by Kimberly Nee
"Shopping?"
"Aye. Apparently Captain Kennedy is not pleased with the mere four gowns you selected yesterday. I received an earful because you did not select more. I have been given a list of items he feels you need."
Heather accepted the sheet of paper from the housekeeper. She'd thought she might have gone too far in the number of gowns she'd selected, not wanting it to appear she was taking advantage of his generosity. Instead, she'd given the housekeeper yet another reason to dislike her. “I am sorry if he expressed his displeasure to you, Mrs. Markham."
The housekeeper did not answer, but merely sniffed and stalked out of the room. Heather gritted her teeth, wanting to box the insolent woman's ears for her lack of respect. She swallowed her irritation, though, as she unfolded the list and set it down on the lacy tablecloth.
"That woman would not last a week in my house,” she muttered, glancing down at the list and gasping at the seemingly endless number of items Drew wished her to purchase. She reached up to rub her forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache. The last thing she wished was to go shopping, but had no desire to spend the entire day alone with the sour Mrs. Markham. Shopping would be a much preferable choice to that, indeed. Perhaps a little fresh air would do wonders for her as well.
With that, she went in search of a light wrap, her bonnet, reticule, and gloves. Mrs. Markham appeared in the doorway of Drew's bedroom as if summoned, saying, “Jameson will take you wherever you wish to go, Miss Heather. Tea will be served at half-past three, so do try to be back by then."
"I will do my best.” Heather pulled on her gloves and roughly brushed by the housekeeper as she made her way downstairs.
Outside, Jameson gave her a pleasant smile, bending at the waist. “Good afternoon, Miss Heather. Feel up to a bit of shopping, then?"
She couldn't help but return his smile. He was as warm as Ellen Markham was cold. If her presence troubled him, he gave no indication, but treated her warmly and with the utmost of courtesy. “Not especially, but it certainly is preferable to rattling about in there with her."
Jameson's tranquil blue-gray eyes danced with mischief. “Yes, she is a cold fish, that one. But, if you are in need of a good chuckle now and again, you ought but take in the way she follows Captain Kennedy with her eyes. Quite taken with that one, she is. Quite taken, indeed."
Heather couldn't help but chuckle. Servants were often terrible gossips, but it wasn't often she was the one with whom they shared their gossip. Still, the image of the icy Mrs. Markham staring longingly after Drew did bring a smile to her face. “Is that so, then?"
He chuckled, nodding. “It's true, my lady. Watches him like a hawk watches a mouse, she does. It's rather quite amusing to see her fall all over herself the moment his eyes land upon her."
"But she gives me the impression she is none too fond of Captain Kennedy."
"Oh, she feels he is an upstart American, of course. Still, she is not immune to his face. None of the ladies are. They practically kill one another trying to catch his attention. Also quite amusing, that. I must admit, I feel terribly outnumbered because his face has no effect on me."
She laughed at that. “Oh, Jameson, you are terrible! Does the marquis know about your penchant for gossip?"
He nodded, all smiles and not looking the least bit chagrined. “Indeed, my lady. He is surrounded by women, so he is terribly grateful for my not being one.” Jameson pulled open the carriage door and held out his hand. “Up you get then, my lady."
Still chuckling, she settled into the plush seat. She did so like Jameson. He was an adorable man and Edward Stainton was quite fortunate to have him on staff. He was certainly preferable to the grouchy Mrs. Markham, any day.
Jameson told the driver to drop them in Oxford Street. Their driver did just that, following along at a close pace as they popped into shop after shop. Though she hadn't originally wanted to go shopping, Heather quite enjoyed herself. She paid visits to the perfumers, the stocking warehouse, the silk merchants. Even in shops where she bought nothing, she still enjoyed looking about.
It had been so long since she'd last enjoyed an afternoon of shopping without having to watch every shilling spent. Not that she went wild now. She followed Drew's list to the letter. If an item didn't appear, she did not purchase it.
