by Kelly Bowen
Perhaps this bride’s gratitude over the last-minute fix would make a difference.
Mary-Anne straightened her shoulders and stared at the ladies. “I would love to design a dress for you after this. Something for the theater or dinner. I can style you well.”
The duchess’ nostrils flared as if she’d smelled a pungent nosegay, and her cold gray gaze pierced through Mary-Anne’s chest straight to her overworked heart. “We’ll have to see, Miss Nettles.”
That was polite speak for, there would be nothing later.
Not today, tomorrow, or even in a thousand years.
The pin prick stung even more because she’d asked. Mary-Anne regretted asking, regretted giving the Ton one more chance to reject her. She covered her hurt by looking away, glancing at the floor for wayward scraps of lace and thread and her pride.
All picked up, every errant bit, she slung on her bisque bonnet and moved toward the threshold.
The bride caught her hand. “Miss Nettles, will you stay?”
She didn’t want to be where she wasn’t wanted, but this day was about this young girl lifting her head up and not being shamed by so called friends and family.
Mary-Anne stretched and fixed the train of the gauzy veil. In a low voice, one just for this young bride—eighteen or nineteen, so much younger than her twenty-three years. “You’re not the sum of your missteps or other’s disappointments. Remember, you are beautiful. You carry a beautiful secret.”
A smile passed between them, then Mary-Anne slipped into the hall.
Quiet as a mouse or lamb or anything known to be meek, she tiptoed down the corridor into the vestibule which was crowded with milling people, well dressed women in their floral gowns of spring, gentlemen in their formal ebony tailcoats.
Head down, wide bisque brim shading her face, Mary-Anne made her way to the last row, the last seat. After three minutes of fidgeting, of fingering dress silhouettes in her palm, the bride and her father appeared, arm in arm.
The walk down the aisle was wonderful.
“I take it you’ve earned another fortune.” The voice was low and familiar, but not in a good way.
A man sat beside Mary-Anne almost crowding her on the pew. “But your work is again superb. You are so talented.”
A quick glance revealed a sarcastic set of lapis blue eyes and a cravat that needed pressing.
“Keep your voice low, Mr. Sedgewick. I’d hate for someone to think we were friendly.”
“Still miffed? Just because the last time we met, I wanted to negotiate a better price for my sister’s gown doesn’t—"
“You tried to charm me out of one hundred pounds.”
“So, you thought I was charming?” He took off his top hat and brushed at the floundering off-centered part in his thick raven hair. “Well your work is very expensive for one day of wear. That’s a year and a half of dance lessons for two younger sisters in search of balance. I had hoped, you’d not missed the paltry sum.”
Paltry?
A hundred pounds was one bolt of brocade satin—one more choice of fabric for her brides and other patrons. She tugged her reticule closer. “I’m worth my fee, sir. And my dress gave your sister joy.” Oh. No. She pulled her hand to her mouth. “Today is not another relative’s wedding?”
“Bite your tongue, woman. My two unwed sisters are very young and mercifully sequestered. Hopefully, they’ll never want to venture out and be content with knitting, since you’d like to deprive them of being taught twirls and spins.”
Mr. Sedgewick had a good sense of humor from what she’d observed six months ago when they weren’t haggling over money, but right now his brow held as many lines as the ones upon the duke’s face. Mr. Sedgewick, so tense and conflicted. Something distressed him.
“I’m a friend of the family,” he said as he rubbed his square jaw making the wrinkles to his collar more prominent. “For what it’s worth, this dress is lovely, too. This bride, like my sister, should be well pleased.”
Another compliment from the haggler? He must want something, but what? “Ummmm, thank you. How’s your sister fairing?”
“Fine. Bouncing a healthy baby boy on her knee.”
Something in his jaded, sad eyes said all wasn’t fine, but Mary-Anne wouldn’t ask. He’d already cost her too much. Risking her perfect reputation talking to the man was wrong. She couldn’t have anyone thinking she flirted with Mr. Sedgewick, even if he’d set his half-smile upon her.
