and
perhaps make her look slightly less insignificant than usual.
Whoever this unknown Elisa was, she certainly knew about clothes, and Abby hoped her boutique was the most enormous
success. She had obviously gone to endless trouble to assemble what amounted to a trousseau for Vasco's bride, and it
seemed little short of rank ingratitude to go on ignoring all the lovely clothes wilting unworn on their hangers.
She felt the glide of the fabric under her fingers as she touched it tentatively—and imagined how it would feel on her skin.
And she had very little time left; she had heard Vasco go into his dressing-room ages before. She took a nervous look at her
watch. She could hardly go to the party in her bathrobe.
She sighed, and gave the alternative dress a look of hostility it did not altogether deserve. Parties in London had been so
simple. The only ones she went to were those given by her aunt and uncle, and no one looked at her anyway. She could have
gone to most of them with her head in a bag, but this one was proving fraught with all kinds of difficulties.
The servants' attitude was hard to fathom, to begin with. Abby would have thought they would have been glad of an evening's
leisure, yet all day she had been subjected to reproachful glances and martyred sighs.
Abby bit her lip. She was going to have to learn some basic Portuguese somehow, even if Vasco was too busy with the harvest
to help her. She had tackled him about Ana and the others, but he had merely shrugged, and helped himself to a drink.
She undid her bathrobe and tossed it over the bed, then, fumbling a little, she unfastened the brief lacy bra, and discarded that
too. The green chiffon dress left one shoulder entirely bare, so the minimum of underclothes was called for.
'I'll despise myself in the morning,' she told herself, as she carefully lowered the shimmering folds over her newly washed and
gleaming hair. 'But tonight I'm going to look like Vasco's wife, not some poor relation!'
She applied some finishing touches to her make-up, then stood back and viewed herself critically.
She felt as if she was looking at a stranger. Abigail, everyone's handmaiden, had vanished completely. Tonight she looked like
the favourite concubine instead, the misty glitter of the chiffon paying tribute to her slender curves in ways she had never
dreamed possible. She had used eye-shadow, liner and blusher with a steady hand too.
I'm all eyes and cheekbones, she thought with satisfaction, disregarding the fact that no amount of gloss could do away with
the wistful curve which beset her mouth.
The dress had its own cape, so she flung it round her shoulders and picked up her bag. As she did so, there was a knock on the
door, and Vasco said, 'Are you ready? May I come in?'
Since that first day he had scrupulously avoided intruding on her, using the other door from the passage to gain access to his
own room.
Abby turned shyly to face him, as he entered, her heart skipping a beat as she registered once more the unnerving power of his
attraction. Tonight he looked magnificent in evening clothes, the white tuxedo complementing his broad shoulders.
She waited hopefully, breathlessly, for some comment from him about her appearance—even some reference to the fact that
she had had second thoughts about wearing the clothes of his providing, but all he said was, 'We should be leaving, Abigail.
The roads are poor, as you know, and it would be uncivil to Luisa to be late.'
They weren't travelling in the jeep tonight, to her relief, but in a car which had appeared, as if by magic, comfortably upholstered, and fully air-conditioned.
The journey to Laracoca was a lengthy one, and accomplished mainly in silence. Vasco drove steadily, his brooding
concentration apparently fixed on the vagaries of the road, braking occasionally to avoid some animal which was crossing their
path, and had become dazzled by their headlights.
It was foolish to indulge in
perhaps make her look slightly less insignificant than usual.
Whoever this unknown Elisa was, she certainly knew about clothes, and Abby hoped her boutique was the most enormous
success. She had obviously gone to endless trouble to assemble what amounted to a trousseau for Vasco's bride, and it
seemed little short of rank ingratitude to go on ignoring all the lovely clothes wilting unworn on their hangers.
She felt the glide of the fabric under her fingers as she touched it tentatively—and imagined how it would feel on her skin.
And she had very little time left; she had heard Vasco go into his dressing-room ages before. She took a nervous look at her
watch. She could hardly go to the party in her bathrobe.
She sighed, and gave the alternative dress a look of hostility it did not altogether deserve. Parties in London had been so
simple. The only ones she went to were those given by her aunt and uncle, and no one looked at her anyway. She could have
gone to most of them with her head in a bag, but this one was proving fraught with all kinds of difficulties.
The servants' attitude was hard to fathom, to begin with. Abby would have thought they would have been glad of an evening's
leisure, yet all day she had been subjected to reproachful glances and martyred sighs.
Abby bit her lip. She was going to have to learn some basic Portuguese somehow, even if Vasco was too busy with the harvest
to help her. She had tackled him about Ana and the others, but he had merely shrugged, and helped himself to a drink.
She undid her bathrobe and tossed it over the bed, then, fumbling a little, she unfastened the brief lacy bra, and discarded that
too. The green chiffon dress left one shoulder entirely bare, so the minimum of underclothes was called for.
'I'll despise myself in the morning,' she told herself, as she carefully lowered the shimmering folds over her newly washed and
gleaming hair. 'But tonight I'm going to look like Vasco's wife, not some poor relation!'
She applied some finishing touches to her make-up, then stood back and viewed herself critically.
She felt as if she was looking at a stranger. Abigail, everyone's handmaiden, had vanished completely. Tonight she looked like
the favourite concubine instead, the misty glitter of the chiffon paying tribute to her slender curves in ways she had never
dreamed possible. She had used eye-shadow, liner and blusher with a steady hand too.
I'm all eyes and cheekbones, she thought with satisfaction, disregarding the fact that no amount of gloss could do away with
the wistful curve which beset her mouth.
The dress had its own cape, so she flung it round her shoulders and picked up her bag. As she did so, there was a knock on the
door, and Vasco said, 'Are you ready? May I come in?'
Since that first day he had scrupulously avoided intruding on her, using the other door from the passage to gain access to his
own room.
Abby turned shyly to face him, as he entered, her heart skipping a beat as she registered once more the unnerving power of his
attraction. Tonight he looked magnificent in evening clothes, the white tuxedo complementing his broad shoulders.
She waited hopefully, breathlessly, for some comment from him about her appearance—even some reference to the fact that
she had had second thoughts about wearing the clothes of his providing, but all he said was, 'We should be leaving, Abigail.
The roads are poor, as you know, and it would be uncivil to Luisa to be late.'
They weren't travelling in the jeep tonight, to her relief, but in a car which had appeared, as if by magic, comfortably upholstered, and fully air-conditioned.
The journey to Laracoca was a lengthy one, and accomplished mainly in silence. Vasco drove steadily, his brooding
concentration apparently fixed on the vagaries of the road, braking occasionally to avoid some animal which was crossing their
path, and had become dazzled by their headlights.
It was foolish to indulge in
Similar Books
