The Savage Marquess Read Online Free PDF Page A

remain at the top of his profession for a long time.
    Lucinda blushed as he came in, followed by Kennedy. She was attired only in her shift. But Kennedy seemed to find nothing amiss. “This is Monsoor Rooks,” said Kennedy, “come to cut off your hair,” and, with that, she exited with a loud slamming of the door to show both parties how low they ranked in her idea of precedence.
    Monsieur Roux looked at the wealth of Lucinda’s chestnut hair. “Short crops are highly fashionable,” he said, “but with hair such as yours, Miss Westerville, surely it would be a crime to spoil such beauty.”
    “I am Lady Ismene’s companion,” said Lucinda in a colorless voice, “and her instructions are that my hair must be cut.”
    Monsieur Roux glanced quickly at her reflection in the mirror, his sharp black eyes noticing the compression of the soft mouth and the glitter of unshed tears in the large eyes.
    “Very well,” he said. He picked up his long, sharp scissors. Lucinda closed her eyes.
    All at once she remembered her mother, dead these past six years, with ache and longing; her pretty, vivacious mother who made light of their poverty. Lucinda felt lost and alone in an alien world. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back her tears.
    Monsieur Roux muttered something and then rang the bell. When a chambermaid answered it, he said, “Fetch my boy. You will find him waiting for me belowstairs. And tell him to bring my cases.” Thinking his work completed for the evening, Monsieur Roux had sent his boy downstairs to wait for him.
    He was all at once determined to create the most fashionable crop in London.
    When the boy arrived, Monsieur Roux rapped out orders for pomades and lotions.
    After some time, Kennedy came in with the yellow gown over her arm and stood waiting impatiently. “Are you going to take all night?” she demanded. “Lady Ismene does not like to be kept waiting.”
    “No,” murmured the hairdresser, “I am just finished.”
    He stood back and admired his handiwork. “You may open your eyes now, Miss Westerville,” he said.
    But Lucinda did not look in the mirror. She got to her feet and turned to face Kennedy.
    “You foreign rogue!” said Kennedy, her normally bad-tempered face cracking in a grin. “Off with you.”
    Kennedy deftly helped Lucinda into the gown, draped a shawl around her shoulders, handed her gloves and a fan, and told her to make haste. “But don’t you want to see yourself?” said the lady’s maid.
    She pushed Lucinda toward the wardrobe and swung open one of the doors, which had a long mirror on the inside.
    Lucinda looked amazed at the modish stranger facing her. The primrose-yellow gown was cleverly tucked to flatter her thin figure. Her head was a riot of curls, brushed and pomaded so that the gold threads in them shone in the candlelight.
    “Make the most of it,” said Kennedy sourly, “for the sight of you is going to put her ladyship in a passion. Here, give me that shawl. The night is sharp. Put on this cloak, see”—lifting a cloak of Lucinda’s from the wardrobe—“and put the hood over your head, so she don’t see what you look like or you’ll never be allowed out of the house.”
    Too bewildered to protest, Lucinda did as she was bid.
    Downstairs, Ismene berated her for taking so much time, but made no remark on Lucinda’s cloaked and hooded appearance.
    Ismene herself looked ravishing in a gown of gold net with gold and silver embroidery. Mindful of her duties, Lucinda told her so, and was rewarded with a complacent smile. “I feel we shall deal together tolerably well,” said Ismene.
    At Almack’s, Kennedy deliberately saw to her mistress first so that Ismene and her mother had left the anteroom before Kennedy removed Lucinda’s cloak.
    Lucinda went shyly into the entrance hall and joined the Earl and Countess of Clifton and Ismene.
    Ismene’s eyes bulged. “You look a fright,” she said crossly.
    The earl put up his quizzing glass.