by Jenna Kernan
‘Oh?’ He looked at her with one brow cocked in question. He gave her such a heart-stopping smile, her jaw dropped in wonder. ‘And what sort of man do I seem to be?’
A dangerous one, if the way her heart was beating in her chest was to be believed. And a scoundrel who kissed unsuspecting maidens, too. ‘I suspect you are interested in more manly pursuits. Shooting at things and riding roughshod over people.’
He laughed. In that moment his face changed and her heart tumbled over at how attractive he looked with those silver eyes alight and a genuine smile curving his lips. ‘I see you do not hold me in any high regard, Miss Wilding,’ he said.
Oh heavens, was that regret she heard in his tone? Or was it her own longing colouring her judgement? She could not afford to let him charm her. To weaken her resolve.
‘I just assume you are like most men, for whom a trip to the dressmaker would be torture.’
‘It seems you don’t know me at all, Miss Wilding.’
‘Are you ready, Miss Wilding?’ Mrs Hampton asked at their approach.
Mary nodded her assent.
‘Then let us be off.’ The widow strode briskly out of the courtyard with Mary and the earl following behind. The streets were so crowded, they were soon forced to go single file, like a crocodile of schoolchildren, Mary thought wryly, very aware of the earl hard on her heels. She also noticed that other pedestrians moved out of their way the moment they saw the three of them coming towards them. She suspected it was the earl’s looming presence behind them causing the wide berth given to their party.
Mrs Hampton stopped outside one of the shops lining the street and turned back to speak to Mary. ‘Mrs Wharton is not of the same calibre as a London dressmaker, you understand, but she is not bad and her prices are reasonable.’
As the earl ushered them inside, a bell above the door tinkled.
A thin-faced woman, with her hair pulled back beneath her cap and bonnet, curtsied. ‘Why, Mrs Hampton, how good to see you and after such a long time, too. Come for your mourning clothes, have you?’
‘Certainly not. The ones from last year are perfectly adequate. No. It is Miss Wilding who requires your services.’
The woman’s surprised gaze swivelled to Mary and then up to the earl. She frowned. ‘A family member, miss? Needing black?’
‘Goodness me, Wharton, you do jump to conclusions. Miss Wilding is...’ her face took on an expression of dismay ‘...a family friend.’
The woman’s eyebrows rose. ‘What can I do for you, miss?’
‘A complete wardrobe, if you please,’ the earl said. ‘To be charged to the Earl of Beresford.’ He removed his gloves and toured the shop, touching the bolts of silks and muslins displayed on the shelves.
What on earth must the woman think of a man purchasing a wardrobe for a woman not a relative? Mary knew what she was thinking from the knowing gleam in the other woman’s eyes.
Mary felt the heat crawl up her face. This was too much. And it didn’t make sense. Why would he be purchasing clothes for her, if he was planning her demise, unless it was to draw people off the scent?
Whatever his purpose, she would not put herself under such an obligation. ‘Two morning gowns are all I require,’ she said firmly. They would replace what the earl had caused her to lose. That was fair.
Mrs Hampton glared at her. ‘Nonsense. Every young lady needs walking dresses. A dress for the opera. A ball gown. A riding habit. At the very least. Not to mention gloves, bonnets, and—’ she shot a wary look at the earl ‘—other items of apparel.’
Mrs Wharton’s jaw hung open.
Mary understood exactly how she felt. ‘I would prefer to see what you have already made up,’ she said with a feeling of desperation at the silken trap closing around her.
‘Something we can take with us today,’ the earl agreed, bestowing so charming a smile on Mrs Wharton, she simpered. ‘The rest can follow along later.’
The seamstress rubbed her hands together, a dry raspy sound like snakeskin over rock. ‘A complete wardrobe it is then, your lordship.’ She ran a critical eye over Mary. ‘No frills or bows.’
Tall girls couldn’t wear frills or bows. It made them look like mountains. It seemed Mrs Wharton and Sally agreed on that score. ‘Come this way, miss, so I can take your measurements. A glass of wine for you, sir? Tea for you, Mrs Hampton?’
