by Turano, Jen
Oliver smiled. “I think I’ll just inform Mr. Blodgett that hair powdering is no longer in the job description.”
Harriet realized her hand was actually inching for the door after Oliver’s surprisingly considerate conclusion, but knew if she leapt out of the carriage, Abigail would be beyond annoyed with her. Settling for looking out the window instead, she tried to get her pesky emotions in check but found that next to impossible when thoughts of how charming Oliver was being toward everyone, including her friends, kept tingles running up and down her spine.
“Are you looking at Mrs. Fish?” Oliver suddenly asked, joining her at the window, his closeness bringing with him the scent of sandalwood.
Not turning her head a single inch, because that would have her face almost pressed up against his, Harriet peered into the darkness and smiled. Mrs. Fish was standing underneath a gas lamp in front of her house, the one Harriet and Oliver had visited only a few hours before, cradling Precious in her arms.
“I think she’s taking her cat for an evening stroll,” Oliver said before he leaned back and Harriet did the same.
“It was very touching how delighted she was to get her cat back,” she said.
Oliver patted her arm. “I found it very touching that you refused to take the reward she so very determinedly tried to give you.”
“Given that my aunt was responsible for abducting the cat in the first place, I actually felt as if I should pay Mrs. Fish for her distress.”
Alarm replaced every single one of Harriet’s tingles when she caught Archibald exchanging a very significant look with Abigail before both of them directed their attention to her. “What?” was all she could think to ask, earning herself another lesson from Abigail regarding the proper way to pose a question.
By the time Abigail finished, the carriage was pulling to a stop. Terror was immediate and only increased as one of the footmen helped Harriet down to the sidewalk. She found herself standing before an imposing building, one that had not one but four covered awnings guarding the doors leading into Delmonico’s. Perfectly groomed and, as Lucetta had mentioned, handsome doormen manned each door, and fashionably dressed customers were breezing through those doors as if they had every right in the world to be there.
Her terror kept her rooted to the spot.
She didn’t have that right. She was a hat maker, or at least she’d been one before she’d been dismissed from her position. Now she was simply a lady intent on becoming a seamstress, but not a seamstress for high society, a . . .
“You’re thinking entirely too much,” Oliver whispered in her ear, the feel of his breath against her skin causing her knees to begin wobbling all over again.
“I’m not thinking—well, not anything of worth,” she returned, wincing when she heard the clear panic in her voice. “I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.”
“The only way you’ll ever be ready is to just move forward.” Oliver grinned. “At least you know which fork is the oyster fork.”
“Yes, but I never bothered to actually eat any of those oysters your fancy French chef served, and . . . what if they make me gag?” She shuddered. “They’re . . . slimy.”
“True, but they taste exactly like steak, and you love steak—you told me so.”
Before she could protest further, Oliver took her by the arm, and she suddenly found herself standing in the entranceway of the most elaborate restaurant she’d ever seen. Each and every table she saw through the doorway was draped in fine linen, with candles fluttering everywhere, the light from them causing the crystal glasses on the tables to sparkle. Servers moved on silent feet around them and a delicious aroma of well-prepared food filled the air. She drew in a deep breath, slowly released it, but was still feeling a distinct desire to bolt when Mr. Everett Mulberry suddenly appeared right in front of her and sent her a wink.
The wink had her feeling a little better until the lady walking a step behind him came into view and Harriet felt her stomach lurch. Given that the lady was keeping remarkably close to Everett, Harriet knew she had to be none other than Miss Dixon—the Nightmare, as Archibald had called her. She was dressed in an exquisite gown of beaded silk, one that had most likely come from Paris, and she was beautiful. Her light brown hair was styled to perfection, but . . . the closer she came, the better Harriet could see her, and the hardness residing in the lady’s eyes diminished her beauty ever so slightly.
“That’s Miss Dixon,” Oliver told her.
“She’s . . . lovely.”
“Not as lovely as you are, and she’s not nearly as interesting.”
