Page 4 of Enslaved
“Of course not,” Diana replied, deciding on the spot that’s exactly what she would do.
Diana chose the most outrageous hat she owned to compensate for the respectable brown walking dress with morocco half-boots to match. The hat sported a full rooster-tail from some hapless leghorn who had met with misfortune.
Bridget, the maid who accompanied her, asked, “Aren’t we going the wrong way, Lady Diana?”
“Yes, Biddy, we are. We are going the long way about so we can walk along St. James’s Street.”
Bridget McCartney had a face crowded with freckles and a turned-up nose. Prudence would have dismissed the Irish maid long ago if Diana hadn’t put her foot down. Biddy’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ooh, I’m game if you are.”
Diana’s lips twitched. “If that remark is prompted by my hat, I assure you I won’t start crowing.”
When Biddy giggled, Diana thought how lovely it was to have someone share her sense of humor.
Coming out of Brooks’s Club at number 60 were two men who looked over the females with an appreciative eye. An occasional whore got up enough cheek to walk along St. James’s, but a lady with her maid was scandalous. One drawled, “There goes a prime article.”
“And a cunning little baggage with her,” the other observed.
With lashes lowered, Diana crossed the street. This was not to avoid the men, but to get a closer look at Boodle’s and White’s on the opposite side.
The Macaronis lounging about outside the clubs raised their quizzing glasses and tossed about witticisms. One bold fellow in black and white striped pantaloons stepped forward. “If you are looking for acher ami,permit me to offer my services.”
Diana’s cool glance swept him from head to foot. Then she said to Biddy, “We’ve inadvertently wandered into the zoo.”
The zebra’s companions guffawed at the cake he’d made of himself. Diana was in high good humor. She’d worn the cock’s feathers for attention and understood that the fop outside White’s wore the zebra stripes for exactly the same reason.
Peter Hardwick ran up the steps of 21 Grosvenor Square, presented his calling card, and was ushered into the library by the majordomo.
Richard Davenport had been expecting him and so lost no time joining him, offering the customary wine and wafers.
Prudence, stationed behind the lace curtains of the drawing room, caught a glimpse of the young man and was favorably impressed. The moment Richard had uttered the nameHardwick,she had apprised him of Peter’s lineage, the title to which he was heir, and the location of the ancestral home. Prudence smiled with satisfaction. The young buck cut a fine figure, one that even Diana wouldn’t be immune to.
Prudence made sure Diana was absent each afternoon, hoping Peter Hardwick would show up. Now that he had, Richard would strike the secret bargain behind the closed door of the library, and only then would he present the quarry to Prudence. She waited with great expectations.
Diana told Biddy to go and enjoy herself Monday afternoon while she went for her dancing lesson. “There is no point in both of us being miserable. Meet me at the corner of Grosvenor and Brook Streets at five o’clock.”
As Diana made her way toward Shepherd’s Market, where Dame Lightfoot had her studio, she spied her Junoesque figure approaching from the opposite end of the street.
“Good afternoon, Lady Davenport, I heartily approve of promptness.”
“Good afternoon, Dame Lightfoot,” replied Diana, thinking it was a damned good thing she hadn’t been early.
The dame led the way into a large studio with mirrored walls. She removed her hat, patted the iron-gray wig into place, then announced, “Make yourself at ease, I shall be with you in a trice.”
Diana looked about with delight. Her image was reflected back to her from every side. The room had been designed so that a woman could watch herself dance. How enchanting! Diana removed her hat, then on impulse she removed her powdered wig and shook out her golden curls. She knew her hair was pretty, and she hated hiding it beneath a wig. Suddenty she felt like dancing. Light streamed in through the windows so that tiny rainbows were reflected from the mirrored walls. It made the room warm and welcoming and for a moment Diana felt bathed in magic.
She removed her shoes, tossed them after her hat, and began to twirl about. Her skirts flared out to reveal her legs, her hair cascading about her shoulders in wild disarray.
Dame Lightfoot, about to reenter the studio, paused rigid on the threshold. She stared at Diana for a full minute, then lowered her corseted form to the piano stool and began to play.
Diana did not so much hear the music as feel it. She swirled about madly, matching her movements to the tempo of the music, which went ever faster. She could feel the rhythm in her blood as she gyrated sensually, enjoying it deeply, until she could feel the heartbeats in her throat and the soles of her feet. With a crescendo she fell to her knees and allowed her glorious hair to sweep the floor. Then she opened her eyes and laughed up into the face of the dragon.
The dragon said slowly, “You are a free spirit who has been caged up too long. Your body has a fluidity I haven’t seen in years.”
Breathlessly, Diana said, “If I weren’t wearing this restrictive corset, I could really dance!”
Dame Lightfoot was silent for another minute, then she said, “Why don’t we both remove our corsets? Mine is killing me! You can use that dressing room over there.”
A surprised Diana was not loath to do the dame’s bidding. Inside the dressing room, Diana’s eyes widened. Dozens of costumes were hanging on racks. Every color and material the mind could conjure was there, some sequined, some feathered. Diana reached out a hand to caress the irresistible creations, thinking they were dance attire or stage costumes for some theatre. Perhaps Dame Lightfoot was not the old martinet she had thought.
