he shouldn’t find you attractive,” Rebecca said in a rush. “It’s just that after all these years…after years of being…well, seemingly uninterested in that sort of relationship…” Rebecca murmured before trailing off altogether.

“I can hardly believe it myself. Oh, Rebecca, I do believe he loves me. He says we’re going to be married.”

“Are you certain, Anais? I would so hate for you to be disappointed.”

Something in Rebecca’s words made Anais’s blood freeze. The sinister coils of doubt began to unfurl, slowly choking out her new self-confidence, but she shoved it aside. Lindsay did want her. She had seen it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, felt it in his touch.

“Come, now. Let us not dwell on gloomy thoughts. Of course he loves you, Anais. How could he not? You’ve been traipsing in his boot tracks for years. It was only a matter of time before Lord Raeburn tripped over you and took notice of your presence.”

Is that what had happened? Had Lindsay merely relented? Was he tired of always having her near? Had he just resigned himself to the inevitable and finally given in to his mother’s fondest wish—a desire his mother had taken no pains to disguise?

“Anais,” her sister Ann’s voice rang out. “You have a letter.”

“Quick.” Anais jumped up from her chair and scooped the purple-and-gold skirt from the bed. “Help me hide this.”

Rebecca helped her tuck the costume into a coarse muslin sack seconds before the door was flung open and her fourteen-year-old sister came rushing into the room, her ringlets bouncing and her cheeks flushed pink with excitement.

She looked like an excited little pixie, with her gently upturned nose and sparkling, pale blue eyes. Ann was slight and petite, her hair was paler, more silvery than gold and straighter than Anais’s curls. Her skin was like porcelain and her features, while aristocratic, held a certain fragility that made her seem almost ethereal. But her bubbly personality stopped her from being untouchable.

One day, Ann Darnby was going to be stunningly beautiful and the most sought-after woman in England, and Anais suddenly couldn’t wait for her sister to find the man of her dreams.

“A valentine,” Ann announced, her voice breathless with her exertion.

Anais reached for the red wrapping and tore it out of her sister’s hand. Turning her back, she stripped away the wrapping to find a heart-shaped piece of vellum tucked neatly inside.

Your pasha awaits, you. At midnight, on the terrace.

“Well?” Rebecca asked, excitedly. “Who is it from?”

“An admirer?” Ann said coyly. “Do you have a secret admirer, Anais?”

“Ann, do stop being a pest,” their mother said from the door. Her mother’s expression suddenly sobered as her gaze fixed on Anais. “Of course your sister does not have an admirer, don’t be a goose, Ann.” Her mother’s lovely eyes raked over her and Anais saw the familiar emotion of displeasure shining in them.

Anais was well aware she was a disappointment to her mother. Such a lovely, passionate name, quite wasted on that plaincreature. She had heard that remark many times, most of which had been uttered in her mother’s bitter voice.

How many times had Anais overheard someone say at a ball that there had to be at least one plain one amongst all the beautiful Darnby women? However, the truth of that statement wouldn’t hurt so much had she not had the misfortune to be the plain one.

Her older sister, Abigail, who had been the belle of the ball and was now the Countess of Weston, had been the raving beauty of the family, not to mention her mother’s favorite child. Her mother never failed to remind Anais of Abigail’s beauty or cachet in snaring a most sought-after husband. Now Ann, her youngest sister, was poised to be a great beauty—even more beautiful than Abigail, and much less conceited about it, too—thank heavens.

“Now then, girls, it is time to get ready for the Torrington masquerade. You will require much time, my dear, if we’re to get you presentable. Marriage, Anais,” her mother lectured while she waved her perfectly manicured finger before Anais’s nose. “You must remember that an advantageous marriage is a well-bred young lady’s primary goal in life. You’re already at a disadvantage. Now with your age—well, it’s going to be impossible to find someone suitable, what with the debs coming out this Season.”

“Mother…” Lord, she hated when her mother talked so in front of Rebecca.

“Well, it is true. You’ll be eight and twenty next week and you’ve little to recommend you beside your dowry. In my day a woman was firmly upon the shelf at your age. Why, I had already bore my husband two children by five and twenty.”

