Gallant Waif by Anne Gracie (the alpha prince and his bride full story free .txt) 📗

life, she felt elegant, and, though the Reverend Mr Farleigh’s daughter knew it to be an immodest thought, almost pretty. The new face and hairstyle were enhanced by the gown she was wearing—a soft shade of green that brought out the colour in her eyes and minimised the slight unfashionable golden tone of her skin, brought about by too much time outdoors.

Lady Cahill and Amelia had subjected Kate to a rigorous regime of crushed strawberries—to refine and clarify the skin—buttermilk baths—to soften it—and, for general toning and nourishing, slices of raw veal laid on her skin for hours at a time while Amelia read to her. In addition there were twice-daily applications of distilled pineapple water—for clarity and beauty and to erase wrinkles—egg and lemon face packs—to fade that dreadful tan and nourish the skin—and oatmeal masks—to brighten and refine the skin.

Kate laughed, complained they made her feel rather like the main ingredient in a strange and exotic stew, and admitted her complexion had improved under their ministrations. But it was still a terrible waste of good food.

And then there had been the shopping, a positively sinful orgy of it, in Kate’s eyes, but “the merest necessities’ as far as her female mentors were concerned. Kate tried to remain sensible and practical, but the fizzing excitement that rose in her at the sight of the exquisite, dashing outfits that Lady Cahill and Amelia had bullied her into purchasing was irresistible to a girl who had had very little opportunity to indulge in fashionable feminine frivolity.

Kate’s head had been spinning at the end of that first day, which had begun at the silk warehouses. Delicate and lovely fabrics were draped, compared, contrasted, swathed, discussed, discarded and selected, mostly without reference to Kate, who was far too easily pleased, according to her companions. Then it was off to see Amelia’s modiste, Madame Fanchot, who, well primed as to the state of mademoiselle’s finances, went into professional Gallic raptures about mademoiselle’s face, her figure, her air of je ne c’est quoi, then flew into genuine raptures when Kate responded to her in fluent French. Then there were hours spent poring over issues of La Belle Assemblee and Ackerman’s Repository, with dozens and dozens of plates, all of the most elegant outfits.

In the end Kate had spinelessly allowed Madame Fanchot, Amelia and Lady Cahill to decide everything and left to them the meticulous planning and endless discussion which went into every choice. For her part, Kate could not have cared less whether, for instance, the lemon muslin was cut to drape so, enhancing the lovely line of mademoiselle’s shoulders and neckline, or like so, to enhance her bustline, or like so, to give her height. Her only contribution to that discussion had been to suggest that perhaps the neckline was rather too low, a suggestion that was ignored by all three ladies as too nonsensical even to warrant a response.

So now Kate stared at her reflection, exposing more of her chest than she had ever done in her life. She became aware of her maid still holding out the artificial flowers, awaiting her response, and smiled apologetically.

“I think not, Dora. To be quite honest, I am terrified that it would fall out of my hair.” The maid bridled, assuring her that such a thing was quite impossible.

Kate interrupted the flow. “It is just that my head feels so strange and light since my new crop, and I cannot but feel that something is missing, so although I am sure you would place the flowers most securely you do understand how I feel, don’t you?”

Dora relented after a moment and said that of course she did, and miss looked very elegant and lovely and would be sure to be a success again tonight.

Kate wrinkled her nose. Yes, of course, “success’ was what was important. How could she have forgotten? She had tried not to let herself think of other things, or wonder what might be happening at Sevenoakes. That was one benefit of such hectic socialising—one didn’t have time to brood. Tonight, for example, she was going to a ball and it would be surprising if she had time to think of Jack even once.

Jack leant against an elegant column, arms folded, a black frown on his face, staring, glaring, unable to tear himself away. It had been Francis’s idea to come to this ball on the evening of their arrival in London and Jack had regretted it the moment he’d arrived and clapped eyes on Kate, utterly transformed from the shabby little starveling he had first met. She was dancing, her head thrown back, mischievously laughing up into the eyes of a fellow Jack had been to school with, and knew to be titled, rich and eligible.

“Blast it!” he exclaimed to Francis. “What the devil is she doing dancing with that fellow Fenchurch? And in such a dress!” Jack could hardly take his eyes off the creamy curves revealed by the fashionable low-cut neckline of Kate’s dress, and neither, he noticed, could Kate’s partner. Nor a number of other so-called gentlemen.

Francis glanced from his friend’s black frown to Kate’s laughing visage and back again. He controlled his twitching mouth and said innocently, “Nice chap, Fenchurch. Kate would do well to encourage his advances. Couldn’t do better, in fact.”

“Fellow’s a complete bounder!” snarled Jack.

“Good heavens, is he?” said Francis placidly. “How very shocking. News to me, I must say. Always thought he was a friend of yours, old man. A bounder? Well, well. I must say, I am surprised. Still, he’s a dashing-looking chap, and there is the title. I dare say that accounts for his popularity with the ladies.”

Jack grunted. There was nothing particularly dashing that he could see in the tall Viscount’s regular even features, thickly curling blond hair and tall, muscular physique. Fellow was addicted to sports, that was all. Damn it, what the deuce was he saying to make her blush like that? Jack found he was clenching his fists and