The earl nodded his agreement. The woman scurried behind a curtain, no doubt to relay her instructions.
‘Surely there is no reason for you to stay, my lord,’ Mary said as he settled himself in one of the visitors’ chairs and stretched out his long legs. He looked altogether too comfortable. Too much at home, as if this wasn’t the first time he had participated in the dressing of a female.
An idea that gave her a nasty little wrench.
‘Ah, Miss Wilding, but there is. I wish to see you attired in the first stare of fashion.’ The hard look in his eyes warned her not to argue.
‘But surely Mrs Hampton—’
‘It is a long time since I was in town,’ the widow said. ‘I am sure his lordship has a much better idea of what is all the crack these days than I. My dear Miss Wilding, everyone knows that gentlemen have discerning taste when it comes to ladies’ fashion.’ She blinked rapidly, as if she realised just what she’d said.
Mrs Wharton reappeared. ‘This way, miss.’ She gestured to a door at the back of the room.
With a glare at the earl, Mary stepped through the door into a small dressing room containing a looking glass, a low stool and a young woman standing ready with measuring strings.
‘Daisy, while I take miss’s measurements, run and fetch the blue dimity and the yellow silk. With a little alteration, I think they will fit perfectly.’
The girl scurried off.
Gritting her teeth, Mary let the seamstress strip her down to her stays and chemise, and held still while the woman measured and tied her knots in the string. And all the time Mary stood there practically naked, she kept thinking about the earl sprawled in the chair only a few feet away.
Daisy returned with the gowns requested over her arms. They looked far too expensive and not at all practical.
‘They do not seem to be what I had in mind,’ she said. ‘I prefer something more...similar to the gown I wore in here.’
The seamstress made a little moue of disgust. ‘Perhaps we should let his lordship be the judge.’
Mary gasped. ‘Certainly not.’ She wasn’t going to parade herself in front of him.
‘Help her into the blue one, Daisy,’ the seamstress said. ‘I am going to look and see if we have anything more akin to miss’s taste.’ She disappeared out of the door.
The young woman unlaced the blue gown and held it ready. ‘If miss would bend a little...’
The usual problem of her height was what the girl meant. With a sigh, Mary ducked and the dress was slipped over her head. It went on with a whisper. Such light airy fabric. So silky to the touch.
The girl made a couple of adjustments to the bodice with pins and glanced down. ‘We will have to add some trim to the hem.’
Mary glanced in the mirror and recoiled. The figure in the mirror wasn’t her, surely. This woman wore a gown cut shockingly low across the bosom and edged in vandyke lace. So much skin. And the tops of her breasts were clearly visible. She tugged the fabric higher to no avail, not to mention that the sleeves did not reach her wrists and the skirts were well above her ankles. She looked ridiculous.
Daisy opened the door. ‘All ready, Mrs Wharton.’
‘There is something missing, surely,’ Mary said, staring at her chest. ‘A fichu. Or a shawl. You need to find something else. This one will not do at all.’
‘I think it looks perfect,’ a dark male voice said. She swung around, startled to see his eyes roving her body fr
om her head to her heels. Heat flared in that silver gaze.
Answering heat rushed through her blood. Her insides fluttered alarmingly. A blush rose up her chest to her face. ‘You can’t come in here.’
Mrs Wharton swept in with swathes of lace. ‘Why ever not? You are fully dressed. Let us see, now. Up on the stool, now, please, miss.’
The earl’s charming smile was directed fully at her. He looked utterly gorgeous and was clearly enjoying himself. ‘Allow me.’ He held out his hand.
A large hand and as steady as a rock, when she was trembling inside like an aspen and her knees had the consistency of butter.
She glanced up at his face and saw his jaw tighten as he realised she intended to refuse his aid. Why she did it, she wasn’t sure, but she gave him her hand, felt the warmth of his fingers around her cold ones.
