'The opinion of others means little to me.'
'Come now, Dorian, you needn't pretend with me. We're friends, and as a friend, I must tell you that there has been some wicked talk.'
'Oh?'
'The worst kind, I'm afraid.' She lifted a plump white hand to shield her vindictive whisper. 'It's rumored that you married so quickly because you are-
'How kind of you,' Noelle said dangerously.
'Well, you know how cruel gossips are.'
'Yes, Miss Welby, and I know who they are, too.'
There was no mistaking Noelle's meaning, and the fixed smile faded from Catherine's face. Quinn Copeland was the most fascinating man she had ever met. It was infuriating enough that he hadn't returned her interest, but now, to see him wed to a nobody was more than she could bear.
'Just remember, Mrs. Copeland, it's one thing to catch a husband, but it's quite another to hold him.' With a smirk, she pointedly nodded toward the ballroom floor.
Following her gaze, Noelle saw Quinn take a woman in his arms and lead her out for a waltz. It was the raven-haired Anna von Furst-drawn, haunted, and eerily beautiful. Unsmiling, the couple's eyes joined, and then Quinn and the baroness began wordlessly moving in the perfect rhythm of a man and a woman who know the responses of each other's bodies intimately.
Gradually Noelle realized others were watching her, waiting to see how she would react to the slight. Fixing a bright smile on her lips, she excused herself from Catherine and accepted an invitation to dance with a handsome young viscount of somewhat tarnished reputation. If Quinn did not care with whom he was seen, neither did she.
Not long after that the Baroness von Furst left the ball. Even so, Noelle did not see her husband again until midnight, when he appeared at her side to escort her into the dining room and then promptly turned his attentions to a ruddy-faced woolens manufacturer from Leeds. The tables were ladened with every possible delicacy, but Noelle ate sparingly, taking only a small portion of lobster salad and another glass of champagne.
'Will you save a dance for me?'
It was Simon, somewhat abashed, but still determined.
As Noelle looked up at him she realized her bitterness had been replaced by an emotion that was considerably more painful-an aching sense of betrayal. 'I'm sorry, but I'm promised for the rest of the evening.'
Simon seemed to have anticipated her refusal. He spoke so softly that no one standing nearby could overhear. 'It's funny, isn't it, how people delude themselves. I thought I would be able to give you to my son without losing you myself.'
Inexplicably Noelle's eyes filled with tears. 'I wasn't yours to give, Simon.'
He nodded, and then, before he left her side, he reached down and softly squeezed her hand.
The gesture made her infinitely sad. It was as if he were saying 'You are my child, and I will always care for you no matter what has happened between us.'
For the rest of the ball Noelle was never still. She rushed from one set of arms to another, drank glass after glass of champagne, and flirted outrageously. It made no difference who her partners were as long as she could keep dancing.
Quinn shunned the ballroom for the faro tables that had been set up in the library. It was not until he had won nearly three hundred pounds that he went to claim his wife.
She looked as though someone had just made love to her. Her laughing face was flushed from dancing, a lock of hair had escaped from her chignon and hung down behind her ear, and there was a sheen of moisture between her breasts. As Quinn watched, the mustachioed officer who was holding her let his hand slip from her waist to the top of her hip and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.
Quinn made his way across the floor. 'I'll dance with my wife now.'
'See here, Copeland…' The officer thrust out his chin belligerently, but his words trailed off at the dangerous glitter in Quinn's eyes, and he hastily backed away.
Quinn scooped his wife into his arms, pulling her so close to him that he could feel the hammering of her heart through his shirtfront. In response to the handsome couple commanding the center of the floor, the bored musicians nodded conspiratorially at each other and deliberately began picking up the tempo of the music. At first it was so gradual that no one noticed, but then one couple after another began to feel the effects of the quickening pace and fell back. Finally the tempo was frenzied, and Noelle and Quinn danced alone.
They spun about the floor, their clothing flashing bronze and black. Her champagne laughter bubbled up at him. Eyes blazing with self-confidence, she dared him to keep up with her in this accomplishment at which she had now become the master. He tightened his grip in answer to her challenge.
She tossed her head, and her hair shook free from its confines, cascading about her shoulders. As they flew faster it spun wildly about her, slapping at Quinn's cheeks and stinging them like tiny whips. His body quickened with desire. The music came to a final crescendo, and he crushed a handful of untamed mane in his fist, pulling her head toward him and lowering his hard mouth to hers.
To Noelle, the kiss seemed part of the dance. Indeed, it was as violent as the music had been and as ragingly exciting. It was barbaric and so blatantly erotic that the onlookers were stunned.
Only Quinn heard the soft moan when he reluctantly unfastened his mouth from hers. She shuddered as some vestige of self- control returned to her. With a courtly bow, he picked up her hand and brought it respectfully to his lips, then led her from the floor.
On the way home in the carriage, Noelle fell victim to the early morning hour and the champagne that had so beclouded her judgment, and was asleep long before they reached Northridge Square. Quinn carried her into the house and, with his teeth grimly set, deposited her on the narrow daybed. As he left the dressing room he firmly shut the door between their rooms.
The next day all of London was gossiping about Quinn and Noelle and the passion that blazed so uncontrollably between them. They were said to have ravished each other in the center of the Atterburys' ballroom. Noelle publicly ignored the comments and privately swore to drink no more champagne. In the meantime she and Quinn were the rage of London. A party could not be considered a success without the Copelands in attendance.
The fashionable elite never seemed to tire of speculating about them. A few sharp eyes had noted that the glow was back in the Baroness von Furst's lovely cheeks. Others commented that although the Copelands were seen everywhere together, they seldom spoke. The mystery of it all was delicious.
As Constance had predicted, Noelle became a fashion trend setter. This fact was brought home after the Atterburys' affair when she and Quinn attended a ball in the Berkeley Square residence of Lord and Lady Whitney. Lady Whitney herself greeted them in a violet gown cut open to the waist. As Noelle stepped into the ballroom she quickly counted seven other dresses of different colors and fabric but with the same bare bodice.
The fashion followers were, in turn, inspecting Noelle's new gown with smug superiority. It was a simple black crepe completely covering her from neck to hem. There were sly whispers. The gown was well cut, certainly. The little pearl choker collar quite pretty. But, really, it was all so plain and unoriginal.
It was only as Noelle passed through them that the guests saw the dress had no back. The smooth line of her spine, the contour of her shoulder blades, the glowing ivory of her skin, had all been daringly exposed to a point several inches below her temptingly slender waist.
From that time on, there was a line of carriages at the door of Madame LaBlanc's establishment. The new customers were graciously accommodated by Madame's ever-increasing number of assistants while the sly Frenchwoman reserved her considerable creative energies for the woman who was making her the most important dressmaker in London. Noelle Copeland was an original in both spirit and fashion, and Renee LaBlanc was going to make certain her client would not be outdone.
Noelle was not the only one being imitated. All over the city, young gallants were growing beards and clenching thin cheroots between their teeth. It was a pitiful imitation, however, for no matter how hard they tried, none of them could match the swaggering self-assurance of Quinn Copeland. They were all left feeling slightly foolish when, just as their beards reached a respectable length, Quinn shaved his off. One afternoon the couple appeared in Hyde Park. She was leading her pretty chestnut mare, he his ebony stallion. It was only when she mounted that the onlookers saw that the full skirt of her royal-blue riding habit had been cunningly split at the center, forming two