The one exception was at the perfumers, where she fell in love with a soft, lavender fragrance at first sniff. After a brief argument with herself, she talked herself into the purchase. That bottle, her one extravagance, was safely tucked away with her other parcels.
Jameson brought her purchases out to the carriage and walked alongside her as they moved down the walkway. He made many suggestions regarding this shop, or that. In between suggestions, he provided a steady stream of conversation that put her at ease. It was a bit strange at first, thinking of Jameson as her chaperone, but she adjusted quickly. He kept her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, much like a father would for his daughter, and for a moment, Heather felt very much like his daughter. He was a sweet man and she was grateful for his company.
The driver kept close to them, though he did get caught behind the occasion wagon or another coach. Still, he managed to catch up by the time they'd emerged from a shop.
The last stop on her agenda was Mary Cartwright's shop. Drew was quite explicit in his list of what he wished her to purchase. As she scanned that missive for at least the tenth time, she realized that he was a man who most definitely knew how a woman should dress.
Jameson tactfully waited outside while Heather stepped into the shop. There was one other patron inside the seamstress's studio and she stifled a groan when she realized she knew the woman already there.
Lady Amanda Summerton, Countess of Winchester, chatted gaily with another woman, an older silver-haired woman Heather did not recognize. Amanda stood on the small block used for pinning up gowns, chattering as she turned to get a better look at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her jaw went slack as she spotted Heather in the glass, and her eyes went round.
"Heather Spencer? Is that you?” she asked, twirling about on the block to face her.
"Good day, Amanda. How are you?"
"Quite well, thank you. And yourself? What brings you here?"
Heather shrugged, crumpling the note and shoving it back into her reticule. “Doing a bit of shopping. Same as you."
"Really now?” Amanda's pale green eyes glinted. “I hadn't realized you had the funds for such frivolous spending. Paid off Papa's debts, have you, then?"
Heather bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the embarrassment rising within her. She and Amanda had once been friends, though their friendship waned somewhat after Amanda's marriage and her words were no surprise to Heather. After all, there was nothing the woman loved more than a bit of malicious gossip. The juicier the better was the rule of the ton. Though she was not considered an equal, she certainly knew how they enjoyed chewing on the latest scandalous story. Now, however, she knew what it felt like, being on the receiving end of the ton's vinegar.
Not that it mattered. She was shunned as far as all of proper society was concerned. It would not matter what bloodline she bore, the ton would most definitely find out about her brief time at Delilah's. It would not matter that she left there as pure as she'd entered. She had been employed by a house of sin. She was ruined as far as anyone would be concerned.
"As a matter of fact, yes. Everything is settled,” Heather replied, trying to force as much pride into her words as she could. “So, do tell me, how is your family?"
"We are fine, thank you. I'd ask about yours but—well—we all know the story there, don't we?” Amanda glanced at her companion and let out a silvery peal of laughter. “Oh, I don't believe you've met, have you? Heather Spencer, this is the Duchess of Marston. Your Grace, Heather Spencer."
Trust Amanda to make certain Heather knew she was in the presence of a duchess. To her credit, Danielle Marston seemed equally embarrassed as she coughed and smiled. “A plea
sure to meet you, Miss Spencer."
"The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” Heather replied, dipping into a curtsy.
Mary Cartwright emerged from the back of her shop, smiling as she saw Heather standing there. “Miss Spencer! How lovely to see you again."
The Duchess glanced from Heather to Amanda. “Are you a relation of Susan Spencer?” she asked airily. When Heather nodded, the Duchess burst out in a tinkling laugh. “Oh, but I ought have known that!” Her blue eyes were warm as they met Heather's. “I knew your mother, child. A lady unlike any other. I ought to have known you were her daughter, as you are her spitting image."
"You knew my mother?” Heather was surprised to hear this. She'd had no idea her mother had been friendly with someone as important as the Duchess of Marston.
"Of course. We practically grew up together. My family's estate borders Waterbury."
Heather smiled, thinking of her mother's ancestral home, a gloomy estate she visited only rarely. “You lived at Stoneham? I always had the wildest urge to explore the woods over there. They were like something out of a fairy tale."
