“You could seek out our hostess.”
True, but … “Lady Stonefield is busy, I’m sure.”
“But it can wait, surely. There are plenty of other people to show your dress off to.”
But Henrietta had stopped listening and started striding toward Lady Willow.
“Hen? Hen!” Ada hissed. “It’s not appropriate!”
Henrietta paused. Ada had the right of it. And she couldn’t afford to upset a mighty duke’s mighty daughter. But what about Lady Willow’s listless gaze? “I think she wants excitement, Ada, and perhaps a breach of etiquette can give it to her.” Besides, if she made an impression, the lady would remember her when planning her next wardrobe change. Which would likely be her trousseau.
Henrietta’s stomach rolled, thinking of Lord Rigsby’s hard, warm body next to hers on the bench last night. He’d visited her shop. And liked it. The fact sparked a warm glow deep in her chest. She squashed the feeling.
Ada made a military salute. “Good luck, then.”
Henrietta replied to the salute with a curt nod and crisp turn back toward her goal. She squared her shoulders and thought her plan through one more time. She could end up insulting this daughter of a duke. Lady Willow had likely never set a pinky toe outside the lines of proper behavior. She was being rewarded for it handsomely, too, with marriage to Lord Rigsby.
A future duke marrying a duke’s daughter. She imagined the wedding dress of a such a union. She imagined it coming from her shop. She imagined it completely different from the one she’d imagined for herself a year ago when Lord Rigsby had been simply Grayson, and she’d been his fiancée.
Henrietta stepped once in Lady Willow’s direction, then stopped, one elegant, slippered foot revealed beneath her swinging skirts. Surely, she didn’t actually plan to talk to Lady Willow.
Yes, she decided, she did. She had come to the house party to mingle with the aristocracy, and no one was higher than Lady Willow in this hierarchy except, of course, her father and mother. And the royal family. Well then, there were quite a few higher than Lady Willow, but none Henrietta herself had access to.
Henrietta put herself into motion once more and did not stop until she stood within a foot of Lady Willow. “Hello.” Henrietta dropped a curtsy.
Lady Willow surfaced from her blank reverie, blinked, and slowly rose from her chair.
“We’ve not been introduced, I know, and my approach is highly unusual,” Henrietta said. “But I wished to make your acquaintance, and I admit, had little patience to wait on a busy hostess for an introduction.”
“Ladies should always be introduced by mutual acquaintances,” Lady Willow intoned.
Mercy, what book had she memorized that line from? Henrietta should ask to borrow it.
“I’m not a lady, not technically. Have you heard of Blake Textiles?”
Lady Willow nodded.
“Blake is my father. Jem Blake.” She lowered her voice, set her fists on her hips and rocked back on her heels. “Self-made man,” she said, mimicking her father’s confident way of introducing himself.
Willow laughed loud, an unexpected bark. Had such a raucous sound come from such a dignified little body? Henrietta couldn’t help it. She laughed, too, then had to suppress a gasp when Lady Willow bobbed a curtsy and said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Blake.”
An uncomfortable melting feeling filled Henrietta’s chest. It felt inexplicably like friendliness. Her confusion must have registered on her face.
Lady Willow’s gaze dropped, and she mumbled, “I was much too loud. My apologies.”
“No, my lady. I’m the one who should apologize,” Henrietta said. “I should have never approached you, I know.”
“Why ever not?” Lady Willow asked, as if she hadn’t just pointed out the impropriety of Henrietta’s actions herself.
“As you pointed out, we’ve not been formally introduced. But also, I suppose, because you’re a duke’s daughter, and I’m the daughter of a factory owner.”
“Yes, true. But I’ve never met anyone who owned a factory.” Lady Willow’s head tilted to one side.
“Do I look like my father is in trade?”
“You look like everyone else. But nicer.”
Henrietta’s heart warmed. Oh, no. Absolute disaster. She liked Lord Rigsby’s new fiancée.
“Thank you.” What was she to say now? She should have planned this exchange better. She smoothed her skirts, thinking. Oh, yes! Skirts. And bodices and fine undergarments.
“Thank you. I felt rather bored until you came over,” Willow said.