Turning away, she concentrated on the ceremony. When the reverend began his homily of vows and troths, Mary-Anne edged closer to the end of the pew and readied to exit St. George’s, but a touch, a deliberate one, a man’s hand, caught her glove.
“Mr. Sedgewick?”
Hypnotic and strong, his gaze captured hers. “I need to talk with you. I’ve watched you slip away on more than one occasion, always before the prayer, but after the vows.”
The sense that something was truly wrong sent a shiver down her spine to that spot in her stomach reserved for knots. She wanted no Sedgewick inspired knots. “Unhand me.”
“Please, Miss Nettles.”
Mary-Anne wrenched away but nodded. She’d never make a scene where her clients were in earshot or where curious wedding well-wishers could scandalize the moment, a negress engrossed in conversation with one of their sons. “I’ll stay, but not too long. I’ve another appointment.”
His lips curled into a lazy smile, making him as handsome as she remembered. “Then I should go with you. I must speak to you. I’m still in your debt. I’ve been trying to repay you for months.”
“No, sir. The past is no more. I never look back.”
“At least allow me to walk you to your carriage.”
His tone sounded louder, hopefully not more so than the bride and groom reciting the minister’s vows.
She held her breath, looking for heads to turn her way.
None did.
Mary-Anne blew out all the air she’d held in her lungs and sagged against the hard pew. “No. We have no more business—”
“Please, do not put me off. Allow me an audience. I’m begging.”
Why did Mr. Sedgwick have to be the insistent sort, one who’d let her know what was on his mind whether she wanted to hear or not? Mary-Anne’s only recourse was to minimize the disruption. “Fine, sir. Follow me after the vows. And do so quietly.”
His half smile became a full one, and Mary-Anne knew she was in trouble.
2
A Dash
The reverend finished his speech of love and keeping and troths, the vows August Sedgewick had heard many times since his sister’s wedding as he’d tried to meet with Miss Nettles.
And each time, the reverend’s words felt more restrictive and hollow, twisting August’s gut with hypocrisy.
Miss Nettles only appeared at forced weddings. The demure modiste used her great talents to make resplendent gowns to hide scandals as she had done for his sister, Sarah.
Forced weddings—teary-eyed misses having to wed bought off or threatened grooms. Where was the romance in this?
Not that he was a romantic one. August was a pragmatist who could count costs.
A chill wrapped about his spine as if he'd been caught sloughing by his late father. Though he thought St. George’s was given to sneeze-inducing drafts, this was different. August made a sly scan of the pews and saw his half-brother, the overbearing, Maximillian Sedgewick, Earl of Haverthon, seated near the front.
Pulse rising, August ducked down. Purposely enduring bad posture, he stilled on the seat. He could not afford another terse conservation or anything that would delay his meeting with Miss Nettles.
Haverthon would pry, ask searching questions about the sisters he had no care for, the man who deprived them of dowries. August didn’t need Miss Nettles to see his family squabbles. She only had to know she could work with August.
Oh, no, the eagle eyes of Haverthon looked backed. Then he smiled as if no bad blood had passed between them. S
uch an actor. A hypocrite.
A groan left August’s mouth before he could stop it.
This earned a shhhhhh from Miss Nettles’ pouty lips and to witness her mouth pucker for him, might be worth making a noise again.
Smooth skin of reddish brown with eyes of polished mahogany, she was different than the other tradesmen he’d dealt with for his sister’s wedding or ever. Not that he was in the habit of admiring people he had to pay money.
But none had flecks of claret in their irises either or had been so generous and kind. Or refused his attempts at restitution.
Were his palms sweaty?
Unusual, this reaction to someone to whom he was indebted.
Distracting.
He noticed again the shy way she bit her lip.
Drawn.
He was drawn to her, every time he watched her walk away. It had been a long time, since anyone affected him like this, if they ever held his attention so completely.
