The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(44)

Staring at her reflection in the bevel, Cleopatra took in the canary-yellow satin against her pale skin. For all intents and purposes, she may as well have been a child playing at dress-up. She gulped.

All along she’d believed the last place she cared to be was in this household, only to have it clearer that it was, in fact, Ryker Black’s ballroom that she’d rather set afire.

And what was worse, she’d enter that ballroom with the sole intent of capturing some gentleman’s notice, so she might become a lord’s wife, and then live forever among the ton and—

Her stomach lurched. Of its own volition, her gaze crept over to the window, and she contemplated escape. A swift one. One that the lady’s maid, Dorinda, bustling about the room and humming to herself, would never see coming, and would see Cleopatra free.

Singing to herself, Dorinda carried over a diamond-studded crown, a small tiara her brother had commissioned for all of his sisters. “Now for your crown, miss.”

Crown. She angled out of Dorinda’s reach. I’ll be damned if I put that piece on. The laughs Polite Society would have with her, a girl born of the gutters rubbing elbows with them and presenting herself as some kind of royalty. Damn Broderick. Damn him to hell. “Oi don’t need that,” she said gruffly, angling back.

Nonetheless, the maid persisted. “Lovely piece it is, Miss Killoran.”

Cleopatra would certainly credit the girl for having more gumption than she’d previously believed. “Oi said that won’t be necessary,” she snarled as Dorinda made another grab.

“It would be a shame for such a piece to go unworn.”

Cleopatra made a futile lunge left, but Dorinda settled her hands on her shoulders. With a resolute set to her mouth, she guided her back to the vanity and proceeded to arrange the tiara upon her head. All the while, the girl sang in a discordant soprano.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,

The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Cleopatra’s fingers twitched with the need to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out the cheerful servant’s song.

Artfully arranging two curls—two limp curls—over Cleopatra’s shoulder, Dorinda eyed her work with far too much pride. With a pleased nod, she reached for the velvet case. “Now the necklace.”

Garish diamonds her brother had insisted she don at the ton events. The diamond-and-ruby necklace in her hold, Dorinda came at her again, with determination in her every movement.

“No.” She might have donned the meringue gown and allowed Dorinda to put the bloody crown on her head, but she drew the line at gaudy necklaces.

The younger woman furrowed her brow. “But—”

“I said no.” The ton would see the extravagant display as precisely what it was: an interloper, in the market to snare a titled husband, in exchange for some coin. In short, a whore . . . my brother made me a bloody whore.

But you’re the one who volunteered for the role . . . you’ve agreed to this to spare Gertrude and Ophelia . . . and help your family . . .

“You really must wear it.”

She snapped. “I said no.” What was it to the maid whether or not she wore the damned necklace?

Dorinda paled but did not back down. She offered a coaxing smile. “Come,” she gave the necklace a slight shake, and the heavy piece jangled noisily. “It will complete your ensemble, miss.”

Why in blazes was she so tenacious? And this time as the girl came closer, Cleopatra—who’d gone toe-to-toe with thugs from the street—knew she was going to lose this blasted battle. That Dorinda would see her dripping in diamonds, as Broderick intended. She skittered her gaze about. “Oi said Oi ain’t going to wear the bloody—”

The door opened with a faint click, and she and the maid looked as one as Lady Chatham let herself inside. Saved by a Black. Both she and Dorinda. Who would have believed she’d see the damned day?

“Dorinda, if you’ll excuse Miss Killoran and I?” the viscountess asked, sweeping over.

“As you wish, my lady.” The girl dipped a curtsy and made to place the jewels about Cleopatra’s neck. Panic choked her.

“I’ll take that,” Lady Chatham said with a wide smile. Intercepting the maid’s efforts, she relieved them from her hold.

With another curtsy, Dorinda took her leave.

Another time, Cleopatra would have been affronted by anyone entering her chambers without even the benefit of a knock. A knock would have been appropriate, even as the viscountess certainly reserved rights and decisions over every room in this townhouse. Her shoulders sagged.

Penelope eyed the extravagant piece in her hands. “It is lovely,” she said, all the while assessing it. Those two-quarter-inch teardrops glimmered in the light.

“It is large,” Cleopatra muttered, glowering at them. As though covering her in diamonds could somehow make her different from what she was—who she was: a girl from the streets.

Lady Chatham glanced up, and a rush of heat flooded Cleopatra’s cheeks at the probing glimmer there.