It was fortunate Oliver had a firm grip on her arm, because Harriet was fairly certain if he didn’t, she would have swooned right to the ground for the first time in her life, right at the man’s feet.
“Mr. Addleshaw,” Miss Dixon drawled as she came to a stop in front of them. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Miss Dixon,” Everett said, before he gestured to Harriet. “Allow me to present Miss Harriet Peabody. Miss Peabody, this is Miss Caroline Dixon.”
Miss Dixon barely spared her a glance and didn’t wait for a response from Harriet before turning her attention back to Oliver, handing him her hand, and then batting her lashes when he took it.
Irritation was immediate, but before Harriet could dwell on the reasoning behind it, Everett leaned closer to her.
“You’re doing fine.”
“What was that?” Miss Dixon snapped.
“I was telling Miss Peabody that she looks very fine this evening.”
“You didn’t tell me I look fine.”
“I believe I mentioned that you look stunning, which I believe is a fair deal better than fine,” Everett said calmly. “Now then, Oliver, I’m sure we should inquire whether or not the duke has arrived, but . . . never mind, I see him over there with your grandfather and Mrs. Hart.”
Harriet looked up, and sure enough, Archibald and Abigail were in the midst of a conversation with a gentleman who certainly appeared duke-like, not that Harriet had ever seen a real live duke before.
“Shall we join them?” Oliver asked.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt what seems to be a lovely conversation,” Harriet said weakly.
“Since we are here to dine with the duke,” Miss Dixon said coolly, “I’m sure he’s expecting us to go greet him, even if that means interrupting Mrs. Hart.” She lifted her chin. “Everett, take my arm and—”
“Oliver, come meet the duke,” Archibald called, his request cutting Miss Dixon off midsentence.
Oliver took hold of Harriet’s arm. “Ready?”
Knowing she really had no choice in the matter, and she had promised Oliver from the very beginning that she’d help him entertain his duke, she squared her shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Oliver lowered his head even as he did the same with his voice. “You’re looking a little terrified, so it might be a good idea to pull out one of those adoring looks I know you’ve been practicing, per my request, which will go far in allowing the duke to believe we’re truly attached.”
Harriet’s lips twitched. “I never got around to practicing that look again.”
Oliver grinned. “You really don’t enjoy taking orders, do you.”
Before she could respond to that bit of nonsense, he led her forward, bringing her to a stop directly in front of the tall and distinguished-looking gentleman standing by Archibald’s side.
Archibald smiled at her and then turned back to the gentleman. “Your Grace, allow me to introduce you to my grandson, Mr. Oliver Addleshaw and his lovely fiancée, Miss Harriet Peabody. This is the Duke of Westmoore.”
“How delightful, you’re engaged,” the duke said, his blue eyes twinkling as he nodded to Oliver and then stepped forward and took Harriet’s hand. He placed a dramatic kiss on it, released it and smiled. “Mr. Addleshaw is a very lucky gentleman.”
Right there and then, Harriet fell in love—not the romantic kind of love, but t
he adoring love one would have given to a favorite uncle or father, two things she’d never had. There was something that just seemed so normal about the duke, even though he possessed a lofty title. “Thank you,” she managed to mumble.
“You’re very welcome,” the duke replied before he nodded to Oliver. “We’ve corresponded, of course, but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I met your grandfather years ago when he was visiting London.”
“He’s spoken quite highly of you,” Oliver said as he shook the duke’s hand and gestured Everett and Miss Dixon forward. Introductions were made and then Harriet looked up and found herself staring at a young lady with deep blue eyes who was dressed in the first state of fashion, and who was also looking Oliver over as if he were a tasty treat she longed to sample.
“This tardy lady,” the duke said fondly, “is my daughter, Lady Victoria Grenville, but I’m afraid I must extend to everyone an apology from my wife, the Duchess of Westmoore. She was forced to remain back at the hotel due to the fact she isn’t feeling well.”
