Chapter 30
One well-dealt blow settles the whole matter.
~ The Habits of Good Society: A Handbook for Ladies and Gentlemen (The Last London Editor; 1860)
“Good God, do you not have a shawl?”
Vicky scowled at Étienne darkly and deliberately hugged her arms over her very exposed bosom. It was not her fault that the modiste that had designed and tailored the garment had taken her measurements incorrectly. The man was simply odious pointing out the plunging, tight V of her neckline. “No,” she told him pertly.
“Étienne,” Adrienne Girard reprimanded her son cantankerously, “you are much to forward. Miss Colton could not help that the dress she had ordered specifically for this occasion would be a size too small.”
God, that was an understatement. For the most part, the dress fit adequately. It was unfortunate that it did not around her breasts. It was designed in a way that would be regarded risqué for even without the minuteness of the bodice the deep neckline left much bare skin exposed. Though Vicky was not overly endowed with womanly assets, she was bestowed with ample enough cleavage to be showy should she deem it so. The ensemble was crafted from aesthetic yellow mull, embroidered intricately and intermittently with silver tinselling that thickened extensively at the hem. The sleeves were gathered and pinched somewhat off the shoulder, pronouncing the curve and leaving most of the arm unadorned and some of the back. The waist was unusually high, the bodice coming to an abrupt end just under her breasts, cinched and sewn with a silver cord that was knotted slightly to one side and left to hang, embellished with little tassels. But it was the bodice that was most astounding and eye-catching, what with the deep V that angled down directly between the bosom and sewn exactly to where the cord joined the waist. So it was significant that the gown be made to the exact size of the person donning it and not a few sizes smaller.
Étienne smiled grimly. “How unlucky for Miss Colton then that the overwhelming demographic present at Arceneau’s party is male,” he said drolly. His words struck home with a clarity that only a quick surveillance of those present in the grand assembly hall could verify. Indeed, there appeared to be a disproportionate number of gentlemen bustling about in disjointed groups whereas there was merely one lonely bevy of girls huddling abashedly to one corner where the refreshments were spread out on a glistening table. Long arched baroque windows stretched towards the ceilings along the length of the hall, heavily draped with gold and cream curtaining, pulled back to reveal a starry sky and several small terraces romantically and atmospherically lit with lamps.
Given the disparate amount of men to women and the widely believed rumours that Arceneau’s self-declared bachelordom was merely a front for something altogether unmentionable, Vicky came to the conclusion that the majority of men present at the ball were for their host’s benefit and not for the entertainment of the ladies. Any aspirations to find a match here tonight for any lady were quickly set aside only moments after entering the hall, not that something like that was an issue for Victoria. Indeed, it would seem she had one more proposal than she would care to handle.
“I don’t see how that is unlucky,” Adrienne remarked, frowning at the room at large. Nobody was dancing despite the snippets of music being played as encouragement. “Where the devil is Arceneau? Strange that the host is missing from his own party.”
“Yes,” Étienne drawled, casting Vicky a shameless wink as he finished with, “missing.”
The implication was blazingly apparent from his caustic tone and she had to cup a hand over her lips to keep from smiling. Prior to the event, Étienne had blatantly divulged all the sordid scandals the Lord Arceneau had been a part of including a licentiousness affair with his valet and twice removed cousin, Pierre Dupont, before proceeding to regale her with an in-depth narrative regarding why Arceneau had inexplicably scampered onto one of the terraces with a leer on his face that could have shamed a prostitute. Although amused, Vicky was also pleased that Étienne could still treat her as a friend after her rejection of his proposal a few days ago and revealing all the gossipy titbits was reminiscent of their relationship before he had proposed.
“Victoria, why are you smiling?” Adrienne demanded. “Has Étienne done something I should know of?”
“Other than declare my love?” The man was terribly melodramatic.
Adrienne, however, would have none of it. She gave her son a stern look and a stream of profane French cuss words flew from her lips with such eloquence and speed, Vicky could not discern half of them.
“Mother!” Étienne gasped with feigned shock. “There are ladies present.”
Giving him a dirty look, Adrienne trumped off to a group of acquaintances beside the huddling group at the refreshment table.
“You’re terrible,” Vicky chided, grinning.
