The Wagered Widow by Patricia Veryan Page A

blue knots clustering about the flounce of her petticoats and the elbow-length lace of her sleeves. She had danced well, until someone had accidentally trodden on her train. She had been staggered and purely horrified when she heard the sound of ripping fabric.
    Her shining little teeth savagely attacked the remaining half of the crumpet. It had been an accident—no? When she’d glanced around, The Monahan had been some distance off, but in the movement of the dance, perhaps … She growled to herself. If it had been deliberate, it had succeeded, for by the time Millie had repaired the ravaged train and she had returned to the party, the musicians were packing up their instruments, The Monahan had Sir Peter fairly trapped, and Hilary was chatting with Letitia Boudreaux. She herself had at once been pounced upon by the Streets and borne off for a tour of the bird paintings, accompanied by a joint lecture she would have found a crushing bore had not her sense of the ridiculous arisen to rescue her.
    Well, she thought, her chin setting determinedly, the boat party today would not be spoiled! She would watch that designing lightskirt like a hawk! She stood and went over to the wardrobe. What to wear.… Running her eyes along the rainbow of colours that hung there, she fairly pounced on the green taffeta she had so recklessly purchased from Madame Olga. It was daringly plain, the stomacher of striped green and white satin being edged on both sides with a band of white fur that swept from waist to shoulder in a gracefully expanding “V,” this the only ornamentation, save for the ruffled edges of the chemise sleeves. It was a little frightening to be so far ahead of fashion, and she eyed the gown uncertainly. The skirt was rather stark, for it was neither tiered, flounced, nor scalloped. Still, when she had tried it on, it really had looked delicious, and Madame had been so enraptured that, despite the unpaid bills of this undistinguished client, she had called in her assistants to see “eggsackly ’ow the robe à l’anglaise it should be wore!”
    Calling to mind the colours of the Great Hall and Sir Peter’s interest in things pastoral, Rebecca took down the dress and, holding it against her, postured rather nervously before the oval standing mirror. Oh, but it was delicious! Surely, she would captivate Sir Peter this time! She smiled, her eyes taking on their far-away look.…
    She was stepping aboard the barge … how the gentlemen stared! And the envy in the faces of the ladies, especially That Cat who clung tenaciously to Sir Peter’s arm. He was trying to free himself. The Monahan clung tighter. Looking down at her sternly, he put her aside and, ignoring her sobs as she collapsed into Mr. Melton’s arms, came to take Rebecca’s hand and guide her to a seat. He refused to sit down, but proclaiming himself unworthy, knelt at her feet. With his own strong hands he gathered her luncheon (having stood up again, of course!) and watched adoringly as she ate. All through the hours that followed, he scarcely strayed from her side, and when the boat docked in a glory of sunset, he swept her into his arms, carried her ashore, and with a regal gesture sent the barge off, oblivious of The Monahan’s heart-broken wails. His voice husky with emotion, he said, “Shall we fight your corsets now?”
    Jolted, Rebecca comprehended that the voice had been real and not imaginary. “Oh, Millie! It’s you, ” she gasped.
    Millie smiled indulgently. Dreaming again, poor little lass. Lord knows, she deserved that at least one of her dreams come true.…
    *   *   *
    The sky was clearing by the time they were ready to leave, but a brisk breeze was tossing the treetops about. The guests had been told that it was only a short drive from Ward Marching to the dock where the barge awaited. Nonetheless, Millie draped a light but warm shawl about