Lady Victoria pulled her attention away from Oliver, although she seemed to do so rather reluctantly, before she stepped to her father’s side and smiled. “And I must apologize for being inexcusably late in greeting everyone, but the manager offered to give me a tour of Delmonico’s, and I simply couldn’t resist going up to the third floor to view the ballroom. It’s quite impressive, although I found myself wishing the season was in full force so I’d be able to dance the night away in that room.”
“You’ll have to come back during the season, then, Lady Victoria,” Oliver said with a smile. “Our famous Patriarch Balls are held here upon occasion, and they always provide wonderful opportunities for dancing.”
Lady Victoria looked Oliver up and down, and then up and down again, even as her smile widened and her lashes began to flutter. A knot began forming in Harriet’s stomach the longer the lady fluttered, but then the duke stepped forward and began performing introductions. “Darling, may I present to you—Mr. Archibald Addleshaw, Mr. Oliver Addleshaw, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Mulberry, Miss Dixon, and Mr. Oliver Addleshaw’s fiancée, Miss Harriet Peabody.”
Lady Victoria’s fluttering came to an immediate halt as her gaze traveled over Harriet, then back to Oliver, and then . . . she released a sigh.
It was the sigh that had Harriet’s stomach unknotting as dismay flowed through her. The ramifications from Archibald announcing her and Oliver’s engagement were immediate, and she opened her mouth, intent on saying what, she really had no idea, but then Archibald gestured to a server dressed in a white shirt paired with black pants, and the opportunity to speak was gone.
“We’ve prepared the best table for your party,” the server said before he began leading them through the front entrance and into the dining room, where guests immediately turned their attention to them, their stares a little disconcerting.
Wanting to get to her seat as quickly as possible, Harriet increased her stride, allowing her to overhear Lady Victoria’s furious whispers to her father.
“You never mentioned he was engaged, and . . .”
Whatever else she was whispering got lost when Oliver pulled her to a more sedate pace.
“We’re not in a race, Harriet, and I’m fairly sure the table isn’t going anywhere, although . . . I do hope you’re not too upset over the idea we’ve been given a table that’ll be in clear view of all the other patrons.”
Stopping, Harriet waved his comment away. “While I certainly find the idea of everyone watching us as we eat a little daunting, that’s not what has me upset at the moment.”
“Honestly, Miss Peabody, it’s not quite the thing to stop with no warning. You almost caused me to run straight into you,” Miss Dixon snapped before she stepped around Harriet and pulled Everett forward, almost dragging the poor man in her obvious haste to get back to the duke.
“What has you so upset, then?” Oliver asked.
“We’re going to have to let it be known that our engagement isn’t exactly official and that we’re not truly attached.”
Frowning, Oliver leaned closer to her. “Why in the world would we do something like that? You’re doing marvelously at the moment, well, not standing here in the middle of the room, but I do believe you’ve already charmed the duke, and we haven’t even gotten to the first course yet.”
“Lady Victoria is interested in you. I have to say, given that she’s beautiful, wealthy, and holds a title, that the two of you would make a perfect match. That’ll never happen, though, if she continues believing your interest resides with me.”
“What?”
“Good thing Abigail isn’t close enough to hear your less-than-adequate posing of a question, but since you don’t seem to be comprehending what I’m telling you, I’ll keep this as simple as possible. Lady Victoria is attracted to you, and she also was under the impression you were eligible.” She drew in a breath and quickly released it. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover the duke brought his daughter to New York in order for the two of you to form an attachment to each other.”
Oliver, for some annoying reason, laughed. “You’re imagining things. No duke is going to try to wed his daughter to a man who has made his fortune through trade and finance.”
“You’re handsome and wealthy, so of course he’s going to try. Really, Oliver, since you and the duke are considering forming a business alliance, I hardly believe he’s opposed to gentlemen who earn their money through trade.”
“You find me handsome?”
