Free Midnight Pleasures by Eloisa James

become a lady’s maid. Go along downstairs, do.”
    Bess tripped on the way out but managed to close the door.
    “Now, Lady Sophie.”
    As Marie approached, Sophie stood up. First Marie briskly dampened Sophie’s all-but-invisible chemise, making the fine lawn cling to her legs. Then she threw the gown up over Sophie’s head, carefully protecting her hair.
    The dress rustled sweetly over Sophie’s shoulders, smelling of orange blossoms and, faintly, a hot iron. As it fell down to her feet the silk twisted in the breeze of its own fall, barely glazing her limbs.
    “There,” Marie said with satisfaction, after hooking up the back of Sophie’s gown. “If you would give me a minute while I pin up the last of my lady’s braids, I will refurbish your curls.”
    “That is a lovely gown,” Charlotte said to Sophie, as Marie nimbly pinned up a few stray curls.
    “Thank you,” Sophie replied. “I had it sent from Madame Carême.”
    Marie ruthlessly stuck a few extra pins in the coils of Charlotte’s hair, and Charlotte rose, feeling awkwardly top-heavy. She crossed the room to stand before Marie, who had clambered onto a stool and was waiting to slip a crimson evening gown over her head. One of the disadvantages of being so tall was that her lady’s maid had to stand on a stool to put on a dress, or to undo buttons for that matter.
    There was a light knock on the door. Marie rushed over and then shut the door smartly in the speaker’s face.
    “That was Keating, my lady. The Heppleworths have arrived.”
    Charlotte held out her wrist as Marie fastened the clasp of a slim band of rubies. Sophie came over curiously.
    “What a beautiful bracelet, Charlotte.” The glowing burgundy of the rubies picked up the sheen of Charlotte’s gown and set off her dark hair.
    “A birthday gift from my doting husband,” Charlotte said impishly. “To celebrate our placid life.”
    “More likely you threw a chamber pot at him and this was his ploy to reenter the bedroom,” Sophie teased.
    Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Shall we go down and excite the assembled men … all of them?”
    Sophie cast a look at herself in the mirror and then deliberately pulled down her tiny bodice, arranging the dress so that the silky gold material just barely skimmed her nipples.
    Charlotte chuckled. “You couldn’t possibly look more enticing, Sophie.”
    “Yes, well.” Sophie’s eyes were alight with deep excitement. “I see no reason not to make everyone at the dinner party a little interested, no? I am only an engaged woman; I’m not dead!”
    “Oh, Sophie! Sometimes you are so French!”
    “I like being French in the evening,” Sophie retorted. “One can be English all day, especially when riding a horse, but then one can dress—and think—French after six o’clock.”
    Charlotte thought about this a bit doubtfully as they walked down the hallway together. “How French will you be once you’re married?” Charlotte asked.
    Sophie cast her friend a laughing look. “Are you trying to find out whether I will be faithful to my husband, Charlotte?”
    “Yes.”
    “I shall be,” Sophie replied. “Because it is too much trouble to become involved in liaisons and such. I shall flirt, naturally, and I shall take on a cicisbeo, of course. A married woman must have admirers. But no, I will not allow anyone into my bedroom. Why should I?” She gave a charming little shrug.
    That shrug was purely French, Charlotte thought. But Sophie’s lack of knowledge about the delights of the bedroom was purely English. Charlotte couldn’t help smiling. If Patrick was anything like his twin, her husband, Alex, he would make sure that Sophie knew exactly what she was giving up by putting Braddon’s ring on her finger.
    They walked down the marble stairs together. Charlotte moved toward the Yellow Drawing Room, where the party was assembling.
    “Splendid,” Sophie whispered to Charlotte when she saw in which direction they were heading. “This