Loves Choices. PENNY JORDAN
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she couldn’t understand infiltrating the atmosphere in the car until every muscle in her body was taut in response to it.
After that her companion didn’t speak, and although there was a good deal she wanted to ask him, his silence prevented her from speaking, instinct telling her that he had no wish to engage in conversation, and she made use of the silence to study him covertly; the arrogant aquiline profile, the power of the lean fingers holding the steering wheel, sinewy and brown.
Would his skin be that dark mahogany all over? The intimacy of her thoughts shocked Hope into further flushes, hastily averting her eyes from the muscles of his thighs as the Comte changed gear and the fabric pulled tautly, reminding her of drawings she had seen, books she had studied in the convent library, knowing suddenly and overwhelmingly that the old masters had not, as she had childishly imagined, overemphasised the masculine frame, and that this man seated at her side could easily have modelled for them. And yet there was an elusive, alien look about him that suggested another culture, not entirely Latin—something about his face that tormented her memory.
Within half an hour they were in Seville. The city was not entirely unfamiliar to Hope as she had visited it with the school on several occasions, but the narrow street of fashionable shops where the Comte parked the car was somewhere she had not seen before. Her fingers fumbled with the seat-belt as she tried to release it, and this time when the Comte leaned impatiently across she withdrew so that he would not touch her, flinching beneath the sardonic mockery in his eyes as he released the belt and then turned to look at her, green eyes on a level with grey as he drawled softly, ‘So, even innocence has some awareness. Was it from the good nuns that you learned to shrink from anyone male, mon petit, or is it an instinct that goes far beyond any teaching?’
‘I …’ Torn between embarrassment and the angry feeling that he should not be talking to her in this fashion, mocking her naïvety with one breath and yet somehow, she sensed, deliberately making her aware of his maleness all the same, Hope reached for the door, shaky with relief when it opened and the Comte moved back to his own seat.
Several curious glances came their way as the Comte guided Hope along the pavement, and when she caught sight of herself in a shop window, she shrank from the image she presented in her too-tight uniform, her hair dragged back off her face.
The shop he took her to was small and yet somehow overpowering, so imbued with an atmosphere of money and elegance that Hope felt ill at ease.
The woman who emerged to serve them surveyed Hope with raised eyebrows, her demeanour only altering when she saw the Comte, changing from haughty disdain to almost fawning complaisance within the space of a few seconds.
The Comte spoke to her in Spanish, as flawless as his Italian, but when Hope heard the word for trousseau she frowned and opened her mouth, only to be silenced by the Comte who turned to her and said in French, ‘I am only fulfilling your father’s wishes, so please oblige me by keeping silent.’
Having given the saleswoman his instructions, the Comte turned to Hope and told her that he had business of his own to transact and that he would return for her in two hours. ‘Your hair needs attention,’ he added, studying it. ‘I shall ask Madame if she can recommend a good stylist.’
‘I have wanted to have it cut for ages,’ Hope offered, ‘but …’
‘Cut! Mon Dieu! Are you mad! To do so would be sacrilege,’ he told her unequivocally, adding softly, ‘Has no one told you, you little innocent, that on your wedding night your husband will want to see you covered in nothing other than this silver veil?’ He flicked her hair as he spoke, apparently unconcerned by the hot colour beating up under her pale skin.
Her wedding night! Hope was still turning the words over in her mind when he left the shop. Strangely enough she had not thought much about marriage. She would like to have children and them she could visualise quite easily, plump and dark—but a husband? She shivered suddenly. Why had her father sent this disturbing stranger to collect her? Why hadn’t he come himself?
Two hours later she was staring round-eyed at the pile of garments Madame had put on one side; separates in cool, soft silk in misty pastel lilacs and greys to tone with her eyes; dresses; underwear in the finest crěpe de Chine, embroidered in silver and grey with butterflies, so fine and sheer that Hope blushed to see herself in it, imagining the disapproval of the nuns.
Madame’s grimace over her plain, serviceable underwear and shabby uniform had forstalled Hope’s intentions of dressing again in her own clothes. Something inside her shrank from wearing clothes provided by anyone other than her father—especially another man—but common sense told her that eventually Sir Henry would undoubtedly meet the bill, and so Hope allowed herself to be persuaded into the whispers of silk, so smooth against her skin, so shockingly and sensuously clinging to her body, her breasts curving softly above the brevity of a bra so delicate it seemed more seductive than nothing at all.
Hope was tempted to protest against the brief suspender belt and silk stockings proffered calmly by Madame, but the thought of having her recalcitrance reported and no doubt mocked by the man who her father seemed to have appointed as her temporary guardian, caused the protests to die unspoken.
Without consulting her, once the girl had donned the underwear, Madame handed Hope a three-piece in pale grey silk with undertones of lilac, the skirt hem and jacket reveres in contrasting off white. A brief camisole top buttoned up the back with a multitude of small buttons, and the straight skirt emphasised Hope’s narrow hips and long, slender legs. Carefully putting on the jacket, she surveyed herself in the mirror, stunned by the reflection staring wide-eyed back at her.
Of the Hope she knew, all she recognised was the small triangular face. Gone were the awkward coltish limbs, the girl’s body; the reflection staring back at her showed her a tall slim creature, far too elegant to bear any relation to the person she knew herself to be, her eyes a smoky lilac, reflecting the undertones of the grey silk.
Madame, however, was not as awed by the transformation as Hope herself. ‘And now,’ she said ominously, ‘the hair and the face. There is a salon several doors down. My assistant will take you there. I shall tell her to wait for you and return with you when Rafael has finished!’
Rafael and his staff were every bit as alarming as Hope had dreaded, although a little to her surprise he echoed the Comte’s decree that to cut her hair would be a crime.
‘It is untidy at the ends, si,’ he agreed, examining it closely, ‘but wait until they are trimmed and your hair has been conditioned. Tying it back as you do is not good for the texture,’ he disapproved, frowning over the thick barrette Hope used to secure her hair out of the way, ‘and your skin! Do you never use moisturiser?’ he demanded with further disapproval.
Hope felt disinclined to tell him that the nuns favoured soap and water and that the girls were not allowed to use make-up at the convent, although many of the girls did experiment in secret with cosmetics purchased when they were at home on holiday.
Her hair was shampooed and conditioned and then trimmed before Rafael pronounced himself satisfied and handed Hope over to the ministrations of a pretty dark-haired girl, her still-wet hair wrapped in a towel.
The girl introduced herself as Ana, and although Hope sensed her curiosity when her client admitted to having no knowledge at all about applying cosmetics, she did not ask any questions, simply showing Hope patiently and carefully how she could make the best of her features, telling her that she was lucky in her bone-structure which would outlive mere youthful prettiness, and adding that Hope’s eyes were especially beautiful.
Having feared from the length of time Ana took over cleansing and then painting her skin, that she would end up looking like a china doll, Hope was astonished when Ana finally swung her round in her chair to face the mirror. A subtle rose glow shone against her cheekbones, highlighting their shape, her eyes mysteriously darker and larger than she remembered, her mouth tremulous and curving warmly pink against the paleness of her skin.
While Hope came to terms with her new image, Ana wrote out a chart showing what colours and cosmetics