by Kelly Bowen
She put her reticule down between their chairs, then smoothed her skirt and made a gentle landing upon the seat.
August smiled, looking at her with that happy, hungry look he’d given her since Hyde Park. “I apologized two days ago for the kiss we shared. I’m not a rake, Mary-Anne. I’m not one to lead young women astray, but I’m not sorry we kissed. I’d like to kiss you again when you’re done being mad. I just want permission this time.”
Now, in front of London, he’d make such a confession? Her cheeks felt hot, and she dug in her bag for her fan. “You do know how to ruin a great pique.”
“Mary-Anne, I’m glad you’re with me. I’m glad we are working together.”
He would say that when she’d proposed to be aloof. August was winning. Her heart was lost.
“Very good, sir. I’ve never been to the theater. Madame described the grandeur. It sounded wonderful.”
He put her hand within his. “A night of firsts and new beginnings.”
His face was close to her cheek. Handsome, funny, with eyes the color of his waistcoat, his grin said too much.
“I’ve never gone to the theater.”
“Yes, Mary-Anne, you said this. You should think of other things to say to me.”
Music started below, preventing her response. She listened to the horns and singing while studying the rich ruby velvet curtains that dressed their box and the tapestry covering the chairs.
Adjusting her spectacles, she noted the people seated below and in other boxes across Drury Lane.
Arrayed in their best, ostrich feathers and a pallet of colors, a pastel garden in bloom offered so many ideas of new designs, new dresses. If August’s plan worked, her vision of new dresses for her new patrons would be endless.
“A guinea for your thoughts, Mary-Anne.”
“Why so much, Mr. Sedgewick?”
“I understand the cost of quality. Enjoy the theater until Haverthon arrives. No work.”
Work. Church. Work. A little eating and sleeping tossed in for good measure—that was her routine. Her life seemed so dull and lifeless now.
August Sedgewick’s world was much bigger and more vibrant.
He looked sublime in a jacket made to fit, one that showcased his broad shoulders, his lean physique.
When he took time, the man shined. His thick dark hair had been brushed to a luster. Even the errant curl on his brow, that was in want of being fingered into place, sparkled blue-black. The waistcoat she’d made looked wonderful against his crisp white shirt and cravat that had been properly ironed.
“You’re staring at me again. Is this good or are you attempting to remake me? Please don’t, you’ve already made me the finest outfit I own.”
“Why do you make it so difficult to hate you?”
“Because I don’t want to be hated by you. I want you.”
His chin lifted, a quick head turn followed.
Something caught August’s attention.
He picked up her hand and kissed it, the action exaggerated but riddled with pride. “Haverthon is here.”
His voice was a whisper, and it prickled her skin all the way to her shoulder.
“In his box, one level down directly across.” His tortured breath fell upon her neck. “I suspect that is his intended.”
Peering down, Mary-Anne angled her spectacles and spied a man of August’s height, maybe a little taller with similar dark hair. On his arm was a young woman. Something thick floated about her elegant neck that sparkled. But it was easy to tell a nose lifted high in the air and tendrils of sunshine gold.
Mary-Anne’s heart seized.
Madame Labonne sat in the spectator’s row on the same level. If she saw her and August, she’d know their ruse. Being tricked would hurt her. Time to confess.
She started to wave, but August caught her hand. “No, that’s not wise, not when Haverthon is staring at us.”
Mary-Anne put her arm down confused by August’s tone, but then she glanced again at her best client.
Madame’s head was down, but Mary-Ann could tell she wore the off-white gown her assistant had delivered. The dress offered a regal silhouette with epaulette upon the sleeves.
Dabbing her face with a handkerchief, Madame looked toward Haverthon’s box.
The earl’s head turned toward Madame’s section, and then he leaned forward and whispered something to his bride-to-be. Both laughed, loud, louder than the music.
Mary-Anne figured out who Madame’s earl was.
It had to be Haverthon.
He was Madame’s lover. The man her client, her friend, had struggled to love these past three years.
Creating the wedding dress of the season would be the final insult to Madame.
Dreams were funny things. She wanted to be a celebrated modiste, but didn’t want to hurt a friend. That could never be her dream, and she’d never hurt another woman not when she could help.
She lifted from her chair and went to the rear of the box.
“Wait,” August said, scrambling to catch her arm.
His grasp stung through the thin satin.
She snatched her hand away. She wasn’t in kid gloves.
“The performance has just begun. It should get better.”
“I have to go, August. I must.”
“Mary-Anne, please. Haverthon hasn’t seen you. What of our plan to get you better clients?”
“You’ll have to find another way to make a commission. Haverthon is Madame’s patron. Did you know?”
“Yes, but not until I was your mute eunuch. He will marry this time, and Madame doesn’t need an interest in a man who doesn’t care for her wellbeing, her feelings.”
“She’s here tonight, August, and she’s humiliated. You could have told me. I would have dissuaded her from coming to the theater. This is my fault.”
“If Haverthon sees you with Madame Labonne, you’ll never design the dress for his bride. You will forfeit your chance at making the wedding dress of the century.”
