by Maya Rodale
To think, these women had started with nothing, truly. Adeline was right—he had thought being broke was when his club membership came due, he did not know the fear of not having a place to live or a way to earn his bread. Only now did he even stop to consider what that must feel like for them.
He hoped, for their sakes, that this dressmaking enterprise brought them riches. In fact, he had to wonder just how much of a fortune a dressmaker could make. Lord knew he certainly forked over obscene amounts for his mother and sisters’ wardrobes. And they were but one family. And by the looks of it, the House of Adeline was now the dressmaker for the Four Hundred.
She did not need him. Not anymore.
This ought to have made him feel wretched. Instead it made him feel wanted in a way he’d never felt before.
The evening progressed—Freddie eventually did return with champagne, and they all enjoyed a glass together before Freddie wandered off in search of more obliging company. Rose and Rachel drifted a few feet away to chatter about Rose’s recent suitor. He and Adeline were left alone in a spot with a breathtaking view of the sun setting over the city.
“My friends like you,” Adeline said.
“I like your friends.”
“I’m rather fond of them myself. They took a big risk to join me at the new shop. I know what they had to lose and I wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d stayed.”
“That’s probably why they thought you were worth the risk.”
“I’m glad someone thinks so,” Adeline said softly. He didn’t know what to say to that, but he felt it. He really did.
He wondered if Adeline had hoped that something might change for him. And maybe things were changing, as she opened his eyes and challenged him to see opportunities he might have missed because of his narrow-minded focus on an heiress.
For example, these women—alone in this big city, dependent upon no one but their own wits and talents—had risked all for Adeline. Kingston had thought of himself as brave and courageous, but next to those girls he could not lay claim to it.
“It seems their risks have been rewarded,” he said. For her. And frankly, for himself. It was worth noting that these women had attained such success after starting out with so much less than he possessed. He thought of the excuses he had made for himself. He now reconsidered them.
“That’s the thing about this town,” Adeline said, leaning against the railing and staring out over the city. He watched a smile play upon her lips as she gave him a quick glance. “It’s a place of big risks and greater rewards. Those grand fortunes haven’t come from playing it safe but from taking big risks. And, frankly, by taking advantage of those less fortunate. But the lesson I choose to take away is that one must seize opportunities presented. Even if they make your heart stop in fear and make you wonder if you’re crazy.”
“That sounds like a dare.”
She stepped closer to him.
“Take it as you’d like, Duke.”
His hand found hers, hidden in the folds of her dress.
“No other woman has challenged me the way you do.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
He stroked her palm gently with his thumb. It was the littlest touch, but he needed this connection to her. He watched her features soften at the pleasure of his touch.
“I can say that you’re the only one I can think about, Adeline.”
She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. “I’d be lying if I said you never crossed my mind, she said quietly and he wanted to live in this moment forever.
Kingston wanted to kiss her urgently. Here. Now. Forever.
Take her in his arms and take her away to someplace more private, more secluded. His hotel room, perhaps, or even that hunting lodge of his in the wilds of Scotland.
He had to face how much he wanted her. This was not just desire—though it was that, with an intensity he’d never before felt—what he felt was verging on love. And love was notorious for making men think mad, irrational, insane thoughts.
Like discarding one’s eminently sensible plans to marry an heiress and taking a chance that there was another way to obtain the fortune he sought. He would be putting everything of his at risk—centuries of privilege, the legacy of his dukedom, his forthcoming marriage, the future he had always expected.
The very way he had always imagined himself was at stake. Ever since he was a child, he’d been the dutiful son, and he’d grown into the responsible duke upon whom everyone could rely for continued protection.
He was a respectable gentleman who did not throw everything away because of a pretty New York City girl.
Except maybe he was the kind of man who threw everything away because of a pretty New York City girl after all.
Because Adeline, oh Adeline. Those lips smiling at him recalled the memories of their frantic, heated kiss. The way she looked at him with a sparkle in her eye made him think anything was possible. She had the Manhattan skyline as her backdrop. Buildings were starting to rise higher than ever before, and so many were works in progress but projecting so much promise. The city was just beginning to be electrified. This was a cityscape new to history, made by those who dared to dream of things that did not previously exist, and those who dared to take the risk.
The question was, could he?
Chapter Twenty
Everyone is talking about Mrs. Carlyle’s upcoming masquerade ball. The hostess is promising a spectacle of grandeur and wealth, the likes of which this city has never seen, and that is saying something.
—The New York World
The House of Adeline
The Duchess of Kingston herself arrived the next day. She came without the duke, but she did bring his sisters. The three ladies entered the shop in a burst of ruffles, swishes of petticoats, and girlish chatter in English accents, declaring they had just arrived and desperately needed gowns fit for New York City society.
The duke did not accompany them, likely because he had spent more than enough time in the House of Adeline than was seemly for a gentleman. Likely, too, because most men considered joining ladies for trips to the modiste to be akin to torture.
And because of last night.
