Sophia James - Fallen Angel

‘I’m not sure,’ Brenna hedged, thinking of some reason to leave, but seeing the hurt of disappointment in Louisa’s eyes. ‘Well, perhaps only just quickly. I really can’t be long.’

‘Nay, not long.’ Louisa wound her arm through Brenna’s and excitedly bundled her down the street, stopping at a well cared-for, semi-detached house that lay wreathed in elegant black iron lacework. Finding the key, she pushed the door open and Brenna, stepping inside, was assailed by the unmistakable smell of expensive perfume.

‘Up here!’ Louisa beckoned, running up steps draped in eastern carpets. ‘I want to show you your present.’

Brenna followed, crossing to a bedroom that filled the whole front of the house, French doors spilling out to a balcony and lawn lace curtains shielding it from the view of others. Her mouth fell open with amazement.

‘This is your bedroom? You sleep here?’ Her eyes noted a bed, easily the largest she had ever seen, and shifted back to the woman beside her, her dimples appearing as unexpectedly as the sun after a long and dingy day. ‘Goodness, Louisa, but this is decadent.’

Louisa chuckled and threw open her cupboards. ‘Wait till you see the rest, but be warned against criticism, Brenna, for our childhood of otherwise has taught me to enjoy excess.’

The words were said gently and Brenna sobered, running her fingers now through yards of silk and velvet and tulle in the shape of what seemed like a hundred gowns hanging in proud array. ‘They’re beautiful, Louisa. I think that this Francis must truly love you.’

Blue eyes twinkled. ‘He does and one day he’ll realise it, but for now…’ She went to one end of the cupboard and pulled forth a gown still wrapped in calico to shield it from the light of day.

‘This is yours, Brenna. I found it at Bussy’s. The madam there said it had been ordered by the daughter of a Marquis who had never come back to claim it and I thought of you straight away.’

Brenna pulled off the drab material that enfolded the garment, and her eyes were filled with wonderment at the sight before her: an evening gown of dark red silk, high backed and square bodiced, the V-shaped front trimmed with wide lace revers, and an overskirt gathered at the waist before falling in scalloped edges to the floor.

‘My Lord,’ she breathed to Louisa. ‘It’s lovely…more then lovely…’

‘You truly do like it?’ Louisa squealed in happy anticipation. ‘Try it on!’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

Both girls fell into laughter. ‘You’re sure no one will come?’

‘Positive.’

It was all the encouragement Brenna needed and, peeling off the blue velvet, she reached for the red silk, Louisa fastening the row of tiny buttons at her back.

Intrigued, Brenna went across to the armoire, stretching up on her toes to see the hemline and un-pinning her hair, using Louisa’s brush to stroke out the shiny heavy mass of curls until they gleamed. ‘I can’t believe that you bought this for me,’ she whispered, trying at the same time to pull up the bodice a little. ‘You’re sure it suits me?’ A tiny niggle of doubt sat in Brenna’s mind as she turned towards the mirror, her breasts swelling across the tightness.

‘Wonderfully!’ Louisa supplied, laughing as the other woman blushed. ‘And it’s well past time you broke out and wore something apart from navy. The world of men is not at all as you may think it to be, Brenna, and old age can be lonely without a soulmate.’

Brenna was still, caught between the past and the future in a way she often was in the company of Louisa. And the dress of silk and lace felt undeniably luxurious.

‘People truly wear the décolletage this low?’ Brenna’s knowledge of the latest in fashion was, at her own admission, sadly lacking.

‘All of them, though this one would be considered tame, even on an unmarried lady.’

Brenna pulled the bodice up for a final time, sighing as she made not a whit of difference to the amount of exposure. ‘It almost seems indecent,’ she whispered, wishing suddenly that she did have the confidence to be seen in such a gown, given that it was hers to keep.

‘Well, it’s not, though you may feel happier if I showed you the whole thing. Come downstairs with me and help me bring up the mirror from the front salon. It’s usually kept up here, but Francis has just had the hinges mended. We’ll find some shoes and a hat and you’ll be able to see your dress properly then.’

Buoyed up by Louisa’s enthusiasm, Brenna nodded; five minutes later they were in the front hallway, heaving the heavy mahogany piece of furniture towards the stairwell.

‘Tip it my way,’ Louisa commanded, ‘and hold it still. I’ll see if I can lever it up on to the banister.’ Brenna strained and brought the length across her chest, lowering her arms to try to heave it upwards and feeling the breath leave her body with its heaviness.

‘Are you sure we can manage this, Louisa?’ she queried doubtfully.

‘I’ve done it before with the maid.’ She frowned. ‘Or perhaps it was with Francis…’ And at that second the front door, not five steps away from them, was flung open, spilling forth an astonished-looking blond man and Nicholas Pencarrow, two pairs of eyes staring at them in disbelief.

‘Brenna?’ Her name came incredulous and huskily from Nicholas and she almost expected him to reach out and touch her just to ascertain she was not a mirage. Her arms quivered beneath the weight of the mirror, caught in its heaviness so that she could not even adjust the neck of her gaping dress and, as Nicholas came forward to relieve her of its burden, she felt his eyes running across her.

Shock surged through Nicholas’s body. Brenna here and in the company of Louisa Greling and shoeless, her hair falling loose across a gown fashioned from lace and silk? Brenna with one of London’s most celebrated courtesans and looking just as provocative? Where were the high-necked blue velvets, the books, Beaumont Street? How could he reconcile one with the other?

The question was forming on his lips as she whirled, racing up the stairs without pause, her face aflame with embarrassment, the dress seen through Nicholas’s eyes acquiring only a cheap showiness, which in Louisa’s company had not been obvious.

Slamming the door behind her, she hauled off the gown, tears of frustration rising as she tried to unfasten all the tiny buttons. Reaching with shaky hands for the blue velvet, she pulled it on with as much quickness as she could muster, one foot against the door to bar entry given the complete absence of any lock. Once the dress lay in place across her body, she felt stronger, wrenching her stockings into place with fingers more like her own and tying her hair back in one long and customary plait. Wide eyes observed her reflection in the mirror. Lord, what could she say to him? How could she explain away her friendship with Louisa or her reasons for being here?

Honesty!

The word came quiet and true and with a growing resolve, but the newly found confidence completely shattered when she heard a knock on the door and the Duke of Westbourne’s voice without.

‘Brenna? May I come in for a moment?’

In panic she made for the door, pushing it open and herself out in almost the same movement. She would meet his questions on the landing, not in the bedroom, though with no sign of Louisa or the man she presumed to be Francis, her heart began beating anew.

Nicholas stood, leaning slightly against the railings of an ornate balcony, his gaze softening as he observed the transformation of the woman now before him, laced into the shapeless navy velvet as though covered from head to foot in androgynous armour.

With quiet patience he stood his ground, waiting for her to look at him, willing her to explain what was going on. Finally, an anguished visage tipped up to his.