Dressed to Kiss

by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens

  “Perhaps she had a moment of insanity,” Simon bit out, but then stepped back. “You’re right,” he conceded. “She is very good at what she does, but is it possible that Miss Owen deceived Miss Dawkins in some way?”

  “In what way would that be?” Louisa asked. “Did you not just tell me that Miss Dawkins’s brother gave you this information? If he knows, certainly his sister knows.”

  Simon shook his head. “I just feel that something is wrong, but I can’t identify it.”

  Louisa folded her arms across her chest and glared at her brother. “That much is obvious.”

  “And I have not been able to learn where she was before she joined the circus—uh, theater.”

  “Why is this so important to you? And would you please sit down; you’re making me dizzy.”

  Simon sat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and feeling exhausted. “I don’t know,” he said. “Since I took over Mother’s column, I seem to have developed an obsessive concern for fashion.” He looked up at his sister and shook his head. “That can’t be healthy.”

  “No,” Louisa said. “It certainly cannot. But you have encountered poor dressmaking before. I have never seen you so upset. What is this really all about?”

  Simon raised his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “I wish I did.”

  “Well, we need to find out.” Louisa stood and went to her brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t abide having you act in this deranged manner.”

  “Deranged?” Simon bristled, taking a deep breath before responding. Rather than answer, he just sagged back in his seat. “Perhaps I am acting deranged. But…” He sat up again. “I am not giving up this quest.”

  “Quest, is it?” Louisa strode over to the mantel and mimed hitting her head against it. “Very well, so be it. But I shall be watching you. Where do you start?”

  Simon hesitated. Where did he start? Or rather, how did he continue? They had already had Miss Owen to Portman Square and he had already made his first foray into dressmaking espionage. He supposed that one way was to follow the trail to the theater.

  “I will try to locate her former employer,” he said, suddenly decisive.

  “You mean the theater?” Louisa asked.

  When Simon nodded, she continued. “What do you hope to learn there?”

  Good question. “Exactly where she’s from. Why she’s in London. What her background might be.”

  Louisa blinked. “And how will this help?”

  “Damned if I know, Louisa. But it’s a start.”

  Louisa grimaced. “You know, she was very articulate and helpful when we looked at my wardrobe.”

  “Was she indeed?”

  Louisa turned to face her brother. “Stop it, Simon. Don’t take on that bored affectation with me. I know you too well. And yes, since you ask. She was, indeed. She understands patterns, fabric, and construction of clothing. I’m sure she’s an excellent dressmaker.”

  “I notice you didn’t include color in that list,” Simon said.

  Louisa sighed. “Not at present.”

  Feeling a bit more justified than he probably should, Simon nodded. “I’ll find out where she lives.”

  Louisa put her hands on her hips, a smile overtaking her expression. “She should live here.”

  “I beg your pardon?” A frisson chased up Simon’s spine. What was Louisa suggesting? Having Delyth Owen under their roof could not be a good idea. And yet…

  As he retraced his steps to Madame Follette’s, the idea of Delyth Owen sleeping under his roof lingered in Simon’s mind. He imagined her getting into bed only doors away from where he slept. He contemplated what sort of nightdress she might wear, as he questioned the ladies at the dressmaker’s shop about where Delyth lived and the name of the theater she had worked for. By the time he gained entrance to the Thalia Theatre and asked for Miss Drinkwater, he was imagining what Miss Owen looked like when she awoke, which included wondering what she would look like if he woke her.

  These were not the sort of thoughts he should be entertaining. Fantasies featuring Miss Delyth Owen were completely antithetical to his plan to expose her to society. And yet, the image of exposing Miss Owen in the privacy of a guest chamber at Merrithew House would not leave his mind. It was almost as if she had cast some sort of spell over him, the little Welsh witch.

  “They what?” Delyth snapped her mouth shut the moment she realized she had been standing in Felicity’s office with it hanging open.

  “Miss Merrithew has decided she would like to commission several new gowns and has asked that you live in her home while you work on them. She will provide you with a workroom and assistants should you require them.”

  Delyth’s head was still spinning. “That’s very…” Flattering? Confusing? Exciting? She was having trouble assigning the correct word.

  “That’s very good for us.” Felicity supplied the answer. “And for you, if you do well.”

  “But must I live there? I have a perfectly good home,” Delyth said. “And I am more than capable of getting from there to Portman Square.”

  “I’m sure you are, my dear.” Felicity looked down to straighten some papers on her desk. “But Miss Merrithew is a leading light in town fashion, and it’s a wonderful opportunity for you.” She hesitated a moment. “Don’t you agree?”

  Delyth supposed she did. And if Madame Follette’s was happy to accede, then Delyth was as well. She nodded. “Of course. When do I begin?”

  “Mr. Merrithew will send a hackney to your lodgings tomorrow morning. You should bring a variety of fabrics with you. You may select them today and we’ll bundle them for you. If you require anything while you are working with Miss Merrithew, just send word.”