Nothing had happened. Nothing happened that one would write home about, print in the newspaper, or that would make for interesting gossip among the girls. But Adeline had sensed a change in him. His sheer bloody-minded narrow focus on wedding a fortune was dissipating and he was considering other options. Either she or the city was having an effect on him, opening his eyes, challenging him, and inviting him to stay.
And now his mother and sisters were here, interested in acquiring gowns from the House of Adeline, while the dressmaker in question was entertaining a seriously scandalous thought.
And then the words were actually leaving her mouth.
And then the duchess and her daughters left in a swish and a huff. Along with their ruffles and petticoats and massive feathered hats. And the honor of dressing their esteemed, aristocratic selves.
Adeline returned to the workroom, leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and exhaled the breath she had been holding.
“What just happened?” Rose asked, looking up from some lace embroidery.
“I refused to dress the Duchess of Kingston.”
“You refused to dress a duchess? The duchess?” Rachel asked, aghast.
“Oh my God. I need to sit down,” Margaret said.
“Is it the baby?”
“No, I just realized my employer is insane.”
“Insanely in love, perhaps,” Rachel said. But her voice wasn’t as snarky as it might have been. Kingston had been quite successful at charming her friends last night. He dispensed with any Lofty Lord act and treated them as . . . equals. Unbelievably charming, that.
Adeline did not disagree with her friend’s assessment.
But all eyes were on her as each one of her girls expected an explanation as to why Adeline would refuse the honor of dressing a duchess.
<
br /> “I have more than once heard him complain about dressmakers’ bills being an expense he struggles to pay,” she explained. “I refuse to add to his debts.”
“You mean you refuse to make it more necessary for him to marry his heiress,” Rose said softly.
“You know that she will just go elsewhere,” Margaret said. “She will go to someone else who will show no such restraint.”
“Like the dressmaker of her current ensemble?” Rachel replied, wincing at the recollection of it.
The duchess had arrived in a gown that couldn’t say no. Ruffles, fringe, and beads all competed to draw the eye; no flourish was deemed too much. And the hat—oh dear God, the hat. Her Grace wore an entire aviary on her hat, along with sufficient flora to feed them. There was more nature on her hat than Adeline had seen while growing up in the tenements of Lower Manhattan. The duchess was a woman screaming for attention with the only way she knew how: through attire that dared you to look away.
Dressmakers, milliners, and mantua makers must have seen her coming from a mile away and taken unfair advantage.
“Perhaps I should have agreed,” Adeline said. “And perhaps I might have—free of charge, or at a reduced rate—but she was determined to have an “eye-catching” costume for the upcoming masquerade that ‘would have the whole town talking.’”
“Oh dear.”
“Indeed.
“Besides, we also have a significant request from Miss Burnett.” My benefactor. “Her letter arrived just this morning. For this upcoming masquerade ball, she and five of her friends wish to go in complementary costumes, which we are to make. And Rose, I shall need you to fit me because, by Miss Burnett’s invitation, one of them is for me.”
Later that day
For all that their lives were strangely intertwined at the moment, Adeline had never actually met Miss Alice Van Allen and her mother. She knew plenty about them from the gossip columns; their fortune derived from Manhattan real estate and they regularly appeared at Fifth Avenue soirees and generously patronized a variety of charitable endeavors, with Miss Van Allen being particularly devoted to fundraising and organizing for the Audubon Society. Their family held a subscription at the Metropolitan Opera House, but only since the opera house favored by old Knickerbocker families had been demolished.
Though Adeline had no way of confirming it, she would wager that Mrs. Van Allen was a devoted subscriber to The Titled American, a periodical that listed the American women who had married into the British aristocracy . . . and that also listed the eligible, titled bachelors, their holdings, and annual incomes.
In other words, she was that kind of mother.
“Good afternoon. Mrs. Van Allen. Miss Van Allen. How are you today?”
“Well, it seems the gossip is true,” Mrs. Van Allen stated, and Adeline’s stomach lurched. Did she know? What did she know? “This is a lovely shop.”
“Thank you.” Adeline breathed a sigh of relief.
“Your dresses have become quite the sensation, so when we needed a dress for my daughter for a special occasion, it seemed natural to call upon you. It wouldn’t do to wear something other than most au courant fashions on the most important day of my daughter’s life so far.”
Before she could ask, what occasion?! Mrs. Van Allen continued on. “But she doesn’t need pockets in her gown.”
“Pockets are one of my signatures,” Adeline said, confused.
“Yes, so they say. But I don’t agree with it. It’s too masculine. I can’t imagine what a woman needs a pocket for, anyway.”
Money. Lip paint. Love letters. Adeline’s gaze dropped to Miss Van Allen’s gloved left hand and thought: A place to keep her gloves after she has removed them so one might see if she is wearing a betrothal ring.
“We know that you are a friend of the duke’s,” Miss Van Allen said in a sweet, girlish voice. “The widow of his friend from Eton. I’m so sorry about your husband’s passing.” Adeline could scarcely whisper thank you for the very unnecessary condolences. “We wish to support the duke’s friends. His interests and concerns shall soon be ours.”
Oh damn. She was sweet. She was kind, pretty, and sweet.
