Some Like It Scandalous

by Maya Rodale

  While many in Manhattan are curious about the wedding plans for the forthcoming Swan-Prescott match, all anyone really wants to know about is the dress.

  —The New York Post

  The House of Adeline

  Daisy may still have had the taste of him on her lips, but she had absolutely no intention of marrying Theodore Prescott the Third and yet here she was, being fitted for a wedding dress. And not just any wedding dress, but one that would leave no question in anyone’s mind that a spinster wallflower like Daisy deserved the likes of Theodore Prescott the Universally Adored.

  “It should be the pinnacle of fashion,” Evelina Swan told Adeline Black, who was presently the dressmaker for Manhattan’s elite, soon to be the duchess of Kingston, and eternally a woman who did not need to be told about fashion.

  It should not be anything, Daisy thought. It should not even exist.

  Just because they had shared a kiss or two and now, apparently, a business venture, didn’t mean she actually wanted to marry him. They had despised each other for more than a decade and had only managed some sort of truce in the past few weeks. This new, fragile something between them was too new and fragile to be the basis of a lifetime together.

  And now they might not even have to say “I do.” In the space of one afternoon, Theo had taken the tragically named Daisy’s Complexion Balm and reimagined it as The Midnight Miracle Cream: Feels like a dream! She could readily admit that if she had a chance of success, it was in part because of him. And she really, truly felt like they did have a chance of success.

  So she really did not need this dress.

  “I have a vision of a wedding dress like Consuelo Vanderbilt’s—but fancier, and more expensive,” her mother said.

  No, Daisy thought. Just no.

  Adeline tilted her head as if she was actually considering it and murmured, “Hmmm.”

  “I think satin and lace,” her mother said.

  I think a smart traveling suit, Daisy thought. For when I flee the country. Alone. Rather than don a monstrosity of a gown and marry a man I don’t love.

  “I have recently obtained some lace that had been handmade by three sisters—identical triplets—in a nunnery in Belgium,” Adeline said. “They used silver thread that had been locked in a castle for a hundred years but somehow miraculously preserved. It was hand delivered by a lady-in-waiting to the queen.”

  “I suppose that will do,” her mother sighed.

  Daisy wanted to scream into an upholstered pillow.

  This was getting out of hand.

  This was officially too much.

  Thank God she had an ally in this farce.

  Daisy and the dressmaker exchanged a look. This was not their first time collaborating on a gown. The House of Adeline had supplied all of Daisy’s most fashionable frocks. Unbeknownst to Mrs. Swan, they were both members of the Ladies of Liberty Club. Daisy knew she could count on Adeline to take her side. It was the saving grace of this nightmare of a dress fitting.

  “And what do you think, Miss Swan?” Adeline inquired.

  “Why don’t we go with something simple?” Daisy replied breezily. “Something very modest, as well. Definitely a veil. Instead of satin, let’s consider bombazine. And instead of white, let’s make everything black.”

  “Daisy! Black is for mourning! You are describing a mourning dress!”

  “Exactly. I shall be in mourning for the death of freedom. The death of my hopes and dreams of spinsterhood or at least a marriage for love. It will be the death of innocence and hope and—”

  “How can you not fall in love with Theo?” her mother asked incredulously. “He’s wealthy, well connected, and so . . . pretty.” Mrs. Swan turned to Adeline and said, “Her fiancé is incredibly good-looking. She’ll need a gown that holds its own when she stands beside him.”

  “I see,” Adeline said.

  Daisy looked away, but caught her reflection in the mirror. The nose a trifle too big, the eyes a little too close set, the mouth that was nothing to write poems about. Her hair, which couldn’t decide if it was blond or brown. She wasn’t pretty. An extravagant gown wouldn’t hide or distract from that fact. She would only look like a woman trying too hard to be something she was not, which Daisy steadfastly refused to do.

  “Mrs. Swan, why don’t you take a look at our fabric selections while enjoying some refreshments?” Adeline offered as she ushered her out of the fitting area. “Please do look for just the right satin in a shade that you think is suitable. I’ll confer with Miss Swan on her measurements. Whether a wedding gown or a mourning dress, it must fit perfectly!”

  This was a relief to all parties involved. The moment her mother was out of earshot, Daisy turned to Adeline and said, “There will be no wedding. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  “If you couldn’t make the dress in time, it would not be a catastrophe,” Daisy said, as an idea occurred to her. She brightened considerably. “In fact, we couldn’t possibly go through with the wedding if something happened to the dress.”

  “One could not possibly get married in any old dress,” Adeline agreed. Perhaps one could, but not if one was going to marry the most eligible bachelor in Manhattan in an extravagant wedding organized by Mrs. Evelina Swan.

  “We’ll have to ruin it somehow. At the last minute,” Daisy said, thinking quickly.

  “What did you have in mind?” Adeline smiled mischievously.

  “Fire. Flood. Ink stains. It could be stolen, lost, or never made in the first place. I’m not particular.”

  Adeline’s smothered chuckle turned into a lovely, full-bellied laugh. Daisy couldn’t help but join in.

  “What will your fiancé say to all this?” Adeline asked.

