The Wayward Debutante. Sarah Barnwell Elliott
and dressed up in someone else’s clothes, she knew that everything could go wrong, and probably would. But she was already committed and she was excited, too. She had been well behaved her entire life, and it was about time she experienced a bit of rebellion.
She pulled her cloak around her shoulders, stuffed the wig up one of its voluminous sleeves and headed downstairs. At the bottom of the main staircase the ancient Mr. Cummings dozed fitfully. He jerked awake as she passed him.
“Good evening, Cummings.”
“Good evening, Miss Sinclair,” he responded in his reedy voice. Reluctantly, he began to rise.
“Please, don’t get up,” she chided. “I saw the Pilkingtons’ carriage approaching from my window and am perfectly capable of opening and closing the front door myself.”
“But, miss…” Despite his protests, he had already resumed his seat and showed no sign of rising again.
Eleanor was hard-pressed not to smile. “I insist, Cummings.”
“Very well, miss,” he said, nodding with gratitude, his eyelids already beginning to droop.
Eleanor walked briskly to the door before he could change his mind. Her plan would never have worked if not for Cummings. A younger butler would have insisted on accompanying her to the carriage.
And in this case, there was no carriage. This part of the plan worried her most. She would have to hire a hack. The very idea was scandalous, and she wasn’t even sure how one went about it. She glanced up and down the empty street to see if anyone was watching, pulled her hood over her head and descended the short flight of steps. She hoped she didn’t look too odd. A cloak was one thing, even a lightweight one like hers, but a hood was something else entirely. It was summer, after all.
She tried to look confident as she began to walk, hoping she wouldn’t have to go far. Luckily, the well-lined pockets of the average Belgravia resident meant that hacks wandered down even the less-traveled streets fairly frequently.
That was what she was counting on, anyway, and after a few minutes she spotted one slowly approaching, its driver scanning the street for customers. Holding her breath, she raised her arm and prayed he would stop. Miraculously, he did, and with only a slight tremor in her voice she told him her destination. He didn’t bat an eye.
He didn’t help her into the coach, either. That was a first, but she supposed she’d better get used to it. No proper young lady would dream of riding alone in a hired hack, and the fact that she’d requested one of London’s playhouses as her destination…as far as he was concerned, she wasn’t proper at all.
The hack jerked into motion and Eleanor eased back into the leather seat, feeling more relaxed. She’d just sailed over the first—and biggest—hurdle, and the rest of the evening should be trouble-free. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever feeling as independent as she did at that moment, watching the stately homes of Belgravia gradually give way to the bustle of central London.
She took the wig from her sleeve and pulled it onto her head, carefully tucking away her chestnut hair. Then she removed a small hand mirror from her reticule and examined her reflection. The face that looked back wasn’t any more interesting than it had been before, but she couldn’t help smiling. It was rather nice being a little bit bad…at least as long as luck was running in her favor.
Chapter Two
The play was supposed to begin at seven, and when the curtains hadn’t parted by half past Eleanor started to get very nervous. Lady Montagu-Dawson’s ball would last until the early hours of the morning, but Beatrice and Charles wouldn’t stay beyond midnight and might leave much earlier. If they returned home before she did…oh, it didn’t bear thinking. She couldn’t let that happen and, much as she’d dislike it, she’d have to leave the theater prematurely if the play didn’t start soon.
It didn’t help her nerves one bit that the surly driver was supposed to be waiting for her; although she’d paid him extra to do so, she didn’t have much faith in his patience or his honor. If he didn’t keep his word, she’d have to go through the ordeal of finding a hack once more.
To keep her mind occupied, she let her gaze wander over the audience around her—as best she could, anyway, without turning her head too much and attracting unwanted attention. She was aware that a few inquisitive looks had already been aimed in her direction, since even if she were a member of the lower classes, it still wouldn’t be proper for her to be there alone. She sank down in her seat, hoping to make herself less noticeable. She’d deliberately seated herself on the extreme right side of the theater where the crowd was sparse. Her view was impaired, but in the interest of avoiding eye contact and conversation it was worth it.
Theatergoing was primarily a social experience, and most people there were too involved in their own conversations to worry about her. She was becoming worried, however, about a rowdy group of young men seated in the center of the audience. Their cultured accents betrayed them as society gentlemen, and she paled at the possibility that one or two might recognize her. They were obviously drunk, and certainly beyond caring whether they made a spectacle of themselves or anyone else. A pretty orange seller made the mistake of getting too close and was pulled onto one man’s lap. She laughed good-naturedly, but Eleanor could see that she was scared and only playing along.
Lucky for the girl, the curtains parted at that moment and she was able to escape. A hush spread over the audience as the first actor walked onto the stage. The quiet didn’t last very long, but Eleanor was able to block out everything but the play. For the first time in months she was doing exactly as she pleased, and she felt gloriously liberated.
This lasted almost an hour.
At first the woman’s laughter, coming from just a few rows behind her, was like the buzz of a fly: annoying, but perfectly ignorable. But then she kept giggling, as if she had little more than a dried pea rattling around in her head. It wasn’t even a proper laugh. It was a simpering, grating titter.
Eleanor gritted her teeth. She couldn’t turn around and tell her to be quiet. Chances were the woman would respond with a few rotten cabbages that she’d brought along just in case.
A sharp squeal burst from the woman, followed by another round of giggles.
This was more than Eleanor could bear. Pulling herself up straight, she turned around with as much hauteur as she could muster. She wasn’t going to say anything, but she would make her displeasure known with a pointed, dignified look. Then she would turn back around and enjoy the rest of the play in peace.
Only it didn’t work that way. She forgot about the pointed look completely, and she even forgot to turn back around. She forgot the reason she’d turned around in the first place.
The irritating woman was there, and her gaudy dress, cut low to reveal her generous attributes, was to be expected. But beyond that Eleanor noticed nothing about her. She noticed instead the man seated next to her, and she continued to notice him even as it slowly dawned on her that she was staring. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen and she simply couldn’t help herself.
His head was bent to whisper something in the woman’s ear—she might have responded with another giggle but Eleanor was temporarily rendered deaf. His brown hair, so dark it was almost black, was fashionably cut but just a bit too long. Long enough to brush against his temples and make Eleanor’s fingers itch to do the same. Nearly everything about his features proclaimed a high birth—his faultless nose and high, chiseled cheekbones, his straight, dark brows—but his full mouth intimated nothing but sensuality. And the way his perfectly tailored blue jacket caressed his broad shoulders…
Caressed? Eleanor cringed at the choice of word, but good heavens, it was true. Something about him made her think in terms of…well, touching. How very odd. Something about him made her rather flushed, as well. She wondered if he’d be hot to the touch, if his skin would feel soft, or his hands, perhaps, lightly callused. He was again whispering something into the woman’s ear, and his lips were so close that they must