Never visit museums or portrait galleries. Viewing nude sculptures or paintings has a corrupting effect on young ladies.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
“Are we really doing this?” Sandrine whispered.
“I’ve always wanted to attend one of these masked balls,” Francesca said, her eyes sparkling with excitement behind her mask. “We’ll observe for a little while and leave. We’ll stay long enough for you to fulfill the secret and scandalous initiation rite.”
Sandrine wasn’t worried about her identity being revealed because the ladies had done a wonderful job with her costume. They were all wearing elaborate powdered wigs created by Francesca that hid their natural hair color. Francesca’s wig was a pale pink color that truly was a sight to behold. They had beauty marks pasted next to their lips and powder on their faces. They wore molded satin demimasks with lace edges and feather adornments, and silk gowns with panniers embroidered in paste jewels, in the style of the court of Louis XIV.
Like the others, she was wearing a cloak, which she didn’t have to take off if she didn’t want to,and she had a fan to hide her face should that be necessary.
“All right. It’s time to go in. We should speak as little as possible,” instructed Francesca, “and if you see someone you recognize, act as though they are a stranger. And remember to use our code names.”
Sandrine’s code name for the evening was Lady Sapphire.
They entered through the marble-columned doorway into a long hall, their slippers making shushing noises on the thick carpet. Torch-lit portraits lined the hall. Sandrine expected to see stiff, unsmiling ancestors in velvet capes, and the paintings at the beginning were respectable enough, but as they progressed, more and more clothing disappeared. Women wore nothing more than necklaces. Men had white sheets wrapped around their loins and nothing else.
She stopped in front of one portrait. “He looks familiar.” She stepped closer. “Is this...?”
“Lord Dane Walker. In the flesh.” Marta giggled. “He’s handsomely endowed, is he not?”
“How can you tell with that fig leaf covering it?” asked Roslyn.
Francesca peered at the portrait. “It’s a very large fig leaf. It must be symbolic.”
Sandrine was too stunned to do anything but gawk at the painting. She’d pictured him without his clothing, but here he was. Nude. Reclining on a velvet couch with only a fig leaf covering his—what had Marta called it?—endowment.
That handsome, arrogant face with the deepdimple in his chin. So much sleek, powerful muscle on display. The painting should be titledHow to Tempt a Good Girl to Go Bad.
“Lady Sapphire’s having averygood look.” Marta poked her in the ribs. “Have you ever seen beneath a fig leaf?”
“I’ve seen village boys splashing about in the sea.”
Her imagination ran rampant, delving under the fig leaf and painting his endowment in big, bold strokes. A shivery thrill of anticipation chased along her spine.
This.This was why she was here. To do something secret and scandalous.
Nottooscandalous, her conscience warned her.
Tonight was another line drawn in the sand. On one side was her mother proclaiming that the world was a dangerous place and it was safer to stay indoors and only have a very small sphere of experiences and acquaintances. On the other side was something wholly unknown.
Who might she be without her mother’s voice in her head? The constant inner monologue of rules and fears wasn’t simply going to disappear. It would be with her every step of the way whispering,This iswrong, scandalous, perilous.Bad things will happen. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Nothing you’ll have to hide.
But there was a new voice now, and it didn’t whisper: it rang out clear as a bell and told her that avoiding all regrets meant avoiding life itself.
She wanted to truly experience life for the first time on her own terms.
She was ready to cross this line.
“Shall we go in, ladies?” she asked.
“If Lord Dane’s here in the flesh, which he’s bound to be, you’ll have another opportunity to make him fall madly in love with you and agree to give you the manor house,” Marta said.
Sandrine agreed. If there was one place to find a wicked rake, it would be in this gardenia-scented demimonde filled with flickering candlelight and provocative portraits. “But I thought the point was to remain incognito?”
“Keep your identity secret until you see Lord Dane, and then whisper your name in his ear,” Roslyn advised.
“Ladies of the court, welcome,” spoke a musical voice behind them. “I’m Madam Avalon, your hostess. You are most welcome here this evening.”