He raised her hand to his lips, all the while keeping his gaze locked with hers. A startlingly warm brush of his mouth against her skin felt far too familiar, and terribly unnerving. A shiver ran down her spine, a special little thrill.
‘I am glad to see we have come to an understanding,’ he said in a murmur meant only for her.
She almost moaned at the way that deep rasping voice made her insides clench. The impression of strength when he supported her as she stepped up left her feeling weak.
Now their eyes were on a level, their gazes locked in a breathless awareness. Her skin tingled all over. Her heartbeat unsteady, out of rhythm, made her breathing unnaturally fast.
His gaze drifted downwards from her eyes, to her parted lips, down her throat to her chest and, God help her, what she saw in his expression was a powerful hunger. Her breasts tightened under his scrutiny.
A sensation of being utterly feminine swept over her, warming her from the inside out, making her limbs feel suddenly languid.
‘Let me take a look at that hem,’ Mrs Wharton said, dropping to her knees.
And the spell, or whatever it was that had occurred between them, broke. The earl stepped back, his face in its usual taut lines, his gaze guarded.
Did he fear she’d seen too much?
Mary closed her eyes. She was imagining things. He was here to make sure his money didn’t slip out of his grasp. That was all there was to it.
While the dressmaker pinned lace to the bottom of the gown and added matching fabric to the sleeves, Mary avoided looking at his lordship.
After a few minutes he said, ‘Alter the other one the same way.’
‘I would prefer a higher neckline,’ Mary said.
‘No,’ his lordship said and walked out.
‘It is perfect the way it is, miss,’ the seamstress said, handing her down. She twitched at the skirts, checked the bodice and nodded. ‘Perfect. Let us see to the rest of your order now, shall we?’
Daisy returned to help her into her own gown.
* * *
By the time Mary was dressed and back out in the shop, his lordship was nowhere to be seen.
‘He bethought himself of an urgent errand,’ Mrs Hampton said at her look of enquiry. ‘He left orders as to the rest of the items to be purchased, however.’ She pointed to a pile of fine linens and gloves on the counter.
Mary tried not to feel disappointed he had left. She should be pleased, because while she was being buttoned into her gown, she’d had another idea.
‘I’ll have the two gowns sent up to the livery before the hour is up,’ Mrs Wharton finally said, when all the choices had been made. ‘I’ll parcel these up to go home with you now.’
‘I still think you should have that military-style riding habit made,’ Mrs Hampton said, sounding quite weary, but there was a sparkle in her eye, likely because Mrs Wharton had thrown in a gown for her as commission for bringing Mary to her shop.
‘I don’t ride,’ Mary said quickly. Her only experience on a horse had been sitting on the earl’s lap and, while the thought of it made her blush, it certainly didn’t count as riding.
Mrs Hampton glared. ‘You don’t play the pianoforte either, I’ll be bound, but that is no reason not to visit the music room.’
As a metaphor it didn’t really work. And Mary did play. Very well. It was one of her few ladylike accomplishments. But Mrs Hampton didn’t need to know that. She smiled sweetly. ‘If I decide to visit the stables, I shall be sure to order a riding habit ahead of time.’
The widow sniffed. ‘I will speak to the earl about it.’
‘It is none of the earl’s business,’ Mary said resolutely and prayed Mrs Hampton would leave it there.
Outside the shop, the street was bathed in the light of a sun that had barely lifted itself above the horizon and was already on a downward path. It hung so low that facing into it caused everyone to squint.
‘Do we return to the carriage now,’ Mary asked, ‘or is there time to explore a little? I would love to walk down to the quay.’
‘Certainly not. It reeks of fish. Next we go to the haberdasher. I am in need of some ribbon and a paper of pins.’
They walked a few yards down the hill to the next shop Mrs Hampton wanted to visit.
Mary glanced longingly down the hill where boats lay off shore. Boats carried passengers. It would take but a moment to slip aboard one of those waiting for the tide to turn.