His answering smile was introspective but he said nothing further on Arceneau’s preferred sexual orientation, effortlessly pulling her arm through his and beginning to guide her towards the carafe’s of lemonade. They passed several factions of gentleman and Vicky was sure she heard the name Sinclair juggled in a few passing conversations. Although it wouldn’t be exceedingly odd to hear his name at an event where she featured, but the sensation had resided significantly since her first days in Paris and the number of times she thought she heard it uttered here tonight increased as they grew closer. One such clustering of fops pronounced it with such lucidity Vicky shuddered to a halt and turned her head towards them.
“Victoria?” Étienne gave her a curious look but her focus was riveted on the other conversation, oblivious to the man gently coaxing her forward.
“- Arceneau is greeting him now!” one of the men said in French. “He has been swooning at the mention of his name all evening!”
Whose name? Vicky wanted to ask, but just as the thought crossed her mind, the gentleman she had been eavesdropping on turned to stare at something beyond her shoulder with wide, amused eyes.
Following his gaze, her breath caught.
If Victoria had forgotten just how much a heart could pine, she was sorely reminded of that significance now.
“We should leave,” Étienne said tautly from beside her and she felt the antagonism stiffen him as he, too, turned to see what was causing the waves of ruckus through the crowd.
There was nothing, nothing that could drag Vicky from where she was rooted to the spot.
Gabriel was here, in Paris, and her mind worked furiously with the odds. As if magnetised, her eyes were drawn to him and only him, the image an achingly poignant reminder about just how much she loved him. He was coming down the grand staircase on the other side of the hall, Arceneau to one side, with the ambling suavity she remembered so well. A dry grin cocked his lips, endearingly embedding those dimples in his cheeks, as he listened with patient amusement to what Arceneau was saying. His evening attire was black and faultless, broken only by the crisp whiteness of his shirt and cravat, and his tailored coat only seemed to assert the broadness of his shoulders. His breeches, a rarity as Gabriel’s preference swayed towards the fashion of trousers, were dark in hue, complimented by the blackness of his boots that were turned down at the knee. God, he was so handsome, so utterly devastating, that she thought her heart might stop beating altogether. Tenderly, she absorbed the beloved contours of his face, the rugged break of his nose and the wide, devilish tilt of his lips, the strength of his granite, clean-shaven jaw, and finally the tousled mop of dark brown hair curling at the nape of his neck and his temples.
Oh, it was fascinating the unfurling of such potent, ravishing desire and love she felt for him despite nearly a month and a half of separation, of pain and turmoil that she thought she’d surely perish of, and now he was here, and the possibility that it was mere coincidence did not wash in the slightest.
There could be only one reason why he was in Paris.
At precisely the same ball that she was attending on the very same night.
And that reason slowly curled her lips into a giddy smile and made her heart do excited little flips of hysteria, making her feel quite mad and delirious and absurdly happy.
“Victoria,” Étienne’s voice broke through to her consciousness at last and she turned to him, unaware that the euphoria on her face was so decidedly eloquent that it caused him to wince and the rigidity slumped out of him. He sighed resignedly then and gave her arm a squeeze of reassurance. “You are sure you wish to go through this?”
For a moment, she was befuddled, but then she vaguely recalled his words previously about insisting that she leave. “I’m sorry,” she told him earnestly. Realising that her next actions were likely to crush the hopes of her dear friend, a coil of worry immersed itself in her bosom and the smile crumpled from her face. “You must think me mad.”
“Yes.”
“Étienne, don’t be like that.”
“He has hurt you,” he said succinctly. “I cannot abide by it. I will not leave your side until I can be assured of his honourable intentions.”
Oh, God. “I really don’t think that is necessary,” Vicky hurried to reassure him. “There could be only one reason why Gabriel is here-”
“Maybe marriage is not one of them,” he interrupted savagely. “You are too hasty to assume the best.”
Well, that was just perfect, she thought tetchily. In a few moments she would be accosted by not one, but two insanely and irrationally jealous men, for how else would Gabriel react should he see her on the arm of a handsome Frenchman with a streak of profound possessiveness? There was little doubt in her mind that Gabriel had finally come to his senses and decided to follow her across the English Channel to claim her as his own.
