in.” Artemisia smiled at Rania’s fulsome praise.
“Assuredly, my heart. Oah, I am ever so glad you have cast off your widow’s weeds.” Rania adjusted the veil, letting the bangled edges clink merrily through her fingers. “Red is a much better color for you—the color of rejoicing, the color for a bride.”
“I will not marry again,” Artemisia said with firmness. She and Rania had trod this road many times, but she’d never been able to convince the older woman that she was much better off without a husband. “I like belonging to myself.”
“So you say, Larla.” Rania tossed her a knowing look. “And yet if you should find the right man, I’m thinking you would be pleased to belong to him.”
“Only if the man was pleased to belong to me as well. Men do not give themselves up as easily as women.”
She’d have been pleased to belong to Thomas Doverspike for a time. Her belly still flipped when she thought of him. They’d been a hair’s breadth from becoming lovers. But now that she knew he was not to be trusted, she congratulated herself on her narrow escape. And yet, the heaviness in her chest damned her for a liar.
Strains of violins tuning up reached her ear. The supper hour was over, and the ball was about to begin. She’d begged out of the meal, but her mother insisted she appear as hostess for the main festivities. She picked up the hand-held mask, a bejeweled and plumed affair on a long wand with which she could shield her face should she feel the need.
“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’” she quoted sourly.
“Wipe that pained expression from your face, my dove. Rejoice in your youth and your beauty,” Rania admonished. “Assuredly, they will fade quickly enough.”
Here and now is all any man or woman can lay claim to.
When would she stop hearing Thomas in her head? When would she stop looking for him around every corner? She gave herself a small shake. She was stronger-minded than this. It was time she started behaving like it.
Constance Dalrymple’s grand fete was well underway by the time Artemisia made her way down the curving staircase to the ballroom. The decorators she’d chosen under the guise of Mr. Beddington had outdone themselves. The room was a swirl of color. Murals of the Taj Mahal, the onion-domes of St. Petersburg, Big Ben, the pyramids of Giza and a dozen other exotic sites graced the walls. Yards of silk festooned the columns at the entryways and the gas lamps burned brightly.
The guests themselves added to the riot of patterns and garish hues. Knights and ladies, sheiks and harem girls, Japanese warlords and geishas, a smattering of American Indians and one cowboy, all decked out in splendid excess. When the bon ton rose up to play, they did it with style and vigor.
“Artemisia, where have you been?” Her mother jostled through the press to join her. “The Queen is here already.”
“Where is she?”
“Over by the punchbowl as Elizabeth I. The Prince is Sir Walter Raleigh, and that fat fellow with them—“
“The one dressed as Henry VIII?”
“He’s the Russian ambassador, Vasiliy Kharitonov,” Constance said in a stage whisper.
“You don’t have to whisper. He knows he’s the Russian ambassador,” Artemisia said. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you, Mother, that the Russians should send an ambassador to the English court when everyone knows they have designs on British interests in Asia?”
Constance frowned at her. “What has that to do with anything? Our only concern is that our guests enjoy themselves. All our guests.” Her mother squinched her eyes and made a sour face. “Honestly, Artemisia, if you start talking politics you will embarrass the life out of me. I want you to go over there and charm the royals and I mean now.”
Artemisia wanted to ask why her mother didn’t go herself, but she already knew the answer. Only Artemisia had a title. Of course that didn’t keep Constance from ordering her
“Assuredly, my heart. Oah, I am ever so glad you have cast off your widow’s weeds.” Rania adjusted the veil, letting the bangled edges clink merrily through her fingers. “Red is a much better color for you—the color of rejoicing, the color for a bride.”
“I will not marry again,” Artemisia said with firmness. She and Rania had trod this road many times, but she’d never been able to convince the older woman that she was much better off without a husband. “I like belonging to myself.”
“So you say, Larla.” Rania tossed her a knowing look. “And yet if you should find the right man, I’m thinking you would be pleased to belong to him.”
“Only if the man was pleased to belong to me as well. Men do not give themselves up as easily as women.”
She’d have been pleased to belong to Thomas Doverspike for a time. Her belly still flipped when she thought of him. They’d been a hair’s breadth from becoming lovers. But now that she knew he was not to be trusted, she congratulated herself on her narrow escape. And yet, the heaviness in her chest damned her for a liar.
Strains of violins tuning up reached her ear. The supper hour was over, and the ball was about to begin. She’d begged out of the meal, but her mother insisted she appear as hostess for the main festivities. She picked up the hand-held mask, a bejeweled and plumed affair on a long wand with which she could shield her face should she feel the need.
“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’” she quoted sourly.
“Wipe that pained expression from your face, my dove. Rejoice in your youth and your beauty,” Rania admonished. “Assuredly, they will fade quickly enough.”
Here and now is all any man or woman can lay claim to.
When would she stop hearing Thomas in her head? When would she stop looking for him around every corner? She gave herself a small shake. She was stronger-minded than this. It was time she started behaving like it.
Constance Dalrymple’s grand fete was well underway by the time Artemisia made her way down the curving staircase to the ballroom. The decorators she’d chosen under the guise of Mr. Beddington had outdone themselves. The room was a swirl of color. Murals of the Taj Mahal, the onion-domes of St. Petersburg, Big Ben, the pyramids of Giza and a dozen other exotic sites graced the walls. Yards of silk festooned the columns at the entryways and the gas lamps burned brightly.
The guests themselves added to the riot of patterns and garish hues. Knights and ladies, sheiks and harem girls, Japanese warlords and geishas, a smattering of American Indians and one cowboy, all decked out in splendid excess. When the bon ton rose up to play, they did it with style and vigor.
“Artemisia, where have you been?” Her mother jostled through the press to join her. “The Queen is here already.”
“Where is she?”
“Over by the punchbowl as Elizabeth I. The Prince is Sir Walter Raleigh, and that fat fellow with them—“
“The one dressed as Henry VIII?”
“He’s the Russian ambassador, Vasiliy Kharitonov,” Constance said in a stage whisper.
“You don’t have to whisper. He knows he’s the Russian ambassador,” Artemisia said. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you, Mother, that the Russians should send an ambassador to the English court when everyone knows they have designs on British interests in Asia?”
Constance frowned at her. “What has that to do with anything? Our only concern is that our guests enjoy themselves. All our guests.” Her mother squinched her eyes and made a sour face. “Honestly, Artemisia, if you start talking politics you will embarrass the life out of me. I want you to go over there and charm the royals and I mean now.”
Artemisia wanted to ask why her mother didn’t go herself, but she already knew the answer. Only Artemisia had a title. Of course that didn’t keep Constance from ordering her
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