One Exquisite Touch (The Extravagant #2)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,1
into the place she knows well, since we’ve been best friends for several years.
As the door snicks shut, her eyebrows dance, and she waggles her fingers in my direction. I’m wearing only my underthings. “You do know ballroom attire is required, right? You’re not just showing up in your lingerie?” Eliza asks.
I feign surprise. “No! Really? I thought a white lace bra-and-panty set would highlight my mask so perfectly. You think not though?”
“Oh, well, if you’re aiming to complement the mask, then surely a bra made of feathers and a thong made of gems would be a better ensemble,” she says, faux serious as she flicks a strand of her chestnut hair.
I cringe. “Ouch. That hurts just hearing it.”
“Imagine wearing it.”
I shake my head. “Never. Thongs should be abolished,” I say as we cross the living room, returning to my dressing room.
“I’ll sign that petition. Hell, I’ll start the movement.”
“You have my full support in the anti-thong crusade.” I gesture to my white lace bra. “But don’t worry. I have the perfect costume for the theme of the party.”
Tonight’s masquerade ball is themed “Imagine,” something I’m particularly skilled at lately. My imagination is a fertile ground for so many things. “I just haven’t slipped into it yet. The hair always goes first. It’s a rule.”
“You love your rules. You have rules for so many things,” Eliza says playfully.
“And rules for fun are good too. Especially this one.” I stop in the dressing room and raise a making-a-point finger. “Always leave them wanting more.”
Eliza nods, a wise look in her green eyes. “Those are indeed words to live by.”
I peer into the mirror, then click open the silver hair clip with an inscription on the inside, reading it once more. Brilliant for brilliant. The words tug on my heart. They always do, from the very first time I wore this years ago.
I slide the silver pin into the side of my hair, then clip it, loving the way it catches the light just so, loving, too, how it’s another way to remember those I love.
“Gorgeous,” Eliza proclaims.
“Thank you,” I say, and I want to feel gorgeous. I crave lushness.
And lately, I’ve needed it.
It’s become necessary to be able to live this life, to balance everything. To take over the reins of my parents’ hotel as I’ve done, and run the financials. To strike deals, to negotiate, to crunch all the numbers.
The world I inhabit all day is oak and chrome, numbers and sums.
For a while, that pin-striped, spreadsheeted world soothed the ache in my heart.
Profit and loss statements were my balm.
And they worked well enough.
They helped me move on from the pain and grief, then from an unexpected heartache too.
Now, I’m here. On the other side.
So I’ve begun exploring a world at night beyond the boardroom. A party here, a party there. I’ve enjoyed a few evening fetes as an observer, donning a mask, a costume, and a new hairstyle. Going for a whirl on the dance floor in a ballroom, letting music and champagne whisk me away to another time, to the Renaissance, to Venice, to Victorian England.
What wonders a party can work on a wounded heart.
A party can play its part in mending the soul.
“And now, perhaps for a little costume. Emphasis on little,” I say saucily to my best friend as I yank open the closet door.
Her jaw comes unhinged as she surveys the shelves and racks glittering with gowns, dresses, and finery.
“Girl, have you been buying out all the sexy costumes in this city?” She strolls in, checking out my walk-in wardrobe, filled with corset after corset, dress after dress. Vintage, Victorian, Venetian. Brocade, gothic, leather.
What can I say? Dress-up has always been my thing.
I bring a hand to my chest. “Moi? Would I do such a thing?” I bat my lashes.
Rolling her eyes, Eliza shakes her head. “You? Never.”
“Never say never,” I chide, as I run my fingers along a lacy number. “That’s another good rule to live by.”
“Indeed, it’s an excellent one,” Eliza says.
I shed my white bra, then grab the costume I picked for tonight. I remove it from the padded satin hanger. Stepping into the short skirt, I pull up the dress, adjust the folds of lush black satin and taffeta under it, then tug on the steel-boned corset. I suck in a breath and lace it up in the back, tie after tie.
This is no easy feat, strapping myself in.
But I’ve done it before, practiced it many times, and now I can