“Étienne, please,” Vicky implored, “don’t do anything rash.”
The man made an inarticulate sound of vehemence, his glare directed towards the man who had just reached the bottom of the stairs.
By now, the gathering had become intensely cognisant of just who had entered their midst and was alternating excited glances and hushed murmurings between where Gabriel was at the other end of the room and where she stood beside Étienne.
Anticipation, pure and vivid, jolted her heart into a full-fledged tattoo, hammering against her chest and sending tingling spirals through her limbs. A month and a half she had waited, dreamed, aspired and yearned for him and now, finally, he was here. Tactlessly, subtlety had never been one of her stronger points and she unconsciously began moving towards him only to be viciously yanked back by Étienne. She gave the man a glare over her shoulder.
“Let him,” he ground out, his lips barely moving, “come to you.”
“Honestly, Étienne,” she muttered testily, “I am not inclined to play these little games.”
It earned her a stern glance but he said nothing more and simply waited while the masses thrummed with the expectancy of the confrontation. Engulfed by the crowd, Vicky could no longer see Gabriel over the tops of the heads present and she inevitably found herself standing on her tiptoes, craning her neck to get a better look. Étienne made an unwelcome and disparaging sound of impatience from beside her.
But then, suddenly, the assemblage parted as if Moses himself were there with his wooden staff struck into the sand of the Red Sea, and he was coming towards her, Lord Arceneau chattering insensibly into his left ear, but his resplendent green eyes were intent on her person, raking her form from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes, and when his eyes jarred to a halt on her bulging breasts, his expression turned positively ravenous.
Her body gave an inexplicable tremor of liquid heat, her heart tripping. Yes, he was here for her. Of that, she could be certain.
Arceneau was still yattering incessantly when Gabriel stopped before her, that languorous grin sending fiery need coursing through her veins. She felt Étienne step closer to her and Gabriel’s smile faded when his eyes flickered to the other man. Ignoring Arceneau, he bent over her gloved hand, his fingers lingering over her a moment longer than necessary. “Miss Colton,” Gabriel murmured. “It’s been too long.”
Oh, God, his voice. If she were alone, she would have rolled her eyes back and basked in the pleasure of the husky baritone washing over her. “Gab-” she caught herself, not sure whether the moment called for such informality between them, and managed to squeak instead, “Lord Sinclair.”
A flutter of amusement touched his eyes but otherwise his expression did not waver as he turned to Étienne. “If the rumours are anything to go by,” he drawled, “you must be Mr Girard.”
“I am well aware of who you are,” Étienne returned in French. Vicky turned to him in shock for Gabriel had addressed him in English and the other man was deliberately provoking him by being outright and obnoxiously rude.
It worked. Gabriel’s brow darkened. “I believe,” he enunciated articulately, his French flawless unlike hers, “that we may be getting off on the wrong foot.”
A blood-thirsty crowd there never was more than at Arceneau’s party and they all seemed to sense that trouble was afoot, drawing closer to the trio that quickly became the centre of attention.
Just like normal, Vicky thought dryly.
“I know exactly which foot I am on, Sinclair.”
The tension between the two gentlemen sizzled and thickened the air. Gabriel’s scowl turned positively lethal and Vicky knew that he was fighting valiantly against the urge to plunge his fist into Étienne’s face. If she wanted matters to remain civil between them, she would have to divert their attention to a safer ground.
“Oh, I love this song,” she twittered shrilly to the company at large. “Who would like to dance with me?”
“I’d like to dance,” Arceneau said dryly with a saucy leer in Gabriel’s direction. For goodness sake, she was not fighting off a wave of jealousy for another man, was she?
However, neither Étienne nor Gabriel complied with her blatant hint and she could have stamped her foot with frustration. “I am decidedly parched,” she hollered suggestively, hoping one of them would venture in search of an ice for her benefit.
When no such gesture was forthcoming, she coughed meaningfully.
“For God’s sake,” Étienne growled softly out the corner of his mouth, “go and get yourself some lemonade then.”
How rude.
Obviously, they were not inclined to listen to reason for the time being so Vicky did the only other thing she could think of given such a short space of time in an area of rising tension and concern. “Why don’t we then, gentlemen,” she said to both Gabriel and Étienne, “discuss matters privately outside?”
