Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)
Alec fell back against the pillows, uncertain of anything—save for his simmering attraction to Miss Carolina Sloane.
If he wasn’t to go stark raving mad from desperate desire, he was going to have to decide what to do about it.
Chapter Eleven
Staring absently into the looking glass, Caro was only half aware of her maid sliding in a pair of hairpins and giving the ribbon threaded through her topknot a last little tweak.
“There, Miss, you look the picture of loveliness if I say so myself,” said Alice with a measure of satisfaction as she stepped back and admired her handiwork.
“You are truly an artist with brush and comb,” said Caro, though in truth her hair could be painted purple and lit afire for all the attention she was paying to her toilette. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
“You’ll be the belle of the Venetian breakfast,” went on Alice. She pursed her lips. “Though why the ton calls a party that starts in the late afternoon a ‘breakfast’ is beyond me.”
“Most likely because many of the fancy ladies of Society don’t rise until well after noon.”
Her maid shook her head in disbelief. “Revelries night and day. I’m sure it must be exciting, what with all the beautiful clothes and sumptuous food, but I’m not sure I could ever get used to such a life.”
Nor am I.
“It’s not as exciting as it might seem,” said Caro, recalling Andover’s description of the Season. “Frivolities quickly become…”
Alice cocked her head, waiting for Caro to go on.
“Frivolous,” she finished. “And rather boring. No one talks about anything interesting or original for fear of being thought too different.”
Her maid looked thoughtful as she assembled the matching accessories to go with Caro’s gown.
“I think I’d rather take the blue reticule,” murmured Caro. “It’s big enough to fit my book of Byron’s poetry. So if things become truly dull, I can sneak away behind the bushes and read.”
“What with all the reading you do, you always have so many interesting things to say,” mused Alice. “It must be hard to have to keep them bottled up inside.” She made a face. “Begging your pardon, Miss, but I have to say, I’m glad I’m not a fine lady and can just be myself.”
“There are a few people with whom I can share my thoughts,” replied Caro. “Miss Urquehart is a kindred spirit.”
And her brother?
Determined to push the maddening Alec McClellan out of her head, she quickly rose from the dressing table and turned to find the volume of Byron’s poems among the books on her desk. Whatever bond had formed between them felt strained—or perhaps broken.
Truth and lies. Caro stared at the leatherbound book in her hands. It wasn’t as if Alec had lied to her, she told herself. But the omission seemed perilously close to an untruth.
Trust was an integral part of friendship, and Alec had not trusted her enough to tell her about an integral part of his life.
That hurt. More than she cared to admit.
“Still, it must be rather grand to attend a party given by a dowager duchess,” remarked Alice.
“What?” Caro looked up from her brooding. “Oh, er, yes. Her country estate is said to be quite lovely, and no doubt there will be a crush of guests, so I am sure it will be a very lively gathering.”
Her voice must have sounded a trifle brittle, for Alice glanced at her in concern. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Caro?”
“No, no. You’ve seen to everything. There’s no need for me to keep you any longer.”
Alice bobbed her head as she set a pair of kidskin gloves on the dressing table and turned for the door. “Have a lovely time.”
“Thank you,” she replied, unable to muster any enthusiasm. Despite the cloudless skies and shimmering sunshine, her own dark thoughts would likely shadow the festivities.
The door clicked shut.
Glancing down once again at the gilt-stamped “Byron” on the book cover, she bit back a sigh. Passionate emotions were all very well for romantic poetry, but they wreaked havoc with the mundane workings of real life.