Page 16 of Mesmerized

“I don’t see why I can’t wear what I always do,” Olivia complained, even though she knew it was useless.

Kyria turned and cast an expressive look at Olivia’s plain brown skirt and bodice. “Olivia, this is a party. You can’t go looking as though you are the family governess.”

“I am not trying to ‘catch’ Lord St. Leger,” Olivia retorted huffily.

“Then why are you going?”

Olivia looked into her sister’s clear green gaze, and her own eyes fell. “I—well, that is, Lord St. Leger and I are friends. That is all.”

“Then it is up to you to change that.” Kyria yanked on the bellpull and, when one of the maids popped in a moment later, sent the girl to fetch Joan, Kyria’s personal maid.

“I don’t understand why you are always trying to set me up with someone when you yourself are so set against marriage,” Olivia said feelingly.

“I am not set against marriage,” Kyria told her. For a flickering moment, sadness seemed to shadow her face, then was gone as she said, “It simply isn’t for me, you see.” She went to Olivia’s wardrobe closet and threw open the door, continuing, “But for others, it’s exactly right. Look at Thisbe, for instance. She’s happy as can be with her scientist.”

“I can’t imagine why you think that I am right for marriage. I have never had the slightest success with men.”

Kyria looked at her. “Being an accomplished flirt and being a good wife are entirely different things. Trust me. You are exactly the kind of person who makes an excellent wife, someone whose life is completed by having a husband and children. You are sweet and kind and generous, utterly loyal and enormously loving.”

“But so are you,” Olivia protested.

Kyria let out a light laugh. “That you think so, my love, is an indication of your sweetness, not mine.”

Kyria went through Olivia’s clothes, sighing now and then or shaking her head. “Honestly, Livvy, must you always choose such plain things? Where is that shawl I gave you last year?”

Olivia opened a drawer and pulled it out, caressing it as she handed it to Kyria. It was a beautiful silk shawl, patterned in golds and browns, with brown tassels hanging from it.

“Now, this will dress up your brown silk,” Kyria told her, draping it over the aforesaid gown.

“But, Kyria, I won’t be needing anything so—so fancy.”

“Why not? You will need nicer than this, my dear.”

“But it will not be a—a festive gathering,” Olivia said. “I—he—we merely have common interests. And it is a small group. His brother, you know, died not long ago.”

“A year. They are out of mourning by now. I’ve seen the girl at parties—small ones, of course. I suspect there will be a party or two, at least. There always is. And there is supper every evening. You have to dress for that, after all.”

“Well, yes, I suppose...” Olivia cast a look at the gown and shawl. It warmed her a little to think of wearing them, of looking, well, if not beautiful, at least not drab. After all, this was an occasion where she really did not have to look professional. They were hiding what she was doing under the guise of a house party. She was supposed to look like nothing other than a woman enjoying a social occasion.

“This gown will do, as well, I think,” Kyria went on, taking out an emerald-green evening gown, “though Joan will have to pull out all this lace in the bodice.”

“But the neckline will be far too low!” Olivia protested.

“The neckline will be fashionable,” Kyria countered. “And you have a very nice bosom. It’s time you showed it off a little.”

Kyria’s maid, Joan, a thin, plain girl with a haughty manner, came into the room. She was, according to Kyria, a jewel, having an excellent sense of color and style and being handy with a needle, as well as possessing a deft hand when it came to arranging one’s hair, and Kyria was much envied by other young women and matrons for having her. However, there was little chance of any of them being able to entice her away from Kyria, since Kyria had plucked her out of an orphanage at the age of thirteen, recognizing her artistic bent, and had taken Joan’s younger and rather slow-witted sister, as well, when Joan had pleaded that she could not leave without her. Joan was intensely loyal to her mistress and quite proud of her position as personal maid to the daughter of a duke, a far higher rung up the ladder of employment than she had ever hoped to reach.

With Joan’s help, Kyria went ruthlessly through Olivia’s clothes, pulling out the pieces she thought would do and deciding how to give them the desired “spark”—a smattering of lace at throat and cuffs to soften too severe a line, or a brooch or necklace to brighten a dull color, or a bit of embroidery to color a pale gray bodice. But nothing that Olivia owned satisfied either Kyria or Joan as a gown to wear to a dance or party, and they at last brought in two of Kyria’s own gowns—a peacock-blue satin and a dark gold silk that were both so beautiful that Olivia could not imagine them on herself—and Joan set to shortening and tucking and taking in here and there to fit Olivia’s shorter, slighter frame. Joan, Kyria assured her, was a marvel and would have the dresses done in time for her trip.

“Or she can finish one of them while you are there, of course,” she added casually.

“What?” Olivia stared at her. “What do you mean, while I am there? Joan will not be with me.”

“But of course she will. You must have someone to do your hair, after all, and since you haven’t a maid of your own, this will be the perfect solution. She’s an absolute wizard with hair. You’ll see.”

“But I don’t need a maid. That is precisely why I haven’t one. I can do my own hair, and all my gowns are made so I can fasten them without help.”

“Yes, I know you are very independent and self-sufficient,” Kyria said. “But you simply cannot go to a house party without even one servant. How would it look to Lady St. Leger?”