“I don’t know, Francesca. This plan seems to imply that I might drive a ducal heir mad with desire when obviously I’m only an unsophisticated country girl.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Francesca tucked acurl behind Sandrine’s ear. “I’ll give you a new image. What we need to worry about is ambushing Lord Dane at his places of leisure.”
“What does a wicked rake do all day?” asked Sandrine.
Marta tipped an imaginary top hat, assuming a drawling low tone. “My dear Miss Oliver, what does a wicked rake do? Well, we don’t rise until three of the afternoon, then we do manly things like compare the bloodlines of our stallions, order new boots, or buy new hunting dogs. Then we dine on beefsteak and brandy around eight, join a party at Madam Avalon’s, or Vauxhall, spend far too much blunt at gambling or on champagne and courtesans, and then we don’t go to bed until five of the morning. Then it’s time to do it all over again.”
“Or they’re risking their necks racing their curricles with the Thunderbolt Club,” said Francesca. “They have chariot races like the ancient Greeks. But the Grecian chariots were strong and sturdy, whereas these curricles are flimsy and easily overturned. I’ve seen too many of them flipped and smashed to pieces, the horses and the riders rolling in the dust.”
“Is that what happened to Lord Dane’s brother?” Sandrine asked.
“He wasn’t a rakish sort. I’m not sure what caused the accident, but it certainly wasn’t racing,” Francesca replied.
“I witnessed an accident in Hyde Park just last week,” Marta said. “The horse ran away, and one of the wheels of the curricle collided withthe rising ground and the vehicle was upset, and Mr. Greville was pitched into the air, as if shot from a pistol, and thrown upon his head.”
“Gracious! Did he survive?” asked Sandrine, her heart thumping.
“Yes. More often than not they pick themselves up with no broken bones and are back in their curricle the following day.”
“I know dozens of ladies who are dying to ride in Lord Dane’s curricle and have their necks put in peril,” said Marta.
“When you go to have your interview with him, try to glean some details of his schedule so we’ll know where and when you can surprise him,” Francesca instructed.
“It all sounds rather complicated. I don’t think Lord Dane will be in any danger of groveling at my feet.”
“All you need is a little confidence and mystique,” Francesca said. “Would you allow me to try something different with your hair?”
“How different?”
Francesca pulled the pins from Sandrine’s coiffure and piled her hair on top of her head, pulling some tendrils about her face. “You should pin it up like this. And pinch your cheeks to give yourself a blush. And bite your lips to make them red.”
“Goodness. It sounds painful.”
“It’s to achieve a certain effect,” said Marta. “The slightly rumpled hair, pink cheeks, swollen lips, and a breathless little catch in your voice, as though you’ve just been thoroughly kissed.”
She’d felt out of her element most of this evening with these gorgeous, sophisticated ladies, but she did know what Marta meant about the effects of thorough kissing. After that afternoon in the garden with Danny—Lord Dane—she’d been terrified that her mother would be able to somehow intuit that she’d been kissed, as though she’d been permanently altered by the experience.
“And you can wear some of my gowns,” said Francesca.
“I couldn’t do that. I might spill something on them.”
“Poo! I don’t care. I have dozens.”
“But she needs something special. Something no one’s ever seen before,” Marta said.
“She needs a make-a-rake-grovel gown.” Roslyn drew a curving silhouette in the air. “Something close-fitting in all the right places.”
“I’ll talk to my modiste. But in the meantime...” Francesca left the room and came back a few minutes later holding a cloud of pale yellow silk.
The ladies surrounded Sandrine, tugging off her gown and sliding thin yellow silk over her head. The gown slid down her with the softest caress against her skin, settling in elegant folds.
Francesca stood back and eyed Sandrine critically. “The bodice is too loose.”
“Padding! I use it all the time.” Marta pulled a wad of cotton from her bodice. “Here.” She pushed her hand down Sandrine’s bodice, lifted her breasts, and fit the padding underneath.
Sandrine glanced at herself in the glass. Herbosom appeared far larger now, spilling over the bodice in an alarming manner. “I don’t know. Isn’t it rather... precarious?”
Marta adjusted the bodice of the dress even lower. “It’s perfect. Trust me.”