“You looked it,” Henrietta replied without thinking. Mercy, had that response been gauche? She wouldn’t cringe, though, and she wouldn’t apologize. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Were you sleeping?”
Willow’s cheeks reddened. “No. I simply do not know what to do or who to talk to. I don’t know anyone here except for Mama. And Lord Rigsby. And Papa gave me a very short list of people I’m allowed to speak with.”
“Oh? May I ask who occupies such a list? Surely not me.”
Lady Willow hesitated. “No-o, you are not on it. There’s Mama and Papa and Lord Rigsby, of course. And our hostess.”
Henrietta waited for Lady Willow to continue. “And who else?”
“That’s it.”
Henrietta tried not to let her dismay show, but a wince may have escaped. The woman’s father allowed her to talk to exactly four people at a house party brimming with interesting acquaintances.
“It’s not so bad,” Lady Willow said all in a rush. “Mama always has more to say than I do, and Lord Rigsby is a gallant conversationalist.”
Ah. They were to come to him so soon. Skirts, Henrietta, speak of skirts, not of him. “So, the rumors I hear are true, then? You’re engaged to Lord Rigsby.” She could not avoid bad decisions, it seemed.
She frowned. “Not precisely. Not yet, at least.”
“How frustrating. Surely, you’d like to have everything settled.”
Lady Willow’s frown deepened. “He’s a very nice man,” Willow assured her.
Nice? Henrietta wanted to inquire. Such a tepid word to describe the man you were going to marry. Instead, she said, “Yes, he is.” Mercy, she likely shouldn’t know whether or not he was nice. “I mean, I’ve heard he’s an affable sort of gentleman.”
Willow nodded slowly, but her features drooped as she said, “Yes. Perfectly affable.”
“My congratulations, then. Not every young lady gets an affable, handsome gentleman to wed.”
Lady Willow’s eyes glazed over and her head tilted to one side. “Is he handsome?”
Mercy, such an answer did not bode well for their union. Henrietta shrugged off the surging concern. Most in the ton had built marriages on such ambivalence. “I should think most would call him handsome,” Henrietta mused. “But there’s no need to discuss it if you do not wish. Each woman has her own standards.”
Lady Willow inhaled deeply, her arms relaxing to her sides and her eyes refocusing on Henrietta’s face. “It’s fine. Do you know, no one has ever asked me about my preferences before.”
“I apolo—”
“No, no, Miss Blake. Do not apologize.” She smiled timidly. “I’m not insulted. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m glad, but we shall speak of other subjects.” Besides, she had not risked propriety for conversation about her ex-fiancé! She’d done so to discuss gowns and fabric and Blake Textiles. “You’re wearing a lovely gown, Lady Willow. May I ask who makes your clothes?”
Lady Willow studied her dress. “Is it? Lovely, I mean.”
Actually, it was not. It was five seasons behind, at least, and the neckline extended all the way up to her chin. Modest was a nice descriptor for it, frumpy a truer one.
Henrietta racked her brain for an appropriate answer. “Mm. The fabric is quite fine, and I adore the pearl beading at the hem.”
Lady Willow’s lip hitched up at one corner. “I do like the pearls.” She linked a
finger beneath the high neck and pulled the material away from her skin. “But it’s rather constraining.”
“You’d appear to perfection in a gown with a lower-cut bodice like you wore yesterday evening.” Last evening’s gown had grazed her collarbone not her chin, at least. “You’re so slender. The high-waisted styles were simply made for you. In fact, my father’s shop specializes in them.”
Now, both corners of Lady Willow’s mouth hitched up. “You are quite the saleswoman, Miss Blake.”
Bother. She found it impossible to advertise for her shop subtly and without feeling icky. “I’m sorry if I seem mercenary. I simply like to see women well-dressed.”
Willow nodded slowly, her smile crept into her eyes. “Do you think men would notice me more if I wore your father’s gowns?”
Did she mean any man or did she mean Lord Rigsby? How to reply when she truly desired only to run away?
She stayed put. “Indeed, I do. But …” She considered her words carefully. “But any man worth your consideration should notice you no matter the dress you wear.”