The Duchess let out another girlish laugh. “I suppose they must have seemed so to a child, but they were quite boring, actually.” She shook her head sympathetically. “Oh, but you've become a lovely young woman. I was so sorry to hear of Susan's passing. Do tell, have you a sponsor?"
Heather didn't miss the darkness flitting through Amanda's eyes. The Countess looked ready to spit nails as Heather replied, “Oh, no. I'm afraid I don't."
"Well, you will have to pay a call on me while I am in London and we will discuss that matter. A lovely young girl such as yourself ought not be deprived of a come-out, even if it is a bit late. Oh, if I'd but known your father would let this slip by him, I'd have swooped down on Waterbury and snatched you away five years ago.” The Duchess rummaged in her reticule, coming up with a pale blue card. “Here, my dear. Take this. Eric and I will be in Town for a while longer—although the Season is not what it used to be. I think we may be a bit late for this one, but there is no reason why we can't try for next Season now, is there?"
Heather took the card, willing her fingers not to tremble as she did so. It was so unexpected. Never in her wildest imaginings did she envision a duchess offering her sponsorship for a London Season.
Her happiness was short-lived though. She could never accept the duchess's offer. What would Her Grace think, once she learned that Heather had spent two weeks at the notorious Delilah's?
Amanda stepped down from the block in a huff. “I need more time to think, Mary. I shall return in a few days to look at more plates."
Mary nodded. “Of course. And as for what you've already selected? Shall I send it to you?"
A sniff. “Of course."
"Very well. A good day to you, Countess."
Amanda didn't bother to reply. She merely turned to the duchess and said, “Shall we?"
Danielle Marston's cheeks flushed as she got to her feet, as if embarrassed by Amanda's snit. “Yes, well, it was so lovely to see you again, Heather. Please, feel free to call on me any afternoon. I will be in Town for the next three weeks."
"Thank you, Your Grace.” Another curtsy.
The Duchess gave her a warm smile, patted Heather's arm, and then followed Amanda out of the shop. Heather glanced at the card clutched between her fingers, and a wave of regret crashed down over her. She would never be able to call on the duchess. Should she learn Heather's shameful secret she would also be tainted by association.
"Miss Heather?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Cartwright,” Heather exclaimed, jerked out of her thoughts by the seamstress's concerned voice.
"So, what can I do for you today?"
Heather took a deep breath. “I'm going to need to look at some more plates and more fabric, I'm afraid."
"That will be no trouble at all, my lady. Here, make yourself comfortable and I will fetch the books."
Heather sank down into the plush chair vacated by Danielle Marston. Her headache had returned, but she managed to focus her attention on Mary and begin the process of selecting a larger wardrobe.
Seven
Heather was exhausted when she and Jameson finally returned to the town house on Grosvenor Square. He had a footman bring her parcels inside at once, making certain they were stowed away before she went to upstairs to freshen up.
At the top of the stairs, Heather froze. She wasn't at all certain where she was expected to do any freshening up. True, she'd been put in Drew's chambers the night before, but that might have been an oversight on the part of the housekeeper. Eyeing each of the four closed doors, she tapped her forefinger against her pursed lips. Of course, Mrs. Markham was nowhere to be found again.
That woman is like smoke, Heather thought with no little frustration. Well, I certainly cannot stand out here in the hallway all night. I may as well return to Drew's room for now.
She turned the knob, opening the door without bothering to knock, and then halted in her tracks.
Apparently, Drew had returned. Not only had he returned, but he had also decided to freshen up, for he was in the process of dressing. Thankfully, he wore pants. But that was all, and he hardly seemed embarrassed by her sudden entrance. Instead, he smiled as he turned to face her. “Welcome home, my lady."
She stood stock-still, eyes almost popping from her head as they moved over his length. At once, heat swept through her. The cage opened, the butterflies set free again. If she'd thought the eyeful she'd gotten the other evening was impressive, it was nothing compared to the view he offered her now.
