Page 31 of The Lady's Guide to Well-Endowed Dukes
She leaned in to her reflection. Her kohl was perfect but a touch more vermillion wouldn’t go amiss. She tugged off a gloveand then, from her evening bag, extracted the little pot. Using her finger, she applied a smudge to her lips. The remainder she dabbed at the apple of her cheeks, blending to achieve a natural effect. Her history might be more checkered than that of most of the courtesans living in a five-mile radius of the opera house, but she hardly wished her maquillage to mark her out as such.
All things considered, she was in reasonably good looks, for she hadn’t been sleeping well. She surveyed her figure from the side. Though she wasn’t allowing Antoinette to lace her corsets quite as tightly these days, the dress—her red velvet, as she’d worn on the first night she and Lord Rockley had met upon the ship—still fitted. That would not be true for much longer.
Across the room, the door opened and someone hurried through but, instead of taking herself to the privacy of the cubicles, headed for the mirrors. She twisted about, attempting—rather ham-fistedly—to secure a partially wayward coiffure.
“Please, allow me,” Estela offered.
“That’s very kind.” The other woman accepted gratefully. “I’ve spare pins in my bag.”
She looked admiringly at Estela’s costume. “What a beautiful fabric. I must say, it’s the one thing I’m looking forward to about being married—wearing more of the darker shades.” The young woman pinked somewhat. “Oh dear, that came out wrongly. My fiancé wouldn’t be very flattered.”
Estela smiled. “I’m sure he finds you very lovely, whatever color you’re wearing.”
With her pale complexion, the peach organdy was not the wisest choice, and the bodice was over-fussy, with an effusion of lace ruffles, bows and ribbon work where some simple embroidery would have done better. Nevertheless, the young woman would turn heads. Her hair, almost white in its blondeness, was remarkable.
“There you are, being kind again.” The woman frowned. “I don’t deserve it, I’m afraid—or him, I should say. He’s been very considerate, and I know I should be gratified, but I just can’t bring myself to… That is, I’m sure he’s everything a man should be, and, sometimes, I think I might be able to feel properly fondly, as one should, but then I worry that I can’t, and never shall. I’ve a dear friend, Ingrid, who’s already been married, and didn’t enjoy it at all. She tells me it’s hopeless, and I should find a way out, but it would cause such disappointment.”
She gave a heartfelt sigh. “It’s not that he’s awful in any way. It’s just that, when I think of how easy it is to be with Ingrid, compared to… ” She stopped abruptly, this time blushing more prominently. “I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I’m rattling on.”
Smoothing her handiwork, Estela stepped back. “Understanding and companionship, with someone who wishes only the best for us, are worth a great deal. Don’t be blinkered by preconceived notions of how happiness should look.”
The woman looked contemplative. “I think I already know where my future lies. The trick is simply not to be afraid of stepping towards it.”
“Quite right.” Estela swallowed back the small lump that had formed in her throat.
As the young woman hurried away again, Estela rested her hand low upon her belly.
There was only one man she wanted by her side, but his future was mapped out elsewhere, and she wouldn’t be the one to disrupt that.
A baby had not been on her agenda—had not been something she’d even thought possible—yet here she was. An extended trip abroad would be necessary. At first, she’d thought she might locate an adoptive home for the poor thing, but she knew she’d never find it in her heart to part with this child. She’d return to the villa on Lake Como, and conjure an Italian widow as acompanion—one who was soon to bear her late husband’s child. A few letters to family and friends mentioning the imaginary woman’s tragic passing during her delivery would allow Estela to proclaim herself the poor orphan’s guardian, and no one would be the wiser.
She would always have this part of Rockley to love. One day, perhaps, she’d be able to read of him in the Society papers—of his wedding, and his children born within the sanctity of his marriage vows—and she’d feel glad to have done what was right.
The opera was not where she ought to be.
Her brother’s invitation still stood. On the morrow, she’d put herself on a train and be in Hampshire by the early afternoon. She owed it to her family to see them before she departed and owed the same to Oona and Margaret. Four nights at Yardmore Court would be sufficient, then she could return to London to catch the Scotch Express, to spend Hogmanay with her godmothers. She’d send a telegram ahead, letting them know. It would go some way towards making up for her abandoning them during the cruise back to Southampton. Though she’d left a note, and had corresponded since, she knew it had caused them distress, and amends were due.
At this rate, she thought wryly, she’d hardly recognize herself. For the first time in quite a while, she felt a sense of hope.
Having climbedthe red carpeted stairs, Rockley took the passageway to where his box was located: the family box used by generations of Rockleys—although the exact position had changed over the years, with the various rebuildings of the opera house.
He’d missed most of the first act of the gala performance; not that it caused him much sorrow. There were to be arias from the most popular operas—all of which he was familiar with, and would no doubt see again. Slipping inside, he nodded to the Maitlands—who looked understandably nonplussed at his tardiness—and took his seat beside Marjorie.
She turned her head briefly, looking less reproachful than he deserved, before casting her eyes back to the soprano center stage. It was unforgivable really, to be absent when he was their host, but there would soon be other reasons for them to find him unconscionable.
The buxom diva was warbling her way to a grand crescendo, her voice carrying powerfully to the far reaches of the theatre. Rockley let his gaze wander. He glanced first to the royal box, in time to meet King Edward’s eye. Despite having failed in his recent mission, the king gave him a civil nod. It was pure luck that things had turned out as well as they had.
Discovering Estela gone, and then the letters with her, had been more crushing than he cared to own. By the time he’d admitted to himself that the acquisition of the correspondence must have been her intent all along, the opportunity to disembark at Marseille had passed.
From there the ship headed south, to navigate the Strait of Gibraltar, and there was no sense attempting a quicker route by land. He’d been forced to grit his teeth for the remaining days until he reached British shores once more, and could take positive action.
It hadn’t taken long to track down the address where he might accost her but, before he’d had the chance, the palace had summoned him. There, one of the royal equerries explained that the letters had found their way back into the correct hands; the matter was concluded.
A furious day and night followed, in which Rockley had made it his business to discover why, exactly, Estela had become involved. The answer was laughingly simple, once he’d identified her relationship with that chit, Mathilde. It was not what he’d been expecting but then, nothing ever was, where Estela Bongorge was concerned: stubborn, fiery, ferocious when angered, yet capable of the greatest tenderness, and the greatest passion.
Loyal, too, apparently—at least towards those she trusted.
Clearly, she’d been unaware of who he was working for, and that stealing the letters for herself was entirely unnecessary. He guessed it was Mathilde who’d made the appeal to Estela, all the while in ignorance of the greater forces working on her behalf.
