by Maya Rodale
. . . Oh, very well then. Apparently it was. Lord Hewitt was leaning against the counter now, effectively entrapping her where she stood.
“I told my wife she could have whatever she wants.”
“What a good husband you are. Not all of them are.”
“Well, it is her money after all,” he answered with a laugh. Adeline managed a smile. They both knew that he was the one who controlled how it was spent and which bills would be paid. Or not. He joked, “You know what they say: happy wife, happy life. If I keep her well dressed and adorned, she doesn’t question how much time I spend at my club. Or elsewhere.”
Adeline issued a perfunctory smile. This was far more information about the marriage of Lord and Lady Hewitt than she wished to be privy to.
“If you’ll excuse me, I should go see to your wife’s fitting.”
He moved back just enough for her to pass. But nevertheless her body brushed against his. Or it might be more correct to say that his body caressed hers as she passed. A subtle but important distinction. She thought she might have felt his hand linger for a second on her waist, but that would be forward and untoward. He was a gentleman, wasn’t he?
In her head she heard Madame Chalfont lecturing her about being seen in such a close, intimate position with a married man. In her head, she argued back: Well, I would rather not be!
But Adeline did not feel she could say anything to Lord Hewitt, keeper of the purse, and payer of the bills. Instead she would go to the back to warn the girls and would see to the fitting and put this whole awkward encounter out of her mind. He likely wouldn’t return to the shop. She likely wouldn’t encounter him again.
“You must be wondering about Kingston.”
She stopped. She did not want to turn around. She did not want to admit to him or herself that he hadn’t quite left her thoughts since the previous evening—and she’d already had quite a day. After their charade last night, she couldn’t be angry at him anymore. He had put himself on the line to help her succeed and asked for nothing indecent in return.
Attraction to him was one thing.
She didn’t want to actually like him.
She turned around.
“I really must go see to your lovely wife.”
“Yes, my wife . . . Impoverished nobleman meets American heiress. A love story for the ages,” Lord Hewitt said in such a dry tone that she was given to understand that his was not a love match. Not that she’d been laboring under that impression. “But enough about me. Kingston is calling on Miss Van Allen now.”
Her heart stopped, just for a beat or two, but it was enough to reveal her own feelings to her. Something like dismay. Jealousy. They were stronger than she had wanted them to be.
“That’s what men like us do,” Lord Hewitt continued on, coming closer. “We marry for duty and find our pleasure elsewhere.”
This time there was no mistaking his meaning and no dismissing his touch as an accident. Lord Hewitt slid his hand around her waist and gazed into her eyes. Every fiber of her being rebelled—well, except for the one that was acutely and uncomfortably aware of what it would cost her to refuse his advances. He could refuse to pay her bills, after she and her seamstresses spent hours to create gowns for his wife.
But she also could not afford to have her name linked with his in the same breath. A dressmaker’s good reputation was the foundation of her business. Madame Chalfont was right about that.
Every second that she struggled to find a polite response that would neither encourage nor enrage was another second that could be misconstrued as encouragement.
“I should go see to your wife. I hate to keep such an important client waiting.”
She stepped away. He dropped his hand. He flashed a grin anyone would have described as friendly—anyone other than her, that is—and said, “A dressmaker must keep her clients happy, hmm?”
He winked at her.
Dresses. She wanted to make dresses. The only encounters she wished to have with clients’ husbands were receiving their money for payment for her dressmaking work. That was all. Was it really too much to ask?
Chapter Fifteen
Nora is on the verge of compressing herself with Dashwood. Stop. Clara says she won’t wed at all now. Stop. When will you return with heiress? Stop. Starting to think about my dress for the wedding. Stop.
—Telegram from Her Grace,
the Duchess of Kingston
The next day
The House of Adeline
The workroom was full of chattering female voices discussing sleeves and hems, hairstyling techniques, society gossips, and landlord dramas, among other things. Rose and Rachel were there, along with some new additions to the shop, all of whom had been referred by the Ladies of Liberty: Margaret, Annie, and Lila. They all went silent upon the arrival of a young man in the uniform of the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
He presented a letter to Adeline.
“Go on, open it now,” Rose urged when Adeline started to slip the letter in her pocket to read later, in the privacy of her room.
She knew it had to be from Kingston. She recognized the strong slant of his handwriting.
There had been no word from him since their night at the opera, which she had presumed meant that the terms of their agreement had been satisfied, and that something between them was purposely left to die.
This was for the best, she told herself.
Because she was shocked and dismayed to discover that she felt bereft with his absence. She missed the way he looked when she teased him: startled, before his features eased into a relaxed and delighted smile. She missed the way one deliberate glance from him could make heat unfurl in her belly, course through her body, wake up her nerves, make her feel hot and alive all over.
She didn’t just miss him, she craved him.
And now she had a letter in hand from His Grace.
What could he possibly want now? Nothing good. Nothing decent.
“Open it now,” Rachel said with an air of authority. “You know that we will plague you until you tell us everything, so you might as well read it aloud now.”