“What are the two of you doing?” Abigail demanded, allowing Harriet the luxury of not answering Oliver’s question. “Archibald and the duke are waiting to take their seats, but they can’t do that until you take yours, Harriet. And I wouldn’t think it necessary for me to point out the obvious, but I don’t believe conversing in the middle of Delmonico’s—and in whispered tones, at that—is exactly what the two of you want to be doing. You’re now the objects of everyone’s speculation because it appears as if the two of you are arguing.”
“But . . . that’s perfect,” Harriet exclaimed, “and will go far in allowing Lady Victoria to realize Oliver and I aren’t in accord.”
“She’s lost her mind,” Oliver said to Abigail as he took a firm grip of Harriet’s arm. Before she knew it, she was sitting at a linen-draped table covered with crystal and gold-gilded china, staring at a menu that seemed to be in French.
She’d never had much exposure to French, and the little exposure she’d had certainly hadn’t prepared her for understanding what appeared to be exotic dishes.
Oliver leaned close to her. “Would you care for me to order for you?”
“Don’t you read French?” Miss Dixon demanded as she leaned over Everett and arched a brow at Harriet.
Harriet arched a brow of her own but was spared responding anything at all when the duke set aside his menu and sighed.
“I have no idea why menus must be written in French. Why, I’ve never taken to that language and am always forced to simply make an uneducated guess, never knowing what dishes are going to show up in front of me.” He looked directly at Harriet and then, to her amazement, he winked.
“Allow me to order for you as well,” Oliver offered, amusement lacing his tone.
“I too have trouble with French,” Lady Victoria proclaimed, batting her lashes again at Oliver, which he didn’t appear to notice as he disappeared behind his menu.
Why wasn’t he noticing?
Lady Victoria was perfect for him, and yet, he was barely paying the woman any mind at all. Even she knew that marrying an aristocrat was extremely sought-after amongst the elite of America and . . .
Four men in black jackets took that moment to appear at the table, reminding Harriet that she was supposed to be engaged in dinner conversation, not lost in confusing thoughts. She almost jumped out of her seat, though, when one of the men snapped an expensive-looking napkin right beside her and then placed it over her lap. She forced a
side the instinct to slap the man’s hand away and summoned up a smile. “Thank you,” she said, which earned her a nod from the server and a grin from Oliver, as if he’d been perfectly aware of the fact she’d almost just assaulted a member of the staff.
Wine flowed into the crystal glasses as Oliver began to place their orders, pausing when Miss Dixon cleared her throat. Oliver set his menu aside when Miss Dixon tossed him a charming smile and placed her own order in a somewhat questionable French accent. Everett, Harriet noticed, looked slightly appalled and more than a touch disgruntled.
Hiding a smile behind her wine glass, Harriet took a sip and immediately wished she hadn’t. The wine tasted bitter, and it took everything she had not to spit it out but swallow it instead.
“Do you not care for the wine?” the duke asked. He sat directly across the table from her, with Lady Victoria on one side of him and Abigail on the other.
“It’s . . . ah . . . hmmm,” was all she could manage to get out, her taste buds still reeling from the unpleasantness she’d forced on them.
“I’ve always believed that wine is an acquired taste,” Miss Dixon said, taking up her own wine glass before she sniffed it, smiled, and took a sip. “Delicious.”
Harriet looked away from Miss Dixon, noticed that the duke was still watching her, and decided there and then that she wasn’t going to spend the evening pretending to care for things she didn’t like in the least. “Wine is not my favorite choice of beverage, Your Grace. If you must know, I really prefer milk, or tea or . . . Apollinaris water.” She shot a glance to Abigail, and since Abigail was beaming back at her, she released a silent sigh of relief that she’d remembered the name of the mineral water that was apparently becoming all the rage within society.
The duke’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I always enjoy a cold glass of milk as well, Miss Peabody, although Apollinaris water certainly does quench a thirst.” He snapped his fingers, a server immediately appeared by his side, and to Harriet’s amazement, not only did he order her a milk, but himself one as well.