  “He is wholly supportive of my plans. Or he will be, when I inform him of them.”

  “That’s something special to have a fiancé who is supportive of one’s plans. It’s a wonderful thing to have a co-conspirator.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Daisy found herself agreeing. Thus far, Theo had been a good sport about this fake engagement business, which made the whole thing a little more bearable.

  “It’s not every day one finds a man who shares the same dreams. And one who will support you in yours,” Adeline said. And she didn’t even know the half of it; that Theo was the only one so far who had wholeheartedly embraced her dreams of creating and selling her own preparations. That was above and beyond a shared dream of not wishing to wed each other. This was, she might concede, something special.

  “I certainly hadn’t in the past twenty-five years,” Daisy said. “But now . . .”

  “But there are more things to consider in a partner of course,” Adeline continued. “Like passion. Kissing. Making love. These are important considerations, too.”

  To this, Daisy only said, “Hmm.” Why did everyone want to talk to her about kissing lately?

  “From that blush on your cheeks and the dreamy look in your eyes I’m guessing you have . . . considered it.”

  “Perhaps,” Daisy admitted, and to her mortification, her cheeks felt awfully hot. Because ever since that kiss with Theo in the drawing room—the one that wasn’t enough—she had been considering kissing him. A lot. More. Pity, then, that he’d been busy on errands and hadn’t come to call and so there really hadn’t been an opportunity to see if they might just maybe perhaps kiss again.

  “Are you sure you want to call off the wedding?”

  “Completely. Utterly. Absolutely.”

  “What shall I do about the dress?”

  That was the question. The dress that Mrs. Swan was envisioning—all that satin, that fancy lace, and probably some pearls, too—would be an extraordinary expense. One the Swan family might not even be able to afford. The dress would be a work of art and it would require hours and hours and hours of delicate work by Adeline’s team of highly skilled seamstresses. Minutes, hours, days, weeks of their lives dedicated to a gorgeous gown that would never be worn.

&n
bsp; What a waste.

  And yet . . . there was the small complicating factor of the way Theo had kissed her once, twice, and she wanted more. There was also the complicating factor of their burgeoning business, which, if it worked, would give her the life she always wanted: mistress of her own fate, a creative outlet that assured she could afford her own independence. She couldn’t risk all that for just a few kisses.

  Besides, they had raised a glass to not getting married.

  And so, Daisy was not prepared to don an extravagantly and exquisitely crafted gown and walk down the aisle in front of all of New York Society when she wasn’t sure that she wanted him to be waiting at the altar.

  With confidence, Daisy said, “There will be no dress.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The couple of the hour has hardly been seen at society events recently. One wonders what they are up to instead.

  —The New York Post

  27 Union Square

  The newspapers reported that the Rogues of Millionaire Row were up to no good again. They were in Newport—or, more precisely, on a yacht—with a bevy of tycoons, an assortment of actresses, and a seemingly endless quantity of champagne. Theo was not with them.

  He had spent the week in the city.

  Working. Yes, working.

  But it hadn’t felt like his previous experiences with work, when he’d been sent to shadow a factory manager and ruined his best pair of boots or when he’d been given a desk at his father’s office and told to make himself useful. Which he failed to do.

  But when it came to surveying the options of glass and crystal jars for the Midnight Miracle Cream, or designing and producing a label, the hours had passed pleasantly and he had something to show for his efforts at the end of the day. This was a satisfaction like he’d never known.

  That wasn’t the only task that had kept him busy from dawn till dusk.

  He had something else to show Daisy and he’d never, ever anticipated something as much as he did this. It had consumed his every waking hour. It had tested his connections, his education, and his commitment to this mad venture. He was deeply proud of his work and had every expectation that Daisy would be thrilled.

  It was vitally important to him that Daisy be thrilled.

  “Close your eyes,” he told her. The carriage had dropped them at one end of the bustling city square, just steps away from the Ladies’ Mile. He just needed her to close her eyes the last few steps until their destination.

  “That requires an amount of trust I am not sure that I am prepared to extend to you,” Daisy replied.

  “And here I thought we were friends now,” Theo remarked.

  “A stunning, unexpected turn of events.”

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Theo asked.

  “Bad. Of course. Immediately.”

  “I have not had success getting the department stores to stock the Midnight Miracle Cream.” That was the task that had not been satisfying and had been downright demoralizing. The department store managers took his meeting—the name Theodore Prescott did tend to open doors in this town—but they were not convinced by his sales pitch about proper, respectable women stepping out in public to purchase such intimate items, most usually associated with actresses and “actresses.” He added, “They are not confident that the sort of clientele they cater to will take kindly to the kind of product we’re selling.”

  Daisy pressed her lips into a line. She was obviously disappointed. But she needn’t be—Theo had figured it all out. That was what he was so excited to show her.

  “And the good news?”

  “Close your eyes.” Arm in arm, he guided her halfway down the block. Past the shops and boarding houses. Alongside the horses, carriages, and pedestrians walking along the sidewalk in a rush. He brought them to a stop in front of one particular storefront.

  “Open your eyes, Daisy.”