Rachel. She was always so practical and efficient.
“Fine,” Adeline said. “I’ll open it.”
She did. And she read:
Dear Mrs. Black,
I have called upon Miss Van Allen and she possesses everything a man could want in his future duchess. However, I do believe that I should continue to make the acquaintance of other potential brides, just to be prudent. For this, I shall require your expertise.
Which is to say, I find myself missing your enchanting company and should like to see you again. Will you join me tomorrow night at Mrs. Mellon’s ball?
—Kingston
“Well, if that isn’t right out of one of my novels I don’t know what is,” Rose replied. She had since forgiven him for his role in getting Adeline fired and once again embraced her firmly held devotion to all things romance. “The dashing duke whisking you off to fancy ballrooms for champagne and waltzing . . .”
“You are overlooking the part where he asks me to help him find a wife. I’d hardly say that’s romantic.”
“Those lords cannot be trusted,” Margaret said. “A girl finds herself charmed by their accent and the next thing you know . . .” She paused in her sewing to rest her hand over the bump in her belly.
“I should not risk being seen with him, let alone—”
“—Being alone with him,” Margaret finished.
“People have already begun to talk,” Adeline said. “I overheard two women gossiping about us during their fitting the other day. I cannot risk my reputation being besmirched.”
“It won’t matter if he marries you,” Rose pointed out.
This was probably true. However, it was also highly unlikely such an event would come to pass.
Before her love-struck seamstresses could further campaign to soften her heart, put stars in her eyes, and blind her to reality, Adeline penned a response and
handed it to the messenger, who had been waiting.
I’m afraid I must decline your invitation. Would you believe me if I said I had nothing to wear?
—Mrs. Black, dressmaker with a reputation to mind
And with that she put the matter out of her mind. The chatter about sleeves and society gossip, about courtship dramas and landlord dilemmas resumed. Adeline breathed a sigh of relief.
It was done. This something between them was over. There would be no more teasing marriage proposals for her to refuse and no more moments where she thought he might kiss her. There would be no more heartache of wanting the world—or him—to be different so that they could be together. No more heated thoughts about them just being together, forgetting about the whole world, if only for one night.
For approximately one hour, Adeline mourned the end of her something with the duke. This was also the amount of time it took to deliver her missive, have it read by the intended party, and a reply composed, and for said reply to be delivered.
Adeline scowled when the messenger was back, with another letter in hand.
No. Wear one of your fancy frocks and show it off.
—Kingston, who promises to be a model of propriety
“Nothing more vexing than a handsome man who is a model of propriety.”
“Maybe in the novels you love,” Margaret retorted. “But a bit of propriety might have spared me a lot of bother.”
She didn’t entirely mean that. Anyone could see from the affectionate way that she rubbed her growing bump that she was coming to love her baby already. But it was hard on her to be cast out of her family and society, losing her friends and means of support. All because she had dared to love where she shouldn’t.
Margaret reminded Adeline of other risks that she faced, should she continue to see Kingston, who seemed intent upon seeing her.
“I know of a female doctor downtown . . .” Adeline said. Mrs. Phoebe Jane Babcock. She was a member of the Ladies of Liberty club.
“Information too late to help me now, but perhaps you would benefit?” Margaret ventured the suggestion.
The thought had crossed Adeline’s mind. But also considered Madame Chalfont’s warnings and remembered the hard experiences of her mother, who’d been reliant on bad men her whole life. What choice did she have, given that she had a young daughter to support? Adeline knew her mother had endured so much to protect her daughter; she just wished she hadn’t had to. It all renewed her determination that nothing—especially a dalliance with a man—could distract her from her dream of making this shop a success, which would provide her the independence and security she craved.
“I am married to this shop,” Adeline said. “I shall be faithful to it. And to you lot as well.”
“Then you really must go to the ball with the duke.”
It was Rachel—Rachel!—who said this. She who was practical above all else, who was not swayed by pretty words and flights of fancy from handsome men. She who was proving herself to have a hard head and heart for business.
Adeline’s jaw dropped open.
“You, too, Rachel? I expect as much from Rose, but you?”
“He’s good for business,” Rachel said bluntly. “We can’t deny that. Our customers increased after you attended the opera with him in that dress. It logically follows that we will gain more customers if you attend a ball with him as well. I’m not being romantic but practical. We need more customers for this shop to succeed.”
This was all true.
“And we’re all counting on this shop to succeed, Adeline,” Rachel said in softer tones.
They all relied on the wage to support themselves and others. They all benefited from the sense of purpose, too, and the camaraderie of the workshop. Their lives all were intertwined with and dependent on this shop. And they all relied on Adeline to make it a success.
“You can and should go to show off your gowns and drum up more business,” Rachel said. “No other dressmaker would have such an opportunity.”
Later
That was how Adeline came to be making her grand entrance in Mrs. Mellon’s ballroom arm in arm with the duke. This was for business, she reminded herself, not pleasure. But as she stepped into the most beautiful room she’d ever seen, with the man she was falling for standing beside her, she thought business was indeed a pleasure.
