Free Barbara Metzger by Rakes Ransom Page A

dreading, that first meeting with Claibourne who was, incredibly, as handsome as she’d remembered. She curtseyed, he bowed, a few polite words were exchanged between the biens . Then she’d gone off to see to his aunt’s comfort, her own toilette, the rest of the guests, and finally the dinner, all without having to face that first private moment. Madame, seated between Jacelyn’s father and Vicar Shankman, seemed to have found her vocabulary, English or French, Jacey could not tell from her place at the opposite end of the table. Claibourne’s scarecrow of an aunt also seemed to have found her appetite; she appeared to be a trencherwoman of Squire’s caliber. And for all his grumbling, Squire seemed to enjoy the turbot in oyster sauce and the veal marselaisse as well as he did the plain rack of lamb Jacelyn had Antoine include for his benefit. Even Samantha was managing well, between the vicar and Admiral Hopkinton, who was an old dear, even if he was nearly deaf and persisted in refighting the Peninsular Campaign across the table to Claibourne, in a voice booming enough to stir the autumn leaves Jacelyn had arranged for a centerpiece.
    Claibourne was all poise and polish, making his replies to the admiral through Jacelyn, so she was the one forced to shout out Wellington’s strategy, while Leigh conversed quietly with Mrs. Bottwick on his other side. Claibourne looked even more elegant in evening clothes, Jacelyn noted during a lull in the admiral’s wargames, and she was quite sure his shoulders weren’t padded, as Arthur’s undoubtedly were.
    All in all, she thought, the evening was going quite well, with only one adverse comment about her new looks. When Samantha had exclaimed over the green gown, Squire had commented to the admiral, in a necessarily carrying voice, “Well, I suppose it’s an improvement, but I wouldn’t let any daughter of mine go out in public without her stays.” Claibourne’s lips twitched, but he didn’t miss a word in his description of the road conditions to the vicar’s wife. Thank goodness no one mentioned the episode behind this whole celebration, not even Squire, who was still feeling guilty over his part in it, according to Sam. Bien .
    Dinner was finally over; the men had their port. Madame retired to her bedchamber to rest for the next day’s journey, and the vicar, Squire, and Admiral Hopkinton joined Jacelyn’s father for a round of whist while the vicar’s wife and Mrs. Bottwick discussed winter floral arrangements for the church and Samantha softly played the pianoforte.
    “Do you play?” he asked—the only he in the room, as far as Jacelyn was concerned. He sat beside her on the sofa.
    “About as well as I do watercolours,” she said, laughing.
    “Ah, that’s the first time in two weeks I’ve heard that sound. I thought you must have packed it away with your britches.”
    Jacelyn was fingering the silk of her gown. “Do you…do you like it, my lord?”
    “Fishing for compliments, are you, dewdrop? ‘Well, I suppose it’s an improvement,’” he teased, quoting Squire and looking where Squire hadn’t found any corset. He smiled at Jacelyn’s furious blush, then let his hand between them softly brush her thigh. “And here I was looking forward to strolling down Rotten Row with you in Lem’s castoffs. N’importe , you’ll make just as big a stir now, poppet. You look quite beautiful.”
    She laughed again. “Stuff! It’s only the dress! I just didn’t want your friends to think I was a shabrag. I didn’t need the whole butterboat poured on me!”
    He gave her a quizzical look. “Then you are the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t love flattery. How do you feel about diamonds?” he asked, taking a little box from his pocket. The ring he held out for her inspection was gold with a round diamond set in a circlet of tiny rubies.
    “It’s beautiful, Leigh, but—”
    “But what, rosebud?” he asked, trying to see which of her fingers it