‘I have never visited a seaside town before. It will take but a moment to walk down to the shore and back while you complete your purchases.’
Mrs Hampton looked doubtful. ‘If only one of the males of our party were on hand, I would be less concerned. The men on the wharf are dreadfully rough and ill mannered.’
‘I will just go as far as the next bend in the road, look at the harbour and walk back.’
Her companion let out a sigh. ‘You are a very determined young woman, Miss Wilding. I really do not have the energy to argue. If the earl does not like what I cannot stop, then let him take you to task.’
She disappeared inside the shop.
So, the earl had instructed Mrs Hampton to act as not only her chaperon, but as her guard. How annoying. In that case, she did not feel so bad about not telling her the truth.
She walked down to the corner and the harbour spread out below her. Fishing boats drawn up on the beach; nets drying in the sun; men and women plying their trade along the waterside. Just like the landscapes she had seen in books. Out on the sea, waves rippled, catching sunbeams and tossing them back with a glitter that would outdo a diamond necklace.
Breathtaking. Enchanting.
Nothing like the wild sea she had seen the other day from the top of the cliff near the Abbey. This sea looked friendly and enticing. After a quick glance over her shoulder, she hurried down to the wharf. A young man in uniform stepped in front of her. ‘Can I help you, miss?’
Surprised she stared at him. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Lieutenant South, miss. Revenue officer. May I know your name?’
‘Miss Wilding,’ she replied, surprised. ‘I thought I might hire a boat.’
The young man winced. ‘His lordship said you might find your way down here. I regret that there are no boats for hire today.’
Mary gaped at him. ‘His lordship?’
‘The Earl of Beresford, miss.’ He coloured. ‘You really should go back to your family. The earl said he was sorry for your disagreement and that he would buy you the bonnet you wanted.’
‘Bonnet?’ She almost spluttered the word, but she could also see there was no sense in arguing with the young man. The earl had been before her. How could he have guessed her intention, when she’d had no idea of coming down here until but a few moments ago? And this young lieutenant was looking at her as if she was some spoiled miss sulking over a bonnet. It was really too much. She was going to have strong words with his lordship. Very strong words indeed.
�
��Good day, Lieutenant,’ she managed through gritted teeth. He bowed and she turned and marched back up the hill to her...to her gaoler. This was intolerable and so she would tell him.
The hill seemed a great deal steeper on the way up. She was required to lean into the slope and watch where she put her feet on the uneven pavement, not to mention dodging people headed downhill.
She glanced up to catch her bearings. Ahead of her, a brewer’s dray blocked half the road. Pedestrians were manoeuvring their way around it.
‘Careful, miss,’ a man with a handcart said when she almost ran into him.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, sidestepping out into the road to avoid him.
‘Look out!’ a male voice cried.
She looked up, expecting to see yet another cart heading down the hill. She gasped. Not so. A barrel hit the cobbles and bounced. Behind it stood a tall broad-shouldered familiar-looking figure, hand outstretched. A slighter figure darted into the alley, barely avoiding the barrel when it landed.
A woman screamed. A man shouted and leapt clear.
The barrel was rolling right for her, rumbling and banging over the stones. She picked up her skirts and ran for safety against the wall of the nearest building. She slipped, falling to her knees. Pain shot through her foot and up her shin. Sickening.
The barrel was upon her.
She struggled to get to her feet. A hand grabbed her under the arms and pulled her clear.
The barrel slammed into the wall two feet from her with a resounding bang—into the very spot she had thought to take refuge. Splinters flew. Beer showered the cobbles and nearby pedestrians. One of its iron hoops bowled on down the street, clanging and bouncing wildly, scattering people in its path, disappearing around the bend, terrified shouts marking its passage.
‘Are you all right?’
A youngish man, decently dressed but hatless, was holding her against his chest, looking thoroughly discomposed, his hair ruffled and his cheeks pink. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ he asked again.
‘I’m fine,’ she croaked, trying to ignore the throb of pain in her ankle.