“Then I won’t design it. Excuse me, August.” She left him and went into the corridor.
He followed and put a hand to her elbow, sliding the glove, his fingers stroking her skin. The contact was raw, hotter than the fire in the lantern overhead.
“Mary-Anne, the dress business is not my only interest in you. Let’s go discuss this.”
She tugged her hands about her stomach. “I left my reticule.”
“I’ll get it then take you back to the warehouse. I’ll escort you to Madame’s tomorrow.”
But Madame Labonne ran into the corridor. She glanced in Mary-Anne’s direction and held out her arms. “It’s trouble when they learn to talk.”
She went to her client, her friend and clasped her arm. “Madame, may I trouble you for a ride?”
“Of course, ma chère. And you were right, Miss Nettles. My earl’s not worth the trouble.”
August was half in the box, half in the corridor. “Wait, Mary-Anne. I’ll take you home.”
Madame stepped between them. “She’s done with you, eunuch.”
“Madame, this is August Sedgewick. He’s my—”
“The cheap brother of swine. They are all swine. Why else would you have tears in your eyes?”
Madame started saying a string of French phrases that didn’t sound sweet or alluring, but she was right about the tears and the need to leave. “I need a friend, August, not a business partner.”
“Don’t go. Let me get your bag.” He dipped back into their box.
But she left with Madame and walked out of Drury Lane.
One of the link boys used his fiery torch to lead the way to Madame’s carriage. Mary-Anne needed to be out of society and away from August and the intense feelings he evoked. He was a part of this world that made Madame and so many others feel worthless and ugly.
Mary-Anne was done.
In the darkness of Madame’s carriage, she listened to her weep.
And she cried too.
Tears fo
r August.
Tears for not realizing she had the perfect clients, ones who needed each of their gowns to be their “dress of the century.”
She put her arms about Madame, thankful for the lesson even if she also gained a broken heart.
August was left holding the bag, Mary-Anne’s reticule, again. In the seconds it took to retrieve her reticule, she’d disappeared.
Perhaps he could catch her outside of Drury Lane waiting for Madame’s carriage.
He’d made a hash of things. His idea to make her an enigma to draw Haverthon in would have worked. The way his brother kept looking toward their box—the plan had begun to succeed.
There had to be a way to fix this and give Mary-Anne her dreams.
He opened the door to the stairs and almost rammed into his brother.
Smirking, Haverthon popped into the corridor and blocked his path.
Immaculate tailcoat, silver striped waistcoat with shiny pearl buttons. “Sedgewick, there you are. Are you in a rush?”
“A little, Haverthon.”
The earl leaned against the wall, obstructing the way even more. “I didn’t think you enjoyed the theater. I thought you had better use for your coins.”
It was a little late to shove the reticule behind his back, so he stood there, bag in palm staring at his brother. “It’s passable entertainment. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“I stopped by your house. A very cozy thing willed to you by dear stepmother. It’s very fine.”
“I hear multiple marriages has its privileges. I’m lucky. Our sisters are too.”
“You’ve managed to keep the other two out of trouble, for this year at least.” He picked at lint or was it a dark hair, a long curly hair from August’s coat. A gift or a consequence of a shared whisper with Mary-Anne.
“A new companion, Sedgewick? I thought you had no time for such frivolities.”
“A man can change his mind.”
“Or a woman can change his mind. I’ve seen you two on a number of occasions. What are your plans?”
“Mine? I’m sure you’ll hear about it through a relative. But congratulations on your upcoming engagement.”
“It’s not official, but I do like the young lady and her father is just at the sum I want for the dowry. Her eldest sister recently married, and I saw you and your new friend at the wedding. I’ve been tracking you both ever since.”
What? Not just from Hyde Park?
Haverthon had been spying on him and Mary-Anne?
“I offer you my congratulations, you’ve snagged an heiress. There’s no other explanation for your galivanting in town, about town, borrowing the landau. Spending money.”
“I wouldn’t say galivanting, but why are my activities of interest? Haven’t you disowned this part of the family? Our recently married sister is doing well, by the way. You’re an uncle of a healthy baby boy.”
“If I had known my dear little brother had it in him to marry money, I might’ve been more considerate.” He straightened August’s cravat. “Can’t we make nice now?”
“What is it you want, Haverthon?”
“Now, Sedgewick, don’t be miffed. But now that you’ve asked, I’m always trying different types of investments. I could advise you and your new friend.”
“I’ll advise her if she needs anything.”
“You will need the family’s approval. Her money is gold, but she’s still of another race. My good word could go far.”
Mary-Anne’s dream of being a modiste like the ones on Bond Street needed the good word of a few of society’s peers, but his brother was up to no good. Still, it was good to know their ruse worked. Haverthon thought Mary-Anne was an heiress.
“Good evening, brother.”
He tried to step around the earl, but the man shifted positions again.
“I’ve heard she designs dresses, and she looked quite fetching tonight. But, there’s nothing like a fetching fetish.”
August readied to pummel his brother in the corridor of the top story of Drury Lane.
“Go ahead if you dare, Auggy Segewedgy, unless you’re coming down with something. It’s drafty.”
