Anne’s green eyes held a hint of mischief. “You … you wanted the gown to draw people’s attention. The weight of the brooch causes the material to sit lower in the middle of the bosom.”
Priscilla’s stomach flipped over at the thought of wearing the gown while dancing with Matthew. Would he be just as eager for a second dance, or would her inexperience in seduction leave her floundering?
Nerves pushed to the fore. “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without your help.” And Isabella’s help, of course.
Anne chuckled. “I’m glad Mr Chandler saw sense. How can he expect a lady to leave her home and not bring her maid?”
When he’d offered marriage, Matthew had not expected to bear the cost of keeping a maid. His reluctance to have another female servant in the house, Priscilla suspected, stemmed from a fear of controlling the licentious nature of his guests.
“Mr Chandler will be furious if he finds you in here tonight, Anne, what with that rowdy rabble downstairs.”
“You’ll lose a few buttons if you try to undress yourself, and I’ve laced your stays far too tight.”
Priscilla put her hand to her stomach. “Perhaps that’s why I’ve been struggling to breathe.” It wasn’t. Her husband had the power to empty her lungs with one lingering glance.
“I’ll hang the gown in the dressing room and then help you undress.”
Priscilla touched Anne’s arm. “I don’t want Mr Chandler to see it. I want it to be a surprise.”
Anne smiled. “I’ll put the gown in the armoire. Unlike some of his guests, let’s hope Mr Chandler’s not of a mind to rummage through a lady’s clothes.”
“It’s not the clothes the guests are interested in.”
Chuckling to herself, Anne took the garment and hid it away. She returned to help Priscilla into her nightgown and brush out her hair.
Once ready for bed, Priscilla placed her hand on the maid’s arm. “Let me call John to escort you back to your room.” With the loud jeers rumbling through the house, she wouldn’t rest until Anne was back safely in the servants’ quarters.
“There’s no need, madam.”
Refusing to listen to Anne’s protests, Priscilla unlocked the door, called down to the footman and gave her instruction.
“You’re to wait with her until she bolts the door. Is that understood?”
A frown marred John’s brow. He glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m supposed to watch the stairs, madam.”
“I’ll hover on the landing and call out should anything untoward happen.” Anger flared. “Heavens, I should not have to worry about being accosted in my home.”
/> Surely there was a better way to supplement one’s income. Regardless of Uncle Henry’s preaching to the contrary, some things were more important than money. Once he'd paid the gambling debt, Matthew should think about hiring premises for his select gatherings.
Armed with a vase, Priscilla hid in the shadows until John returned to his post. He nodded up to her and gave a reassuring smile before turning to block the staircase.
Well, one thing was certain, Priscilla thought as she returned to her room and locked the door, anxiety had a way of dampening one’s ardour.
Picking up the key to the connecting door from the side table, she strode into the dressing room. Dismissing all doubts, she thrust the key into the lock and turned it until she heard the click.
Most women would say it was wrong to shut one’s husband out. Indeed, if Matthew did not attempt to enter her room tonight, their marriage was doomed to fail. Lacking the skill and knowledge necessary, she could do nothing more to seduce him. But he could not pick her up and put her down when it suited him. Such a one-sided relationship would chip away at her confidence, leave a constant feeling of inadequacy.
With a resolute sigh, she returned to her chamber, placed the key on the dressing table out of reach and blew out the candles.
Despite sliding in between warm sheets, she had no hope of sleeping. There were too many chaotic thoughts whizzing about in her head. Would she hear Matthew rattle the door? As her husband, would he demand access to her room, to her body? It didn’t help that she caught a whiff of his masculine scent wafting in the air. Bergamot and some sort of spice. Her imagination had the power to perform the conjurer’s trick just to tempt and tease.
A long, anxious hour passed.
Desperate to find a distraction, she moved to the window to observe the drunken revellers making too much noise in the garden. Two men were standing back-to-back on the lawn, their fingers forming the shape of a pistol raised in front of their face.
“The lady calls the winner,” one gentleman shouted.
The woman spectating braced her hands on her hips and counted. The fools trudged forward in opposite directions, turned on the count of ten and pretended to fire their fake weapons. As though taking a shot to the chest, both men fell to the floor. They lay on the grass, their eyes closed, their bodies still. The lady put her hand to her mouth as she examined both victims, patting each one on the thighs, daring to massage and cup the bulge between their legs. Unable to contain his excitement as the woman fiddled and fondled, one man opened his eyes and groaned.