Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“What way?” Cassandra asked.

“The way we used to when we were little and had ballerina fights.”

That drew a grin from Gabriel. “What’s a ballerina fight?”

“A game to see who can stay on her toes the longest,” Pandora explained, “without sinking back down to her heels or toppling over. Cassandra was always the winner.”

“I don’t feel like a winner at the moment,” Cassandra said ruefully. She stopped by the side of the hallway, leaned back against the wall, and hiked the front hem of her dress up to the ankles. “I’m walking this way because of my new shoes.”

Pandora crouched down to investigate, the skirts of her lavender silk evening dress billowing and collapsing like a gigantic petunia.

The blue satin shoes were narrow, pointed at the toes, and studded with pearls and beads. Unfortunately, no matter how often Cassandra had worn them around the house to break them in, the stiff leather lining wouldn’t soften.

“Oh, how pretty,” Pandora exclaimed.

“Yes, aren’t they?” Cassandra said with a little bounce of excitement, followed by a wince of discomfort. The night hadn’t even begun, and blisters had already started on her toes and the backs of her heels.

“The heels are so tall,” Pandora observed, her forehead crinkling.

“Louis Quinze style,” Cassandra told her. “We ordered them from Paris, so I have to wear them.”

“Even if they’re uncomfortable?” Gabriel asked, reaching down to help Pandora to her feet.

“These shoes are too expensive to be uncomfortable,” Cassandra said glumly. “Besides . . . the dressmaker said tall heels would make me appear more slender.”

“Why are you still worrying about that?” Pandora demanded.

“Because all my dresses are too tight, and it would take a great deal of time and money to have everything altered.” She heaved a sigh. “Also . . . I’ve overheard the way men gossip at dances or parties. They point out all a girl’s physical flaws and debate whether she’s too tall or short, or if her complexion is smooth enough, or whether her bosom is adequate.”

Pandora scowled. “Why don’t they have to be perfect?”

“Because they’re men.”

Pandora looked disgusted. “That’s the London Season for you: Casting girls before swine.” Turning to her husband, she asked, “Do men really talk about women that way?”

“Men, no,” Gabriel said. “Arsewits, yes.”

Three hours later, Cassandra limped into the quiet, empty conservatory. Soft ripples of light reflected from the indoor stream and jostled against shadows cast by ferns and palm fronds. It looked like the room of some underwater palace.

Painfully she made her way to the steps of a small stone bridge and sat in a billow of blue silk organza skirts. Tiny crystal beads had been scattered among the multiple layers of delicate fabric, casting glints across the floor. She sat with a groan of relief and reached down to work a shoe off her throbbing left foot.

Dinner had been lovely, actually, the atmosphere infused with wit and good cheer. Everyone had been genuinely happy for West and Phoebe, who had both seemed to be in a daze of bliss. The food itself had been spectacular, starting with rich circlets of foie gras laid out on slabs of ice arranged down the center of the mile-long table. An endless procession of courses had struck perfect chords of salt, butter, smokiness, and richness.

But all through the extravagant meal, Cassandra had been increasingly miserable as the chisellike edges of her shoes had cut into the backs of her heels and shredded her stockings. She’d finally resorted to slipping the shoes off beneath the table, and letting the air circulate over her pulsing, burning feet.

Thankfully she had been seated next to Lord Foxhall, whose engaging company had helped to take her mind off the discomfort. He was remarkably suitable and eligible, and so very nice . . . but he didn’t stir her interest any more than she stirred his.

Whereas Tom Severin and all his complexities seemed to have caught and stuck, burrlike, to her awareness. He’d been seated near the other end of the table, beside Lady Grace, one of Lord and Lady Westcliff’s dashingly pretty daughters. She had glossy black hair and a wide smile with very white teeth. She had seemed rather taken with Severin, laughing frequently, taking obvious interest in their conversation.

Severin had looked superb in formal evening attire. A man like a blade . . . sleek and hard, his gaze sharp with intelligence. Even in a room full of accomplished and powerful men, he stood out. He hadn’t once glanced in Cassandra’s direction, but she’d had the feeling he was aware of her and was deliberately ignoring her.

Every time Cassandra had glanced at the pair, the food in her mouth had turned bitter, and she’d had difficulty swallowing. Her mood, not especially elevated to begin with, had deflated like a cooling soufflé.

The crowning indignity had occurred when dinner had finally, finally ended and Cassandra had tried to slip her feet back into the detested shoes. One of them was missing. She had slid an inch or two down in her chair and hunted for the shoe as inconspicuously as possible, but the blasted thing had disappeared.

Briefly she’d considered asking Lord Foxhall to help. But he probably wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptation of telling someone about it later—who could blame him?—and she couldn’t bear the thought of being laughed at.

As she’d considered her dilemma, however, she’d realized it was unavoidable; she would be laughed at. If she left the dining hall without the shoe, a servant would find it and tell the other servants, who would tell their masters and mistresses, and then everyone would know.

Her toes had searched the floor frantically.

“Lady Cassandra,” Lord Foxhall had asked quietly, “is something troubling you?”

She’d looked into his friendly dark eyes and forced her lips into the shape of a smile. “I’m afraid I’m not one for these long dinners with no opportunity to move about.” Which hadn’t been true, of course, but she could hardly tell him the problem.

“Neither am I,” Foxhall had said promptly. “Shall we go for a stroll to stretch our legs?”

Cassandra had maintained her smile, her brain sorting through various responses. “How kind of you to ask—but the ladies will be gathering for tea, and I wouldn’t want my absence to cause comment.”

“Of course.” Foxhall had gallantly accepted her excuse and stood to help her from her chair.

With one shoe on and the other missing, Cassandra’s only recourse had been to proceed on her toes, ballerinalike, hoping her voluminous skirts would conceal that she was missing a shoe. Gliding toward the doorway, she’d tried to look composed while breaking out in a sweat of anxiety.

As she’d winced and cringed amid the chattering crowd of guests all making their way from the room, she’d felt a subtle touch on her bare elbow. Turning, she found herself looking up into Tom Severin’s face.

“What is it?” he’d asked in a low undertone. Ice-cool and steady, a man who could fix things.

Feeling hot and foolish and off balance, she’d whispered, “I lost one of my shoes under the table.”

Severin had registered that without even blinking. “I’ll meet you in the winter garden.”

And now she sat here, waiting.

Gingerly she pulled at the silk stocking where it stuck to the back of her heel. It smarted and stung, and came away with a little spot of blood. Grimacing, she rummaged beneath her skirts, unfastened her garters, and removed the ruined stockings. She compressed them into a wad and tucked them in a concealed pocket of her gown.