If he hadn’t been his usual penny-saving self, would they be on better terms?
At the front of the church, the reverend asked the groom and bride to kneel.
Miss Nettles dipped her head. “Seams. Please don’t rip. Please don’t rip.”
August didn’t quite know why she uttered this, but the look of relief, the joy in her eyes when the couple stood, made his breath catch.
Before he could assess if he was coming down with chills, Miss Nettles slipped away.
The modiste fled to the rear of the church and opened a side door.
Barely having the chance to slap on his hat to brave the rain, he gave chase.
The woman was fast and undaunted by the April showers. She kept moving. Her tan boots splashed through puddles as if she had no care of her feet getting soaked. The dampness could cause an illness and ruin expensive shoes.
She turned down a street, and August followed. “Miss Nettles, wait.”
He called after her again, but she acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Maybe she hadn’t. Congestion from an illness? That could clog ears.
“Miss Nettles.”
She stopped at the entry to the mews. Her shoulders slouched, her chin lowered as she stepped out of the rain. “Yes, Mr. Sedgewick. What is it you want?”
A penitent tone was best, something soothing that sounded sorry. He was, but between the drafty church and the rain, he’d be hoarse. He followed her inside, moving far from the door and took off his hat. Thinking of how to broach the topics of repayment and the benefactor’s challenge, he rolled the brim of his crown felt hat in his hands. “Thank you for finally stopping, Miss Nettles. I’ve visited your shop several times since my sister’s wedding and every day this past week.”
Her stare through the brass spectacles made her eyes seem large and bright. But she said nothing.
He stepped closer. “Why do you have a shop if you are never there?”
Her arms folded about her middle. She wore a smart outfit of indigo blue with wide cuffs and brass buttons. Again, she said nothing, only tweaked her spectacles.
“Please say something. Must you keep punishing me?”
Her head whipped like the snap of a horse’s reins, and her gaze turned from ice to fire.
He felt a thousand times warmer.
“Sir, my whereabouts are none of your concern.”
“I…I was just wondering about the cost. It must be very expensive to lease a warehouse, especially if you are never there.”
“I meet clients there by appointment, by appointment only. I’m quite busy.”
“Business must be good?”
Pulling a watch out of her weighty looking reticule, she clicked her tongue. “I’m wasting time, sir. I need to leave for another appointment. Since you will continue to show up where you're not wanted, slowing me down, just tell me what it is you wish to know.”
“I do have questions, but maybe this is not the right place.”
He moved closer, close enough to count breaths breaking over her lip like waves along the seashore. “Could I meet with you tomorrow afternoon? Surely you could make time from what, two or three dress appointments a day?”
With a hand on her hip, she studied her swinging watch. “Are you counting my receipts in your head? I have no time for this.”
“Let me make an appointment? Or must I be a pregnant woman to garner your attention?”
“Or a prostitute. I sell well to courtesans.”
He laughed. “You have quite a sense of humor. That I remember from our negotiations.”
“Don’t you have someone else to annoy? Maybe you can convince a beggar on the street out of a coin or two. They may like your banter.”
“No, you’ll do.”
Her radiant eyes shot daggers or sewing needles at him, but it was fun to tease her merely to see those fascinating full lips hiss.
“Nice seeing you again, Mr. Sedgewick.”
Securing her bonnet, she walked past him toward her gig.
He wished she meant her statement about “nice to see” him. It was nice to see her. She’d stayed on his mind since they met.
If he couldn’t change her opinion of him, perhaps her logical mind could be tempted by business. He caught up to her again. “Miss Nettles, I’m glad your trade is doing well. It sounds as if it would make a good investment. Are you looking for investors?”
That was a good way to put the benefactor’s challenge.
He positioned himself at her side. She was of good height, her wide bonnet brim meeting at his shoulder.
“I’m looking for good opportunities, Miss Nettles. I’d like to invest in yours. You seem to be a good business woman.”