August pulled his arm back and punched toward the man’s glass jaw.
Haverthon caught the thrust with a grunt. His palm reddening from the blow.
“You’ve grown stronger, Auggy, but the air is too crisp. Might catch a cold from all the exertion.”
Haverthon shoved him backward. “I know your friend wants to design for the likes of my fiancée and her mother, the duchess and other peers. Bring her again to Hyde Park tomorrow. I’ll have my friend meet her. She’ll gain a new client. You’ll be a hero.”
“No.”
“Don’t be ashamed, Auggy. An heiress by any means for you is still an heiress. Her money will spend the same, and you are already used to not being informed of important occasions.”
August thought he’d become immune to his brother’s underhanded comments. If people hadn’t started exiting their boxes, he’d swing on Haverthon again. This time he wouldn’t be stopped. “I said goodnight.”
“I’ll be in the park tomorrow. Take your lady friend. Say around two? I want to meet her.”
“Why is this so important?”
“Isn’t what she wants important? Shouldn’t what matters to the dress designer be the most important thing?”
It was the opportunity Mary-Anne had wanted. He looked down at the reticule in his hand and sucked in all his bitterness. “I’ll see if she’s available.”
The earl preened as if he’d won something and let him pass. “Good, August. You’ve always been reasonable. This new project I’m working on will bloom with her…your new money.”
The smug man.
The rude horrid man.
But how could he take away the opportunity that Mary-Anne wanted?
August strode out of the theater to his empty carriage. His hopes that Mary-Anne had waited dashed.
He crashed upon the seat of his carriage and stashed her reticule on his lap.
He’d be up late tonight, looking at blank, artless walls trying to decide what to do. What was the best way, the least costly way, to make Miss Nettles’ dreams come true? He had a night to decide.
12
Up, Up, Up in The Air
Mary-Anne looked out the window as she sewed a new design for Madame. It was a vision of Joan of Arc, a gown to wear when she tossed out all of Haverthon’s things.
Her eyes turned to the clock on the mantel.
August’s note said he’d arrive at noon.
It was four minutes past noon.
He’d never been late.
Dressed in her bonnet and coat, a bright emerald green with pearl buttons on the cuffs, she peeked through the window glass then picked up the scrap of foolscap again. It wasn’t a new sheet of stationery, but a piece torn from another note. So resourceful, so frugal, so August.
Regardless of what she felt, she owed him a hearing out after abandoning him at the theater. Then they could be done.
Her stomach rumbled as the sound of a horse clip-clopping became louder.
August?
He was outside, but not in his carriage. He had arrived in her gig, pulled by a fancy silver horse. The one she’d chosen.
The one she’d picked after their first kiss.
August’s knock on her door set her heart’s pitter-patter to a stop.
She answered, and he came inside.
His gaze was bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept.
“Are you well, August?”
“No. Yes. I’m sorry I’m late.”
She put her hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”
He took both her palms and put them to his cheeks. “Just give me a moment. I’ll heat up.”
“August.”
Keeping her arm, he led her outside. “I brought your new horse and your gig as promised. It’s a slower drive than my carriage. I misjudged the time. Forgive me.”
She tou
ched the recovered seat, the fresh polish on the sides. It smelled of fresh pine, like August. Had he done this himself?
His fingers looked chaffed and raw. Surely, he had.
“It’s wonderful.” She circled the gig, making note of everything, the springs, the supports. “You changed the wheels?”
“Yes, they are wider, more stable.”
“This cost more than we agreed. I must owe you again.”
“It is I who owe you. Come with me. Let me make your dreams come true.”
“August, you’ve done enough.”
She saw his eyes clouding, the pools of lapis drifting away from her.
He put her reticule into her hands. “Is that what you think? I haven’t done enough, Mary-Anne. Come with me for a drive.”
The man looked tired, a little ill, truly ill. Her heart jumped out of her skin and wrapped about him, her August. “I’ll go where you take me. I trust you.”
His lopsided smile appeared. He helped her into the gig. Taking up the reins, he flipped his wrist as if to make the horse go, then stopped. “I need to know what you want, Mary-Anne. I want to make you happy.”
“What is it you think I want, August?”
“We both wanted you to be a famous modiste like those designers on Bond Street. Haverthon is ready to introduce you to his fiancée. If we go now to Hyde Park, you can have your chance.”
“If we don’t go, you’ll never get your commission for selling the bridal gown. Six hundred pounds is quite a fee for the introduction, sir.”
“It was six hundred and fifty pounds. And yes, it is. But, I’d be fine without it as long as you trust me.”
“Then, August, I’m going to let you take me where you think my dreams should lead.”
“Then I’m not taking you to Haverthon. He can be rather crude.”
“I think we have a new plan. August Sedgewick taking me for a drive.”
He put his hands upon hers and placed the leather reins between their linked palms.
She leaned into him and enjoyed his strong arms, the masterful movement of his arms driving her gig. Soon they were beyond Cheapside, beyond the city, very close to the road that led to Barebinder Lane.
“We are near Madame Labonne’s. I should check on her. She was upset when she dropped me home last night.”