An Improper Lady (The Powder and Patch Collection) by Jane Godman Page A

himself with his own daring, Polyphant took a deep breath. “I hear that Lady Cavendish has, this very week, returned from Paris, and that she will be in attendance at her ladyship’s ball.” He cast a nervous glance at his employer, attempting to gauge his reaction.
    Sir Peregrine did not immediately respond. Gathering up his tricorn hat and cane, he gave his reflection a last critical survey. Evidently satisfied with what he saw, he turned away.
    “ The lilac satin with the silver lace will suffice for Lady Anstruther’s crush,” he paused with his gloved hand on the door handle. “And may God rot your meddling soul, Polyphant!”
    A slight smile in his eyes took the sting out of the curse.
     
    ***
     
    Lady Isabella Cavendish turned her head to regard the man who lay next to her. He was sprawled diagonally across the bed, his face half hidden by a pillow. Even so, it was obvious that he was young, and quite devastatingly handsome. She wished she knew his name. There was, she decided with a self-deprecating twitch of her well-defined lips, a certain ungainliness attached to asking it after a night of such earth shattering passion as they had just enjoyed!
    With practised care, she slid from the four-poster bed and reached for the frothy lace wrapper that lay draped over a chair. It was early, and as yet, there was no sound of her servants commencing their daily activity.
    Her clothes, and those of her anonymous companion, lay strewn about the elegant boudoir, and Bella busied herself by picking them up and folding them neatly. As she did so, memories of the previous night flashed through her mind. Her discarded silk stockings brought back an image of him kneeling beside her to remove them, before kissing his way along her instep and - looking up at her with a wicked grin - up one slender leg. The torn lace at the neck of her gown was a legacy of the moment he had pushed her hard up against the wall, forcing her head up with a hand under her chin, plundering her lips while tugging impatiently at her bodice. Her corset lay across the room, thrown there when he had unlaced it with impatient fingers, while she, with her back to him, held onto the bedpost. She had turned to look over her shoulder with a roguish look, and then… oh! She shivered deliciously.
    Taking a seat at a pretty little armoire in the corner of the room, she drew paper and quill towards her. She had letters of thanks to write to her Parisian friends, and several items from her man of business required her attention. Her lifestyle was not an easy one to maintain. But the trappings of wealth had not always been hers, and Bella was careful never to take her good fortune for granted.
    Isabella Braithwaite, the oldest child of an impoverished Yorkshire merchant, was just seventeen years old when she arrived in London. Her parents had recognised, at a very early age, the marriageable potential of their stunningly beautiful daughter. With the future in mind, they scraped together sufficient funds to have her educated at a strict ladies’ seminary in Harrogate.
    The day she left the cold, unwelcoming school corridors behind her was also the day her father informed her he had arranged her marriage. The well-to-do gentleman in question was somewhat older than her parents. All Bella knew of him was that he wore the same gravy-stained waistcoat every day, and, when he came for dinner, he invariably fell asleep before the second course was served.
    Without pausing to unpack her bags, she left her father’s study, grabbed up her cloak and set off on foot in what she hoped was a London-bound direction. Night was beginning to fall when she encountered the highwayman.
    Flintlock Jim Carver not only provided Bella with an introduction to the delights of lovemaking, he also had the distinction of being the only man she had ever loved. For three short, wonderful months they travelled the country, making their way from inn to inn, living off the spoils of his night