She motioned to a groom to bring her gig around. “If I was as good as you now contend, then I would not have let you cheat me.”
“I didn’t cheat you. You merely gave up on our disagreement over the price of my sister’s gown. I can’t change the past. You won’t let me repay you now.”
Spinning to him, she poked at his lapel. “I gave that gown to your sister to stop her tears on her wedding day.”
“It was a negotiation. The gown was for my sister. I love my sisters, all of them. I would have relented if you hadn’t given up.”
“She did not know that. I didn't either. I won’t have her shamed or any woman shamed not when I can help.”
Her eyes craned to the left and the side of her neck pulsed. “Good day, sir.”
“A passion for your client stirs?”
“Yes. Now if you’ll just—”
“I’m sorry. My sister’s new husband-to-be had twisted me up, demanding larger and larger amounts. I thought… I’m sorry.”
She stared over his head, the crystal lens of her spectacles sparkling. “I hope you let your sister know.”
“She does know. If you knew me, then you’d believe I’d do anything…just about…yes, anything for my sisters.”
“But you put such strain on Sarah on her wedding day—there should be an appropriate punishment.”
Punishment? August had indeed been punished. His mind stewed painting him as the Scourge of God, a horrid miser. Regret clogged his sense of decency, congesting his soul every night since the wedding, every time he opened his ledger book and saw the unreconciled credit for the gown.
A young man working the mews brought over a nag, a poor workhorse that looked as if he’d fall at any moment.
Her reticule fell as she scrambled onto the seat of her gig.
August swooped up the heavy bag and then clasped the reins. “Miss Nettles, this gelding needs to be put to pasture. It surely can’t be safe to go another minute—”
“Sir, my horse and I are of no concern of yours.”
“I am concerned. This horse isn’t safe. He could leave you on the road or somewhere worse. No harm should ever come to you.” He ducked his head for a moment sorting through his tasks for the day and cancelled them all. “I feel strongly about this. Let me take you on your appointments. Then I’ll know you shall be safe.”
“Such generosity from you, Mr. Sedgewick?”
Juggling her heavy reticule in one hand, he reached with the other and pulled from his pocket her fee, a note for one thousand, three hundred pounds. “This should balance our scale. I’ve tried to meet with you to give you this. You worked hard, too hard to have nothing.”
She blinked as if stunned but shook her head.
Things had to be righted. He pushed the note into her hands. “Take this payment. I’ll sleep easier knowing you’ve been compensated, and I won’t sleep at all thinking you’ve broken down this day and been beset by footpads.”
“Protecting me from thieves, other thieves. Gallant too, sir?”
“Please stop thinking ill of me, particularly when I’d like to be your business partner.”
Her tender lip vibrated, but no air released this time. Was that good or did that mean she was madder?
Miss Nettles tugged the reins from him. “I almost thought you were serious in your apology, but you’re merely trying to manipulate me.”
Madder.
Fiery inferno mad from her heated stare, the tension in her delicate jaw.
She tore his note to pieces. “Once I decide something, then it is done. I gifted that gown, all my labor, every inch of the fabric, the lace, the beading to your sister. If you feel guilty, donate the money to a foundling hospital. That's where shamed unwed mothers deposit the children they must abandon.”
He picked up the torn pieces of his note. “Your answer is no to settling this debt or no to me?”
She bristled, looking lovely and exasperated.
People from the wedding, black and gray tailcoats, and ladies attired in muted colors of spring entered the mews.
The modiste seemed to shrink upon her seat. “Mr. Sedgewick. I’m going to be late.”
“I’d make sure you were on time. I’ll take you anywhere in London and beyond. I raise strong horses for such purposes. No more talk of partnering or debt, just safety. May I help?”
She massaged her hands as if they hurt. “You’re a thick one, Mr. Sedgewick. The steps of St. George’s are so close. Can’t you hear it calling? Sanctuary. Sanctuary.”