Anne O'Brien - The Outrageous Debutante

She groaned aloud and twisted to bury her face into the coverlet. If she tried to put the blame squarely on her unknown rescuer for daring to interfere, her innate fairness quickly stopped her. Her behaviour towards him had been despicable. He had suffered for his quixotic actions because she had used enough force to mark his skin and inflict pain.

And then there was that strangest of moments. A little shiver ran over her skin as she felt again the force of it. She had no experience of such things. But as her eyes had met his, she could not look away, her breath had foundered in her lungs. She could still feel the hard imprint of his fingers around her wrist. What was it that had united them in that one moment of uncontrolled emotions, had robbed her of words, of actions? All she had seen was the beauty of his face, the run of emotions across it. And in that one fleeting moment she had wondered what it would be like if those firm lips had moved a little closer and actually touched hers.

Thea stood up, astounded at the direction of her thoughts.

All she could hope for was that she would never have to meet him again! In her usual forthright manner, Thea knew that she could not worry over what she could not undo. She must compose herself or her mother would ask far too many questions.

But she could not forget him, and her heart was sore.

Lord Nicholas Faringdon rode back to Grosvenor Square deep in thought, allowing the mare to choose her own pace. All he could think about was that lovely face when she had removed the enveloping scarf, and her hair—short and shining like a golden halo round her head. But she was no angel. He smiled a trifle grimly at the thought. Those furious eyes. Imperious as she lashed at him with whip and words. And there had been fear there. And at the end—distress? Had she actually flinched from him, cowered even for that one moment when he grasped her wrist? And whereas he might have expected her to be flushed from her exertions, her face had been white, all the blood drained from her cheeks as she had looked up into his face, until she had recovered and wielded her riding whip with considerable force and accuracy.

He was not sure, but her violent response seemed to be as much from fear as from anger. But why? Apart from bringing her horse to a halt, he had done nothing to threaten her. Could she really have believed that he was attempting to molest her, to force himself on her in so public a place? Or anywhere for that matter!

Take your hands off me!

Her tone and words were clearly imprinted on his mind. She had been terrified. Furthermore her whole appearance was—unusual, to say the least. Remarkable clothes, enveloped in some sort of eastern robe. And alone. No sign of a maid—not surprising in the circumstances—but neither was there an accompanying groom, not even in the distance. And—of course! Something else that now struck him: she had been riding astride. And if he had not been mistaken, there had been no sign of cumbersome skirts and petticoats. She had been wearing breeches and boots! Well, now!

Perhaps, then, she was merely some less-than-respectable woman to indulge in behaviour so particular—yet he did not think so. The impression was that she was undoubtedly a lady. Certainly not in the style of the notorious Letty Lade, who might have been an excellent horsewoman but who also had claims to being a highwayman’s mistress before her advantageous marriage. No—there was a distinct air of class and style attached to this mysterious horsewoman who had just crossed his path. Moreover, the grey Arab had taken his eye. Now there was an example of superior horseflesh and breeding. And whoever she might be, he had to admit that the lady could ride!

Nicholas turned out of the park and allowed himself to think of that instant of—of connection, he supposed. He had not imagined it. It had held them both in thrall as the world continued round them. Shrugging his shoulders against a slight chill of discomfort, he pushed the memory away of the sudden heat that had spread through his blood as he had tightened his fingers around her wrist and felt the beat of her heart through her pulse. It had taken him aback. But it did not matter since they were unlikely ever to meet again. And what did he want with a woman who galloped her horse across Hyde Park, clad in unseemly garments, and responded to kindness with rude and insulting words? Yet a tinge of admiration crept under his skin, recognition of her courage and spirit, until he deliberately, ruthlessly thrust it away.

Lifting his hand from the reins, he stretched it, then made a fist with a grimace. The welt was red, a little swollen where the blow had broken the skin. He swore at the sting of pain.

Of one thing he was quite certain, he decided, as he turned into the entrance of Grosvenor Square. He had never met the woman before. And he would not be sorry if he never saw her again.

‘It is a very pretty dress,’ Thea acknowledged with what could be interpreted as a most accommodating smile, if one did not know the lady. ‘And I am sure that the colour is most suitable and flattering to any young girl. But I will not wear pale pink.’

‘But it is Maiden’s Blush , miss.’

The four ladies all surveyed the gown being displayed in the arms of the assistant at Madame Therese’s in New Bond Street with varying degrees of appreciation. The assistant frowned, impervious to the débutante’s smile. As Madame Therese’s senior assistant, she was used to dealing with their noble customers with superior and knowledgeable condescension. Dealing with this exacting, although exceedingly polite young lady, she felt her temper was beginning to fray.

‘ Maiden’s Blush it may be, but it is still pale pink. It is entirely inappropriate for my colouring, either my hair or my skin. I will not wear it.’ Thea’s opinion was expressed in the gentlest of tones, almost apologetic in its denial, but her refusal could not be in doubt. The assistant’s frown had no effect.

‘Perhaps this would be better suited to you, miss.’ The harassed lady laid the offending gown with its delightfully ruffled skirt and pearl-buttoned sleeves—the epitome of the art of dressmaking and one of their finest designs—across a chair and lifted another with tender care. ‘This is Evening’s Kiss . A most fashionable colour this year. A most exclusive garment, as you can see.’

‘That is pale blue.’

‘Indeed, it is very attractive, Thea. Such precise but delicate embroidery, don’t you think? Will you not try it?’ Lady Drusilla saw the set of her daughter’s lovely mouth, despite the smile, and her heart sank. Not stubborn exactly, just … well, decided . Dressing Thea was never easy.

‘I do not wish to wear pale anything, Mama. How can you ask it of me? You know that I look far better in something with a little—intensity, with depth.’

‘But it is most becoming for a débutante.’ The assistant appeared close to tears. This was the sixth gown that had been rejected out of hand and one of them had been Damsel’s Dreams . How could any young lady reject such a confection of white organdie sprinkled with knots of forget-me-nots?

‘No.’

‘Jonquil?’ suggested Judith. ‘It is such a soothing colour, I always think, and unexceptional for morning wear.’ The Countess of Painscastle had joined them at Madame Therese’s with apologies for her late arrival. Simon had returned home earlier than she had expected, she explained, with a becoming flush to her cheeks. She had been detained.

Thea turned unbelieving eyes on Judith. ‘Pale yellow? It will rob my hair of any colour at all! I shall look even more sallow. How I wish that I had been born a brunette with dark eyes! Or a redhead like you.’ She turned her gaze back to the blue creation, determined that she would not grace Almack’s, or any other occasion, in such an insipid dress, however fine the embroidered hem.