The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

Her smooth brow furrowed in concentrated thought as she cudgeled her brains for the most expedient way possible to bring Julien to his senses. It didn’t take her long to hit upon Lady Haverstoke’s ridotto, which was but two days away. What better opportunity to show Julien that he’d made a mistake in his choice of brides? She would dress as Cleopatra, perhaps even paint her toenails, and wear the golden sandals. Dampening her petticoat to make the flowing white gown cling to her body was a bit uncomfortable, but it would serve only to make her the more alluring. With more energy than she was wont to show, Sarah rose from her couch and rang imperiously for her maid. She found that she was even looking forward to riding with Sir Edward.

“You’re silent, Julien. Don’t you like my costume?”

He remained silent for a few more moments, then said, “It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s simply not quite what I expected you to wear.”

Secretly, he was appalled. He had supposed that Kate would perhaps choose a shepherdess costume for the Haverstoke ridotto, or some such costume that wouldn’t call attention to herself. Instead, unbeknownst to him, she’d attired herself as a courtesan of the last century. She powdered her hair and piled it high atop her head. Her gown was of a heavy dark-blue brocade, with full skirts worn over panniers, and cut very low over her white bosom, a narrow row of lace suggesting more than revealing the curve of her breasts.

Perhaps what shocked him most were her reddened lips and the small black patch placed artfully beside her mouth. She wore heavy sapphire earrings and necklace, and even to the least exacting taste, too many bracelets adorned her arms. He thought she looked the whore, albeit a very expensive one.

“Perhaps, Kate, you’ve become enamored of Madame de Pompadour’s portrait?” he asked, trying to check his anger at her appearance.

It was her turn to be silent, and she turned the bracelets on one wrist before replying slowly, “Yes, I had the gown she wore in the portrait copied by Madame Bissotte. Of course, she was Louis XV’s mistress, but still—”

“She was a trollop,” he said more harshly than he intended. “I don’t wish my wife to emulate such an example.”

His anger died as quickly as it had come, for her face paled beneath the rouge and she turned quickly away from him. He realized with a shock that in some strange fashion, Kate was acting out the role of a whore because it was how she felt about herself. He wondered fleetingly if she herself was aware of what she was doing. He walked quickly to her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Do forgive me, sweetheart. It’s just that I have no great liking for the Pompadour. It was said that my grandfather even visited her bedchamber a long time ago in Paris. Indeed, my dear, you look striking, the flamboyance of your costume serves only to enhance your beauty.”

He was lying, and both of them knew it. But he also knew that the Ton would see nothing amiss with her appearance and would even applaud her daring originality. “Come, it grows late and the Haverstoke villa is several miles from London.”

She turned to face him, a look of confusion in her eyes. “You don’t go in costume, my lord?”

“My concessions are a domino and a mask. Had I but known that you so admired the dress of the last century, I would have dressed as Louis XV.”

“Oh, no, you could not have. Madame de Pompadour was only his mistress. It wouldn’t have been, that is to say—” She stopped abruptly and gave her head a tiny shake.

With a flash of insight he realized that she didn’t see him as her lover, so in her eyes he couldn’t be Louis XV. “I hardly think it matters, my dear. Ah, here’s George.”

“Your carriage is ready, my lord,” George announced, unaware that he had rescued the count and countess from a trying scene.

“Oh, yes, indeed. I have but to fetch my domino.” She turned on her heel and brushed past George.