“Rather forward-thinking of you, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“And not, I should think, a philosophy terribly good for business.”
Henrietta laughed at the astute observation. “No, not at all. I should have told you the only way to get noticed is in a Blake dress.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, though.” Willow picked at the slim sleeves of her dress. Prim and unadorned, the pale-yellow gown washed out her porcelain skin. “My mother picks out all my gowns.” She raised blazing eyes to Henrietta. “When I’m married, I’ll wear nothing but Blake gowns, though. You have my word.”
Henrietta sucked in a breath, whether at the ferocity in the other woman’s gaze or at the complete success of a single conversation, she didn’t know. She managed a shocked chuckle. “You’ve not even seen one yet!”
“I assume you’re wearing one.”
“Well yes, but it’s not the one I would put you in.”
Willow talked without moving her body, as if scared to bring attention to herself, but her voice rang fierce. “I need no more convincing than that. Once I’m married, nothing but Blake gowns for me.”
Henrietta had done it. She’d gained the patronage of a young future duchess. And better, she’d gained the opportunity to transform a forgettable duke’s daughter into a fiery, fashionable leader of the ton. An opportunity like this would never come again. She stuck out a hand. “I’ll hold you to that, my lady.”
Lady Willow smiled. “I look forward to it.”
She’d look forward to it. Future tense. Their deal could not come to pass until after Lady Willow married Lord Rigsby. The excitement seeped from Henrietta’s body. The thought of any woman marrying him unsettled her. But she replaced the squirmy, pinchy feeling with steely determination. There would be a wedding, and Henrietta would have what she’d come here for—a patroness who would put her shop on the map. But first—
“Lord Rigsby!” A voice boomed nearby.
“Oh, no.” Lady Willow straightened, wiping all emotions from her face. “My mother is coming.”
Henrietta followed her gaze across the lawn to the tall, buxom woman barreling toward them. She didn’t notice them but waved at a man exiting the house. Lord Rigsby.
Oh, mercy. Henrietta had to escape. He strode toward them, his jacket pulling tight across his broad shoulders, the sun turning his hair to gold. Don’t look lower, don’t look lower. She looked down. His legs, strong from daily exercise, strained their tight casings. Mercy, but she did adore a pair of good strong legs. Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t see him without wanting him.
But she had to be able to if she wanted Lady Willow’s extended patronage, if she wanted to run in the same circles they did. There was, then, no escape for her. She couldn’t turn tail and run. She had to be poised and sophisticated and, most importantly, immune to Lord Rigsby’s charms.
It didn’t matter that she used to be in love with Lady Willow’s almost fiancé. It didn’t matter that last night, when they’d fallen to the garden path, she’d gloried in the feel of his hard chest under her or that the memory of the encounter had resulted in heated dreams and tangled bedsheets.
Successful businesswomen did not let feelings guide their decisions.
Besides, the key to her success lay in Lord Rigsby’s marriage to Lady Willow, and they couldn’t marry until he found his family’s necklace. And that meant—Henrietta heaved an internal sigh—she was going to help him find it.
Chapter 5
Grayson hadn’t been dragged about in such a way since his boyhood when, for one awful week, a particularly militant governess had delighted in tormenting him, pulling him by the ear to every destination. His future mother-in-law towed him, presumably, toward Lady Willow, though not by the ear, thank God. He let her haul him across the lawn toward Lady Willow. He’d not spent much time in her company since arriving at the house party yesterday. Frankly, he’d seen more of Hen—
He stopped and blinked. Did he dream? Had he entered a waking nightmare?
It had to be, because there before him stood not only his future fiancée but his previous fiancée as well. Hell. He couldn’t talk to them both at the same time! The world would explode. At the very least, his head would explode.
“Lord Rigsby, are you having an episode?” The Duchess of Valingford scowled up at him.
“Ah. No. My apologies. I remembered something.”
“Of great import, no doubt.” She sniffed. She didn’t believe him. Naturally. Even he wouldn’t have believed the lie. “Come.”