For the occasion, she wore her most stunning creation yet: a deep cerulean-blue satin gown upon which Rose had painstakingly embroidered stars, moons, and constellations in gold and silver thread. The satin was tufted and layered around the hips and bodice, which was the height of fashion and which conveniently concealed pockets.
She wore her hair upswept. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed with genuine delight and a dash of nervousness.
And she had the perfect accessory in Kingston.
He commanded attention because of who he was, and he held people’s attention with the confident, utterly assured manner in which he carried himself. In his black-and-white evening clothes, he provided the perfect complement to whatever Adeline wore.
“You cannot say I haven’t lived up to my end of the bargain,” he murmured as they began to move through the room, with murmurs and stares surrounding them. “You and your dresses have certainly caught the attention of all society’s tastemakers.”
“Well, then our work here is done. I could turn and go right now.”
His hold on her tightened as if to say no, not yet.
“After you’ve gone to all the trouble to get so dressed up, you might as well stay. Have some champagne at least.”
He plucked a glass from a tray held by a passing waiter and handed it to her. She gave the delicate flute of golden, sparkly champagne a moment of consideration before taking her first sip, imagining how she might design a dress inspired by it. Delicate pale gold silk, swirls of the palest yellow chiffon and tulle, shimmering crystals.
She raised the glass to her lips. “If you insist.”
“I do.” He just had to gaze into her eyes as he said those words. As if he wasn’t speaking merely of staying late at the ball and drinking champagne, but something more forever instead. Adeline couldn’t help it: her gaze connected with his and she dared to imagine more. Voluminous white dresses and celebratory champagne and Kingston vowing to be hers forever.
Intoxicating stuff, that.
And she hadn’t even tasted her champagne.
That, of course, was the moment Lord Hewitt emerged from the crowd to interrupt.
“Mrs. Black. We meet again. What a lovely surprise.” He gave her that charming, rogue-about-town grin that she knew better than to fall for. She nodded hello. “And my dear cousin the duke, too.”
“Freddie, good to see you.”
“Where is Lady Hewitt?” Adeline asked.
“She ventured off to the ladies’ retiring room with a group of friends, as women are wont to do. She’s wearing one of your gowns.”
Just wait until you see the bill for it, she thought. She considered adding a handsy husband surcharge.
“Don’t look now,” Freddie said, dropping his voice and leaning in. “But it seems our hostess is advancing in this direction.”
Indeed Mrs. Mellon, whose husband had obtained his fortune from oil and finance, was moving purposely toward them, dripping in green silks and blue sapphires and some heavy floral scent. She could not decide which was a more fascinating object of her attention: a handsome duke or the mystery woman on his arm.
“Your Grace, what an honor to have you join us. You must introduce me to your guest. And I don’t mean this rogue that follows you around town.”
“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Mellon,” Freddie said with a wink.
“Don’t flirt with me, boy. I know your kind. Your pretty words are wasted on me.”
Kingston cleared his throat. “May I present Mrs. Black. She is the widow of an old school friend of mine from Eton.”
This was the story they had agreed upon to circulate in soc
iety to explain their connection. It made her seem respectable. It made their unchaperoned occasions together in public acceptable—for now. And it made the duke seem kind enough to squire around an old friend’s tragic widow.
“May he rest in peace,” Freddie said somberly. “Dear old Reggie is missed.”
“Dearly, dearly missed,” Adeline said, adopting a forlorn expression. “It was a love match.”
Kingston scowled at the two of them. “When I learned my good friend’s widow was also in Manhattan, I called upon her to see how she was faring. I thought she might enjoy some of the city’s finest events after her period of mourning for her late husband.”
“His Grace is nothing if not friendly, especially with lonely widows,” Lord Hewitt quipped.
Kingston gave a tight smile. “Freddie, you make me sound untoward. Rest assured, Mrs. Mellon, I am the model of propriety.”
“Pity that,” she replied. “Your Grace, I thought you would like to know that Miss Van Allen is here this evening. I’m sure she would love to see you. I heard from her mother that she greatly enjoyed your sojourn in Central Park together. It was very sporting of you to join her for a birdwatch.”
Adeline stilled. She had not known that birdwatching was something one even did, let alone as part of a courtship.
“We had quite an adventure in search of the black-throated blue warbler.”
“And in the rain, too! Miss Van Allen said it was a lovely introduction to England,” Mrs. Mellon said to a round of polite laughter.
At least Kingston seemed as uncomfortable with the conversation as Adeline, who busied herself with pretending not to care in the slightest that this man went mucking about in the shrubberies looking for birds with one of Manhattan’s most sought-after heiresses.
Adeline had even suggested that he pursue Miss Van Allen. She ought to delight in such an obliging male. She ought to delight in being right.
And yet, just because her brain knew better did not mean she took the knowledge to heart. She leaned a little against his arm and accidentally on purpose brushed gently against his chest, just because she could do so now and probably would not be able to ever again. Was it wrong that she craved the feeling of his arms around her once more?