Adeline glanced again at Miss Van Allen’s hands as she delicately tugged each fingertip of her gloves for the slow, delicate process of removal. Is there a ring? Is there a ring!?
“And what is the occasion for the gowns?” Adeline asked, doing her very best to adopt the demeanor of Disinterested Dressmaker Who Was Not Personally Invested in the Occasion At All Whatsoever.
“We need gowns for my daughter’s betrothal ball.”
Ah.
Well then.
That. Was. That.
Adeline had no business feeling that pang in her heart, so sharp that her breath literally caught in her throat. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. After last night she had thought . . . maybe. Maybe they would have a chance. But apparently not.
“My congratulations,” she croaked.
Miss Van Allen had removed her gloves now, gently draping the soft blue kidskin leather across her lap. No ring adorned any of her long, elegant fingers.
“Oh, it’s not official. Yet,” Mrs. Van Allen replied with a wink. “But we expect him to ask soon. And then we won’t have much time to plan the betrothal ball and the wedding. Best to get a head start on these things. We don’t want him to slip through our fingers now, do we?”
“Of course.” Adeline smiled tightly. But so did Miss Van Allen. And that piqued Adeline’s interest. That royal we told Adeline just what she needed to do next.
“I shall need to take Miss Van Allen’s measurements. While we do that, Mrs. Van Allen, perhaps you would like to have some refreshment and consider fabric options in the other room? You must have something in mind.”
“Excellent, thank you. I’m thinking a lovely shade of ivory. Or perhaps pearl.”
“Oh indeed. Both are excellent options,” Adeline agreed, ushering the meddling mama out of the room. The velvet curtains swished shut behind her and they were alone.
“Ivory or pearl? Does that mean anything to you? Aren’t they both just shades of white?” Miss Van Allen asked after her mother was out of earshot.
“It absolutely means something,” Adeline began to explain. “It means that your mother has a very specific idea of what perfect happiness is for you. It means that she has been considering the finer points of this event for quite some time. It means that everything must be just so.”
“That is the difference between ivory and pearl?”
“In this instance, yes.”
Miss Van Allen was so young. Adeline hadn’t realized. At one and twenty years, she was a perfectly fine age to wed. But her mother—one of those mothers—had kept her in a state of innocence. It was all there in her dress: a demure, high-necked affair in a pretty floral pattern that whispered of youth and purity and safety and made Adeline think of a lamb being led to the slaughter.
This girl had no business wearing a dress from the House of Adeline. Not with its wicked pockets and cuts that gave a sensation of freedom rather than . . . a gilded birdcage.
Or did she?
They commenced with the fitting. Adeline took note of her height and waist and all the inches she needed to know about in order to sew a gown that was more than a betrothal dress. Could she also create a gown that would create a spark in this girl and stiffen her spine? Perhaps she could even make a dress that would inspire her to refuse a duke.
“Perhaps we might also make you a day dress. For when he proposes.”
“A fine idea. I’m sure my mother will be amenable.”
Moments passed in agonizing silence as Adeline took her measure: the span of her waist, her bust, the distance from her shoulder to wrist. Finally she could no longer resist asking the question on her mind, if only to make conversation and even if she was afraid of the answer.
“Do you love him?”
Miss Van Allen, to her credit, answered candidly. “I love my moth
er. I love my father. I love everything they have done for me. He will be good to me and I do not love anyone else.”
Something clenched in Adeline’s chest. Was this supposed to make her feel better? There was some comfort, she supposed, in knowing that their feelings weren’t lopsided; Miss Van Allen wasn’t some starry-eyed girl in love with a man who didn’t return the feeling.
But did she not want more? Did she not want passionate kisses and true love and to move through the world with a purpose? Adeline wondered if Miss Van Allen even knew those things were options.
And what a pity it was, that a man like the duke should be wasted in a loveless marriage. All that smoldering passion of his would fade with time.
“What do you think, Miss Van Allen? Ivory or pearl?”
“I think I shouldn’t know the difference. Or care. As long as my mother is happy.”
“If we hang the weight of the dress from the shoulders instead of your hips, you won’t feel as if you’re walking around in a cage,” Adeline explained. “We can keep the skirts full and use a different-style bustle instead, so you’ll feel like you can move and . . . do something.”
“Do what?”
“Anything. Whatever strikes your fancy.”
“I like birds,” she said softly. “I like the idea of birds being able to fly around freely and without worrying about being caught and kept in a cage or . . . worse. I don’t care if my dress is ivory or pearl, but it mustn’t have feathers or fur. I like the idea of feeling freedom, Mrs. Black. I’ve always imagined what it would be like, but I’ve never experienced it.”
Adeline straightened, determined. She would not say anything to Miss Van Allen—it would be out of place to try to change her mind. She would not attempt to seduce Kingston away from what he claimed he wanted.
But she would make a dress for this girl that would give her a taste of the freedom she was about to give up. Adeline would marshal everything she knew about dressmaking and womanhood to create a gown that might, just might, give Miss Van Allen the sense of strength necessary to chase her own dreams.