As they crossed the lawn, Grayson compared the two women they walked toward. Henrietta, a beacon of calm confidence. Her green dress hugged her curves in all the ways he wished to, looking elegant and sensual at the same time. Lady Willow had transformed. He’d never seen her so bright, so animated. Her current enthusiasm did not speak well for his own conversational prowess. He’d never whipped up that smile or those bright eyes.
“Willow, dear, look who’s come for you,” her mother crooned.
Grayson took Lady Willow’s hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing only the air above her skin. He’d been instructed to do no more by her mother. When he lifted his eyes to Lady Willow’s face, she’d retreated, no longer the vibrant woman he’d seen chatting with Henrietta.
His eyes flitted where they wanted most to rest. “Good afternoon, Miss Blake.”
She curtsied, and he couldn’t help noticing the way the sun transfigured her hair, turning honey into glinting gold.
The duchess interposed herself between Henrietta and Grayson. “Don’t you have other acquaintances to attend to, Miss Blake?”
“Not especially.” Henrietta smiled. Oh, Grayson recognized that smile. She used it when she meant to conquer.
“You’re an impertinent—”
“Madam,” Grayson interrupted. He didn’t want to hear whatever his future mother-in-law had been about to say. “I think I see Lady Pendleson, right over there, waving at you.”
The duchess sniffed but looked in the direction he pointed where Lady Pendleson raised her arm high above her head. “Helen, darling, I’ve got prime gossip you must hear!”
The duchess eyed her daughter before sidling closer to Lady Pendleson. “Gossip about whom?”
Lady Pendleson’s eyes danced as she tugged the other woman away. “You’ll never believe … do you remember what we were discussing yesterday?”
“In the sitting room?” She pulled her wrist away from Lady Pendleson’s grasp and arched a glare at Grayson. “I leave my daughter in your hands, my lord.” Her arched brow said she meant metaphorically. Literally, there would be no hand holding or, bloody hell, grabbing of any sort.
The two women disappeared, leaving behind a silent trio.
What to do? What to say? Not a single thing occurred to Grayson as the silence stretched between them like an interminable desert. He’d mean
t only to save Henrietta from the embarrassment promised by the duchess’s words. But he’d thrown himself into the fire instead. Two pairs of blue eyes now blinked at him, waiting.
Henrietta jumped into the silence first, her voice sparkling. “Lord Rigsby. It is good to see you again. It’s been a year, has it not?” It had not. It had been just last night. He bristled to correct her, to make her remember their bodies thrown together in darkness.
“You know each other?” Lady Willow asked.
“Yes. I am old friends with her brother.”
Henrietta laughed. “He is my brother’s close friend. We met on a … group outing.” Grayson snorted. Group outing? Ridiculous euphemism.
“Oh?” Lady Willow tilted her head. “Where to?”
Grayson crossed his arms over his chest. Whatever answer Hen gave, it would undoubtedly be entertaining.
Henrietta drummed her fingers on her arm, thinking. “Mercy! It’s easier simply to confess.”
Grayson reached out a hand to stop Henrietta’s confession, holding back a string of curse words to make the workers in Henrietta’s father’s factory proud.
“We met on a dueling field.” Henrietta laughed, shrugging away from his touch. “If you must know. At dawn.”
“A dueling field! How exciting!” Lady Willow exclaimed
“Not particularly,” Henrietta replied. “My brother, with the help of Lord Rigsby, tried to get himself killed over me.”
“No! What happened?”
Henrietta waved her hand in the air, as if “what happened” mattered not at all. “A gentleman—I use the term loosely here, you understand—insulted me. My brother, Tobias, took offense, called him out, and recruited Lord Rigsby as his second.” She huffed. “Absurd. What reason is there to spill blood over an inconsequential insult?”
“It was most certainly of consequence.” Grayson kept his voice low, calm.
“I’m sure you are right, Lord Rigsby!” Lady Willow agreed. “What an utter …” She bit her lip, thinking. “What an utter scoundrel, to insult a lady like yourself, Miss Blake.” She blushed.
Lady Willow agreed with him? Passionately? Nothing passionate had ever happened between them before and likely would never happen between them again. But, apparently, they shared a passion—defending Henrietta Blake.
A Secret Desire Page 4