Unveiled (Turner, #1)

He should have known, but then, how was he to discover such things? Consult Debrett’s?

He took a deep breath. “I’m sure she is a perfectly acceptable specimen of a lady, if you like such things. But you must admit, she must be a poor creature to topple over so easily. If she did not do it to draw attention to herself.”

Margaret met his gaze for the first time that evening. It was then he realized what lay behind her unease—a cold, inexplicable fury. “Let me guess,” she said. “You have never worn a corset and a ball gown for seven hours.”

He grinned casually. “Now there’s a daring wager. Even if I did, I shouldn’t lace them so tightly as to squeeze out my breath, no matter what the occasion. If someone is such a slave to fashion—”

“It’s not merely the lacing. Ball gowns aren’t laced as tightly as some other dresses; you need to allow more room for movement. It’s the heat. And the layers. Do you know how a ball gown is assembled?”

This was what happened when he used his brother as a shield. He ought to have met her alone and convinced her to take port with him. Now, instead of getting pleasantly drunk and snuggly, Miss Lowell was lecturing him on the construction of ball gowns. He must have lost his mind. He’d certainly lost his touch.

“Yes,” he said in a dry tone of voice. “I know how ball gowns are made. They are made of fabric.”

She snorted. “And?”

“Thread? Ribbons? Buttons?”

She simply looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Whalebone? Metal? No, wait—now I see. They are composed of lead, and are purposely made heavy, to force women to walk in a slow and elegant fashion.”

She still didn’t laugh. “They are sewn in place. That means there is no way to remove one once the ball has begun. Once it is on, it stays on for the entire evening. Think about what that means. One cannot simply relieve oneself at the drop of one’s breeches. One cannot, in fact, use the necessary at all. So before a ball, ladies do not drink or eat anything. Not for hours. During a ball, one can only wet one’s lips.”

He glanced at her. “Really?”

Somehow, that tone of disbelief made her blush, too. “Indeed. I’ve heard the maids talk about it. Eight hours on an empty stomach, whirling about, clad in seven petticoats. You would topple over, too.”

“I had no idea society ballrooms were so barbarous.” He said it with a smile, but still Margaret didn’t return the expression.

“No doubt,” she said with a lift of her chin, “you would think me a poor creature, too, if you swathed me up in layers of silk and withheld all water, just to see what would happen. I daresay I wouldn’t last the evening. Think, Mr. Turner, before you speak. If you rely on rumor, you will never understand.”

“You wouldn’t collapse.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

He stood up, taking a step towards her. “You don’t comprehend what I mean, Margaret. You’re stronger than that. You’d reach deep down into yourself—just as you’re doing now—and you would look the possibility in the face and tell it to go to the devil. Yes, just as you’re doing with me, at this moment. Some people crumble when they’re dealt a blow. You might stagger a bit, I suppose. But you? You would never collapse.”

“I wish I could hate you,” she said passionately.

“Yes,” he remarked. “It would be more convenient for you. Sadly, you’ve found it quite impossible.”

She stared at him. The corner of her lip twitched—not quite a smile, but the shadow of one.

“When he’s like this, Miss Lowell,” Mark offered from his seat on the sofa, “I usually take it upon myself to stamp out in a rage. It’s impossible to argue with him, once he starts asserting his correctness as a matter of unarguable certainty. And if you stay, he’ll turn your thoughts around until you don’t know right from wrong. Take it from me. Ash is both perfectly right, and horridly wrong. And he will never, ever understand what he’s said to upset you.”

“What did I say?” he inquired.

She gave him that look—that one that said, If you don’t know, I shan’t be telling you. Ash hated that look.

And then she stood. “Must I stamp? Or can I sweep out gracefully?”

“By all means, sweep.” Mark stood for her, and Margaret gave him a swift curtsy. She didn’t even glance at Ash on her way out. Not quite what Ash had intended for the evening—sending her from the room in a confused flurry. It wasn’t precisely bad that they had argued—the more pleasant it would be to make it up to her later. But it wasn’t what he’d hoped for.