A Fool Again Read Free Page B

sophistry.
    Perhaps Felton never tried to kiss her because she wasn’t intriguing. Here she was, a veritable blaze of fashion, and she still looked like herself. It was truly dispiriting.
    â€œWear the tunic, madam,” Eliza urged. “You look a fair treat in it, I promise you that.”
    The Grecian tunic had just been delivered from the shop of Madame Boderie. It was made of French silk in a dull gold color that gleamed whenever she moved, with a square bosom cut quite low. Best of all, from Genevieve’s point of view, was a small train that gave her dignity.
    Once the gown was on, she felt slightly cheered. The way her breasts threatened to spill from the bodice was unnerving, but at least she didn’t look like a schoolgirl. “I would like to twist the gold beads I bought at the Pantheon Bazaar into my hair, Eliza.”
    Eliza frowned. She was another of Erasmus’s bargains (a lady’s maid plucked straight from the dairyroom), and she tended to take fright at the more complicated aspects of her work. “Now how do you think they anchor those beads on the head?” she asked. “I’d hate to find you had strings of beads hanging off you like a jester or some such.”
    Genevieve sighed. “I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, I suppose we can try,” Eliza allowed. Forty-five minutes later Genevieve had gold beads twined through her hair.
    â€œIt looks lovely,” Genevieve said, admiring the effect. Her hair was pulled up in a loose pile behind her head. She rather fancied that the beads made her hair look more uniformly colored. “Thank you, Eliza!”
    â€œDon’t waggle your head like that!” Eliza scolded.
    â€œThey do feel slightly unstable,” Genevieve said, shaking her head. If Felton’s kiss—the kiss she was determined he should give her—was the least bit energetic, her hair would tumble to her shoulders, beads and all. When Felton kissed her, she would simply keep her neck stiff. It had been so long since she’d been kissed by anyone that she couldn’t think of the least objection to that plan.

Chapter 3
The Kiss
    L ucius Felton was the sort of gentleman whom one never caught smoothing his hair in the hallway mirror. From Genevieve’s point of view, the only possible criticism one might have was that he was so formidable, terrifying even, with his heavy-lidded eyes and noncommittal expression. Did he even think she was beautiful? There was no evidence of it. Genevieve swallowed her sherry with reckless abandon and promised herself that Felton would kiss her in the carriage, even if she had to order him to do so.
    Yet once Genevieve was settled in the carriage, she found herself studying the tips of her golden slippers (slightly pointed toes, which was the very newest fashion) before she could even get the courage to look at Felton. He was wearing a saffron-colored coat tailored with exquisite precision to his body. He looked very, very unapproachable. “Are you carrying a new stick?” Genevieve finally asked, desperate to say something.
    â€œMade by Bittlemeir,” he said, lifting it briefly for her inspection. Genevieve looked at the stick blankly. What could she say that would lead him to sit next to her? Or was she to launch herself across the space between them, like one of Mr. Congreve’s exploding rockets? Likely he would shield himself with the stick, and she would rebound onto the floor.
    â€œI’ve never noticed that knob before,” she burbled. “Why on earth does your seat have a handle below it? Does it open?”
    â€œThe seat contains a liquor case,” Felton explained.
    â€œOh, may I see!” Genevieve cried, clasping her hands and hoping that he wasn’t repulsed by a girlish display of enthusiasm.
    â€œCertainly.” Felton rose with his customary grace, took the cushion from his seat, and removed a mahogany box from the cabinet.
    â€œDo sit next