Free Potent Pleasures by Eloisa James Page A

over her dressing table, Marie’s tiny face gazing intently, her lips pursed. She twisted Charlotte’s hair this way and that.
    “Perhaps,” she said finally. It was true that Charlotte’s face sprang into high relief when it escaped from its mantle of hair. In the three years since Marie had become Charlotte’s maid, her mistress had never let her spend more than ten minutes arranging her hair, and so Marie had finally taken desperately to threading a simple ribbon through the front, which at least held most of the weight off Charlotte’s face. But the style didn’t emphasize Charlotte’s eyes. Now she saw they were a remarkable size, slightly almond shaped, and her eyelashes were as black as her hair.
    “We shall see what monsieur says,” Marie announced. She had the greatest reverence for Monsieur Pamplemousse, about whom one heard the most riveting stories: He was the hairdresser to Louis XVI, he had escaped from the very shadow of Madame Guillotine, he was the hairdresser to Napoleon’s beloved Josephine. Of course the English all abhorred Napoleon, but Marie reserved judgment. To her mind, Josephine was a model of feminine beauty and fashion, and her husband of rather less account.
    “And as for Madame Brigette’s, my lady,” Marie said earnestly, “had you thought of perhaps visiting the establishment of Madame Carême? Madame Brigette creates perfect dresses for young girls, but …”
    “You are right, of course,” Charlotte said, her voice rather bleak. She was not, and would never again be, a “girl.”
    She met her maid’s worried eyes with a brilliant smile. “Actually, Marie, I never was much good at the girlish look anyway. It is time to try another style. I saw a woman in the park yesterday in one of those new high-waisted dresses, and no corset. Of course,” she said, “I think the lady herself was probably not of the highest moral fiber, but the point is that the new French styles are rather charming, don’t you think?”
    Marie clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, Lady Charlotte! Madame Carême is just the person to visit. And,” she said shrewdly, “you have just the figure to neglect the corset. Perhaps … you might order one gown in gold? I have often thought that you would look splendid in a dress the color of the morning-room curtains!”
    Charlotte was startled for a moment, and then smiled. “I shall wear no more pink,” she said. “Nothing rosier than a strong peach. And”—more slowly—”no flounces, no ruffles, no embroidered flowers, no bows.”
    “Absolument, oui, oui!” Marie was almost babbling.
    Charlotte looked up, smiling. “Now, Marie, would you like to take all these dresses away?”
    Marie’s eyes shone. Not that she would ever wear such outmoded clothes herself, but she could sell them for a tidy sum (in perfect condition as they were!) and she and Cecil would be that much closer to marriage.
    “Thank you, my lady,” she said, sweeping Charlotte a graceful curtsy. Marie flung a huge stack over her arm and half-staggered out of the room, blinded by underskirts puffing into her face. It took three trips and then Charlotte had the room to herself again.
    She paced about, frowning slightly. Then she began to take down the china figures on the mantel, and all the knickknacks that had sat on her bedside table since she was five years old, and to place them carefully on her dressing table. The room was still too frothy. It was a girl’s room, for a girl’s dreams, all buttercups and daisies.
    It will have to be changed, Charlotte thought, but I can do that tomorrow. She envisioned something cooler, perhaps even blue, the color of cornflowers. She had retained a horror of blue, based on memories of her coming out ball, but that was foolishness.
    Charlotte went to bed without a thought for the almost-finished third version of Sir Vigilant Daicheston, waiting on the third floor. Instead, she went to sleep thinking dreamily about herself, dreams in which she was