A Taste of Desire(64)
Miss Foxworth glanced somewhat guiltily at the newspaper. “Oh, that is nothing but a gossip sheet. They say if one is to indulge in scandal, the preference is to have it on paper in black ink involving others.”
It appeared Camille Foxworth had a sense of humor. A surprise, given what Amelia had seen of her and the little she knew of her, but a welcome one nonetheless. “Yes, I suppose that’s the only way one would find it palatable. I hope the scandals are keeping you properly entertained.”
“Nothing terribly scandalous at the moment. However, the town is abuzz over the ball tomorrow evening.”
“And whose ball is that, pray tell?” Amelia asked more out of curiosity than anything else. After her last appearance at a ball, she wasn’t overly eager to attend another.
“Lady Forsham’s ball.”
Amelia stilled. Could it be the stars were aligning in her favor? Not only had she and her father received an invitation to the gala months before, but Lady Forsham was Lord Clayborough’s aunt. From his account, he and his aunt could have only been closer had she actually birthed him herself. Amelia had no doubt he’d be attending the ball.
“We should attend.” Amelia silently vowed she’d find a way, come hell or high water, though neither option was preferable.
After a perceptible pause, Miss Foxworth smiled as if caution should be preserved at all costs. “But, of course, you must have been invited. I will confer with Lord Armstrong when he returns. He might well be inclined to act as our escort.”
“Lord Armstrong informed me himself that he has other plans for the evening.” With his mistress. Not that it mattered to Amelia. It did not. But if the poor woman was foolish enough to be taken with him, a warning of this nature could save her in the long run.
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t—”
“And if we attend, I shall have my maid fix your hair. She is quite proficient with the tongs. I think curls will suit your face admirably. Of course, there is the matter of your gown.” Amelia gave her dress a critical stare. “I think a brighter color will go best with your complexion.”
A flicker of excitement sparked in Miss Foxworth’s eyes. There was nothing like flattery to bolster a woman’s self-image. And a handsome viscount to lead an innocent to scandalous behavior.
“I have a blue gown that will look divine on you. I can have Hélène take the hem up a few inches and take in the bodice, and it should fit you perfectly. We’ll also experiment with some cosmetics. A little color on your cheeks would be quite flattering. What do you think?” Amelia would simply overwhelm her with the tremendous possibilities to such an endeavor.
Thankfully, it worked, for Miss Foxworth appeared to have gone on the journey of her transformation with Amelia, her eyes shining with girlish excitement. And just like that, the matter of going to the ball without the viscount’s permission or escort ceased to be a concern.
The scent of perfume and candle wax hung heavy in the air. Certainly, Thomas had had to contend with worse smells in his lifetime, but tonight he felt practically suffocated by the cloying mixture. Or perhaps his sensitivity had more to do with just how much he had no desire to be there.
After only a few minutes at the ball, Lady Stanton, with her daughter in tow, had pounced upon him and Cartwright like an oversized cat sprigged in an elaborate headdress, claws drawn. She’d taken one look at his expression and wisely turned to Cartwright. Lord Alex, would you be so good as to take my dear Georgiana on a swirl about the room? Cartwright had acquiesced without a fuss. And he so often complained that he—being a second son and all—found himself being dragged off to the dance floor with such regularity. Stupid man. Escaping the clutches of ruthless, socially ambitious mothers was not for the faint of heart and certainly not for a man who strived to comport himself like a gentleman at all times—at least publicly. Cartwright was hardly the saintly pillar many thought him to be.
The only squared edges to be found in the circular ballroom were on the thick, grooved support columns running the periphery of the room. Thomas stood near the one closest to the door, scanning the guests with a dispassionate eye. The joviality around him didn’t entice him. He’d come for one singular purpose.
Thomas spotted said purpose a minute later amid a buzz of activity at the entrance. He checked his timepiece. Ten o’clock and fashionably late. He didn’t have to see Louisa to know it was she who had created the stir. Who else would have gentlemen effusively bowing like wooden toy soldiers, and women practically genuflecting, their crinolines colliding with every object and person within a fifteen-foot radius?