  He watched her face as her lashes lifted up, as her gaze settled on the large, lavender sign above the windowed storefront. His heart was pounding. He realized he was nervous because this mattered—and not just to get out of the wedding, either. He wanted his work to be remarkable and for his business partner to find it agreeable.

  “I thought we could open our own shop. What do you think?”

  “Doctor Swan?” The name on the sign was Dr. Swan’s Apothecary.

  “I thought a bigger name for the business was in order, in the event that you create other products. The doctor adds a touch of respectability. Madame Swan’s sounded too much like a brothel, I thought.” Daisy’s expression didn’t betray her thoughts or feelings. He asked nervously, “Do you like it?”

  “It looks . . . expensive, Theo. I’ve been saving my allowance for ages to prepare the initial batch of the Midnight Miracle Cream. I have enough for that, but I certainly don’t have enough for such an impressive sign. And a whole store to go with it.”

  “Don’t worry about that. A friend’s father cut me a deal. And I took out a loan.”

  “Oh.”

  It was not a good oh. It was an oh that fell flat and died fast.

  “Let me show you the inside.”

  The floors were gleaming hardwood; the chandeliers were crystal and shiny brass. The walls were lined with mirrors and glass shelves to display the products. In the center of the room there was a large carved wooden counter with a gray marble top. Stacked upon it were piles of Dr. Swan’s Midnight Miracle Cream in their new cut-glass jars meant to look like crystal. The labels were printed on a soft lavender paper that reminded him of Daisy: cool, but sweet. Feminine, but not cloyingly so.

  He had spent the better part of the week getting the shop and the product in order. To find just the right look that conveyed sensation, not scandal. Beautiful, but accessible.

  The only thing that kept Theo from thoroughly taking pride in his task was the knowledge that this was not the purpose or professional work that his father had envisioned for him. In fact, his father would probably disown him if he discovered that this was what had kept his son busy and . . . happy.

  They were Prescott Steel! Strong, hard, and long-lasting. It was the stuff of massive, phallic skyscrapers and dangerous weapons—manly, masculine stuff.

  Glass was delicate, prone to shattering. It was pretty. And it was for ladies.

  But now Theo only had eyes for Daisy, who did a slow turnaround, taking it all in. She picked up a jar and examined it from all angles. She opened the lid and breathed in. Yes, it was her genius product just in a new package.

  “Oh . . .”

  This oh had a little more life in it.

  “We’ll need to hire some salesgirls,” he said. “People who can explain the product and help sell it.”

  “I can handle that. I have a connection,” she said without a second thought.

  “Of course.”

  “This is all so . . . beautiful, Theo. It’s so luxurious for such an industrious product.”

  “I thought that since we were doing something people consider tawdry, we should make the space radiate beauty and quality.”

  “That’s a good idea. You certainly managed it.”

  “Wait, there is more to show you.” This was the part he was especially keen to show her. It was his atonement, perhaps, for calling her Ugly Duck Daisy so long ago. It was his way of recognizing her talents, of encouraging her beyond just words. It was a genuine compliment, in physical form. And as he saw it, this was her ticket to freedom from him.

  Theo took her hand and led her through an unmarked door to a private room brightly lit by large windows and those new electric lights. The center of the room was dominated by a large laboratory table with a black soapstone counter.

  This was one soft, breathless “Oooooh.”

  “I don’t know what equipment you’ll need, and I wouldn’t presume to guess. Given that this is your area of expertise, I have a supplier standing by for whatever you wish to order. You have space here to make the product and do experiments an
d create more. I thought that since you’re graduating soon, you will need laboratory space . . .”

  “Oh, Theo.” She turned to him and her eyes were bright with—gah, were those tears? That was not the reaction he’d been aspiring to. He didn’t want to make her cry. “Theo, this is remarkable. And so thoughtful. And possibly the kindest, most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Not just a pretty face after all.

  She liked it. Theo breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the wall and watched as she walked around, traced her fingers along the soapstone tabletop, noted the open shelves waiting for her equipment, and peeked out the window (the view wasn’t much; this was the ground floor of a Manhattan building, after all).

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “You’re not the only one with your heart set on independence from your family.”

  “You want to get out from under your father’s thumb, don’t you?”

  “I know this isn’t what he had in mind for me—anything other than Prescott Steel would be a disappointment—but I hope that if we’re successful enough he’ll be somewhat impressed. Maybe he’ll even approve.”

  “Why does it matter so much that he does?”

  “Why wouldn’t it? Don’t you want your mother’s approval?”

  “It would be nice. But I know she loves me regardless so . . .” His face must have betrayed him and Daisy kindly refrained from finishing the sentence or pursuing the matter further. Because that was the thing; he didn’t know that his father loved him unconditionally. He didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to make this work.

  Instead, she turned and wandered around the store slowly and he was glad she let the matter drop. She seemed to like everything, but hers was not the joyful display he’d been hoping for.

  “What’s wrong, Daisy? You seem . . . whelmed.”

  “It’s so much. So fast,” Daisy explained. “For so long, it was all mine and now it’s . . . not. I never imagined sharing it. But already it’s as much yours as it is mine.”

  “I didn’t realize—”