“Mother…”

“Look at Rebecca, here. Poor as a church mouse and with little in the way of family connections. Had it not been for your father and I, as well as her uncle, she would have amounted to nothing more than a governess. Despite all that, she has made a splash in society, even capturing the attentions of someone who is notorious for being most discerning. Rebecca’s charm and beauty have made Lord Broughton forget that she hasn’t any money or family connections. You will forgive me for speaking so frankly, dear,” her mother whispered remorsefully to Rebecca. “I’m just trying to make Anais understand, you see, that it is not enough to be rich, one must be beautiful, as well.”

“One cannot help if they are beautiful or not,” Anais muttered, twisting her fingers in her apron.

“True enough,” her mother said, patting her flaxen curls. “But one can at least make an attempt to work with what attributes one has.”

“I think Anais is pretty,” Ann said, coming to her defense.

“Come, Anais,” her mother said with a superior tilt of her chin. “Rebecca, dear, your uncle has sent his carriage to fetch you. It’s waiting in the lane. Do not keep me waiting, Anais,” her mother warned with a pointed look as she reached for the door latch.

“I think you’re lovely, Anais,” Ann said proudly. “Furthermore, I overheard Lindsay remark to Lord Wallingford that he thought you were a perfect blend of beauty and brains. He called you his angel. I think he’s going to propose. I truly believe—”

“Enough, Ann,” her mother said with a glare. “Good Lord, I’d love nothing more than for him to marry her and take her off my hands, but we haven’t a chance now for that. If he hasn’t proposed after all these years, nothing will induce him to now.”

“Mama, I heard—”

“Enough of this nonsense. There will be no custard for you after dinner.”

“Mama!” Ann cried.

“You’re getting a bit thick in the middle, Ann. One night without bread pudding will serve you well. You must be conscious now of maintaining your figure. A man will go a long way before seeing a figure like yours. You must guard it most carefully,” her mother lectured as she promptly left with Ann, who was protesting loudly over the loss of her pudding.

“Well?”

“He wants to meet me!” Anais said excitedly, forgetting about her mother’s nagging, she showed Rebecca the valentine Lindsay had designed for her.

Rebecca read it and when she looked up at her, she had a strange intensity to her amber eyes. “How lovely.”

“What are you wearing tonight?” Anais asked excitedly as her gaze strayed to a sack by the door. “How will I know you in the crowd?”

“Never fear, you will find me,” Rebecca groaned, reaching for the muslin sack she had dropped on the floor when she came in. “Mrs. Button informed Uncle that she had the perfect costume for me. Of course, as you know, my uncle bows to every one of Mrs. Button’s wishes.” Rebecca pulled out an old brown cloth and held it out to Anais.

“A nun?” Anais croaked, laughing at the image of Rebecca wearing the brown sack.

“Hmm. I’m certain that this costume will not inspire Lord Broughton to dare enter the realm of wickedness.”

“You never know,” Anais teased. “The night could bring anything.”

“How right you are, Anais,” Rebecca said quietly, gathering her sack that lay atop the bed. She shoved the brown tunic inside before smiling brightly. “One must work with what fate hands them.”

Lowering himself onto the red velvet settee, Lindsay spread his arms wide on the back of the wooden frame as he surveyed the small room that had become a means of escape from the theatrics of the ballroom one floor below.

The air in the salon was thick with curling smoke, heavy with the perfume of spilled claret and Turkish tobacco. Numerous pillows had been strewn about, while braziers were lit with incense, emitting a heavy, almost sensual aroma he was all too familiar with. The heady perfume of fine Turkish opium clouded the room, blanketing him in an intoxicating aroma.

In the center of the room, dressed as a pasha, sat the Earl of Wallingford. The eldest child of the Duke of Torrington. Wallingford was an indolent wastrel of the highest order—he was also a very good friend.

“I wondered when you would escape the clutches of those marriage-minded debutantes my father insisted on inviting to his masquerade,” Wallingford said with a grin. “Virgins are so damn insipid and tiresome. Give me a courtesan with the knowledge and talent to rouse me over a simpering, blushing virgin.”