There is not an ounce of fat to be found on the his body, she thought, taking in the flat, hard belly and the chiseled muscles of his chest beneath the dark hair spreading across and down. His skin, a sun-kissed bronze, was taut over his shoulders and arms, the heavy, corded muscles bunching with each movement.
He'd been shaving. She could see the china washbasin, straight razor, and lather cup on the dressing table. She was suddenly gripped by the wildest urge to caress his newly-smooth cheek with her own.
"I'm—I'm sorry,” she finally said, averting her eyes. “I should have knocked first."
"No need to apologize,” he replied easily, reaching for the linen towel beside the silver lather cup. He patted his face dry, refolded the towel, and tossed it back onto the dressing table. “I trust Mrs. Markham gave you my message?"
"She did,” Heather replied, eyes riveted on the floor, her face growing hotter by the moment.
"And did you do as I asked?"
"Of course. You are the master."
Drew chuckled. “That's not exactly how I see myself, but I have to admit, I like the way it sounds. Master, eh?” He took a step towards her. When she'd told him of her previous purchases, he was shocked to find out how conservative she'd been. Four gowns? Even he knew they weren't nearly enough.
Knowing he would be tied up with Dixon for hours, Drew decided to remain on board his ship for the night. There, he'd drawn up the list to be brought to Mrs. Markham, along with the instructions that Heather was to purchase each item, and whatever else caught her fancy. He'd stressed that to the housekeeper, who apologized profusely for Heather's reluctance and promised to deliver the message.
It had been a long night for him. He was never more grateful to return to the town house in Grosvenor Square. He had a very special evening planned for his lovely new mistress. A very special evening indeed.
Since it didn't appear she was going to lift her gaze, and he was a bit concerned that her scarlet face might actually burst into flame, he closed the gap between them. Crossing over her to her, he caught her face in his hands, causing her to jump as he tilted her head back. “I promise you, my lady, as I've said before, I'll not turn you to stone. It's quite acceptable for you to look at me."
That brought her eyes to his. “I'm sorry."
"And again with the apologies. We are going to have to work on this, my lady.” His fingers moved over her che
eks in long, soft strokes, his eyes never leaving hers. Before she could respond, he leaned closer, his lips closing down over hers.
She had not imagined their softness that first time he kissed her. The fluttering began, wings uncurling in her belly as his mouth moved against hers sensually, caressing her lips as if they were delicate rose petals.
For one terribly awkward moment, she froze, not knowing where she should put her hands. It seemed terribly forward to place them on his bare chest, even more so to slip them about his waist. Aside from that, she didn't know what her other options were. She finally decided on his hips, so that was where they went, and she was amazed at the solid feel of the muscle stretched taut over his hipbones. He seemed to be made entirely of granite, not a soft spot to be found anywhere.
He explored her with his kiss, his tongue teasing hers in a silky caress. His fingers crept higher, pushing into her hair, to stroke along her scalp, dislodging pins to send her curls spilling over her shoulders. His fingers slid through her hair before moving lower to brush against her neck, skimming over her shoulders, before moving down her arms.
A sudden shiver coursed through her as he grazed down along the outer contours of her breasts. The heat started deep in the pit of her belly to slowly uncoil itself, like a cat waking from a nap. It spread through her limbs, her knees threatening to buckle under the onslaught of his lips. Drew slid his arms about her waist, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along her throat. Her head fell back beneath the delicious tingling sensations coursing through her, a soft groan bubbling to her lips.
She wanted to touch him, to feel his bare skin against her palms. He awoke something in her she never knew existed and she wanted to spread her fingers over the warm rise of his chest, to wrap her arms about his neck and crush herself against him. His hands skimmed down to cup her backside and she couldn't hold back her soft mewl. He lifted her, pressing her into him, bringing her into her first contact with his arousal. That most solid part of him sent a shiver tickling down her spine. It was the first time she'd ever felt a man's desire. But there it was, pressing right up into her as if seeking her out.