“Shall we, Sinclair?” Étienne intoned mockingly, inclining his head towards one of the terrace windows.
With a sharp tilt of his chin, Gabriel followed Étienne through the throng and Vicky came along in their wake, Arceneau trotting beside her with an eager expression on his face, rubbing his hands together keenly. “I do love a good fight,” he said to no one in particular and did not mind the dirty look Vicky threw him.
Fight, indeed. What could they possibly fight about? Gabriel and Étienne were two grown men of sound mind and rationality-
“I certainly hope you do not think you can waltz in here and Miss Colton will be yours again,” Etienne sneered just as Vicky joined them on the terrace.
“That is none of your business,” Gabriel returned coldly.
“Victoria!” Adrienne cried as she ran onto the terrace. “What is going on?”
Rubbing his hands together, Arceneau responded in her stead, “They are going to fight!”
“What?”
Vicky rolled her eyes. “They are not going to fight,” she told Adrienne sternly and then to the several dozen people who rushed outside after her, “There is no fight! Go away!”
“Oh dear,” Adrienne murmured, her eyes wide as she stared at the men behind her.
“What?” Vicky found that both Étienne and Gabriel were shrugging out of their coats. “Really? Really?” She ran towards them. “Is this necessary?” she demanded heatedly. “What is wrong with talking, exactly, and I am not sure I understand just what the problem is in the first place!”
“The problem,” Gabriel growled, “is that this fool does not know how to stick his nose where it belongs.” He looked at her pointedly and his expression softened only slightly. “Please. Go inside. This’ll take but a minute- look how scrawny he is.”
“Conceited English,” Étienne drawled. “You, sir, are a barbarian and do not deserve the love of a woman as beautiful as Victoria.”
“I’m going to hit him now, Victoria.”
She sighed plaintively. “I really wish you wouldn’t,” she muttered. She turned pointedly to Étienne. “I suppose you want to hit him, too.”
“With every fibre of my being,” Étienne replied.
“I find you both ridiculous.”
Étienne landed the first blow, cocking his fist back and colliding with Gabriel’s jaw. The resounding thud of flesh meeting flesh with phenomenal force sent an involuntarily shudder through her and Victoria resolved to allow each man one punch each before she would put a stop to it, loath to actually witness real harm come to either of them.
Bloody men.
Gabriel retaliated, bestowing Étienne with a black eye, but they did not stop there. No, they lunged at each other like scuffling beasts, grunting and pawing and gnashing. They were behaving like men possessed and the catcalls and cheers from the crowd pooling out the terrace doors was not aiding matters. Throwing a glare towards the throng, Vicky stepped forward towards the brawling men. “Stop it, both of you!” she reprimanded, angrily. If only she could reach their ears, then she could issue a swift twist and yank them apart that way, but they were tussling too lividly and she would not be able to secure a firm hold of either. “Gabriel! Étienne!” God, they were going to kill each other. And nobody else seemed intent on doing anything remotely constructive. It would have to be up to her.
Bracing her shoulders, she stepped forward bravely, which was a mistake. Without a solid weapon of substance, no one person should enter a brawl with the intention of preventing either party from continuation.
Vicky narrowly missed Etienne’s elbow as the man swung wildly for Gabriel’s ribs, forcing her to jump backwards suddenly. “Oh!”
Her foot caught on the back hem of her dress.
A resonant tearing sound followed and Vicky felt the already taut fabric around her breasts give way and slacken as the stretched material parted from the seam at the waist.
Time froze.
Whether it was her exclamation or the inexplicably thunderous sound of sheer fabric ripping, Étienne and Gabriel paused momentarily and glanced at her, along with everybody else on the terrace and in one, horrifying moment of brutal clarity, Vicky realised what she had done.
In shock, her limbs froze and inaction overwhelmed her fraught, humiliated mind. Her mouth parted slightly and she felt her eyes bulge as the implications slowly sunken in with horrendous and nauseating articulacy.
Victoria Colton had experienced many a moment of humbling in her short life, but never had she inadvertently exposed her breasts to half a ballroom of Parisians and done absolutely nothing to restore modesty to herself for long moments afterwards.