  “They what?” Anthea Drinkwater stood in the drawing room of the flat she shared with Delyth with her jaw hanging open.

  Delyth, surrounded by a pile of parcels, carefully wrapped and tied up with paper and string, lifted her shoulders. “They want me to move into the Merrithews’ home while I design for Miss Merrithew.”

  “And you’re going?”

  “As you see.” Delyth gestured to the stack of fabric that had been sent home with her.

  “I see that you have brought half the shop home with you.” Anthea sounded weary. Or was it worried? Delyth wasn’t sure. But she knew what she had to do.

  “And I am taking these with me to Portman Square. It’s Felicity’s wish. And,” she added, “I am Felicity’s employee. So I’m going.”

  “I don’t trust Simon Merrithew,” Anthea said.

  Delyth was stunned. “You don’t even know Simon Merrithew.”

  “I do now,” Anthea said. “He paid a call at the theater.”

  Delyth blinked, trying to bring her friend into focus. “Why?”

  “He wanted to know all about you, dearest. How long you’d been at the theater, where you’d learned to design, where you came from, who your people are.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Not very much,” Anthea said. “I couldn’t very well tell him that I didn’t know how long you’d been at the theater, since I was the one who brought you in. But I did not divulge any other information about you. Not that you’ve been very forthcoming with me about your family.”

  Delyth considered this interest in her background and wondered if Anthea was right not to trust it. She probably was, but Delyth’s inclination had always been to think the best. “What did you think of him?” she said.

  “I just told you I don’t trust him.” Anthea looked puzzled by the question.

  “No,” Delyth said. “I mean, is he not a handsome gentleman? So tall and his manners are so correct.”

  Anthea frowned. “I wasn’t considering him as a dance partner, Delyth. I was wondering why he wanted to know so much about you.”

  “You worry too much,” Delyth said. “He’s probably concerned about the character of someone he intends to allow into his home. Wouldn’t you be?”


  Anthea sighed. “I suppose I would.”

  “Did you notice the color of his eyes?” Delyth asked.

  Anthea shook her head. “No.”

  “Blue,” Delyth said. “A cold blue. But you just know that if you could make him smile, they would warm to something like a summer sky.”

  “Good Lord, Delyth.” Anthea threw up her hands.

  “What?”

  “Go,” Anthea said. “Go to Merrithew House. But, please, please don’t fall in love with Simon Merrithew.”

  “Of course I won’t do that,” Delyth said. “I may admire the man without falling in love. That would be totally ridiculous. Besides, he doesn’t seem to like the Welsh.”

  Anthea stood and took her friend’s hands. “Be careful, Delyth. He’s up to something and I can’t think that it will bode well for you.”

  “Well, I really have no choice unless you want me to come back to the theater.”

  “Of course I want you back at the theater,” Anthea said. “But I know that is not where your heart lies. Go to the Merrithews. But be careful.”

  “Although I think you are exaggerating, I will,” Delyth said. “Now help me put these bundles into some order.”

  Delyth was prepared. She had packed the small trunk that she had brought with her from Wales and the portmanteau she had borrowed from Anthea and checked that her bundles of fabric were properly secured. She had reorganized her sewing kit, making sure that she had sufficient needles and thread and that her scissors were newly sharpened. Everything was prepared except for her mind.

  She lay in bed and wondered what it would be like to live in such a grand house. She recognized that she had not started out her life in poverty and, were she to be completely honest with herself (which was something she liked to do), she had been extremely lucky in finding employment with the Thalia and a home with Anthea. But her living situation had never come near the luxury in which the Merrithews appeared to live. Although her father was (and probably continued to be) quite prosperous, he was also one of the most parsimonious landowners in Wales. Leaving to follow her dream had never been a hardship. She had seen that Simon Merrithew, while probably not profligate, favored a rather elegant environment. It might be fun to live under his roof for a time.

  And Miss Merrithew. For some reason, Delyth kept forgetting the reason she was going to Portman Square. She was to dress Louisa Merrithew and would have nothing to do with her brother. Hadn’t Anthea warned her that she should be careful? But why was he asking questions about her? What did he hope to learn? Did he have an interest in her? She finally slept, with visions of Merrithews dancing in her head.

  Chapter Five

  “Are you sure you want the front door, Miss?” The hackney driver eyed Delyth’s pile of parcels and her battered trunk with some doubt.

  “Yes, indeed.” Delyth was rather tired of officious hackney drivers, but cheerful on the verge of giddy to be ascending the front steps.

  Unfortunately, the footman who answered the door looked even more dubious than the driver. “Miss?” he asked in the most condescending tone Delyth had heard since she arrived in London. And she’d been the recipient of a fair amount of condescension. Today, however, she was not having it. “Miss Owen to see Miss Merrithew,” she said, ignoring the mound of paper-wrapped parcels currently growing at her feet.

  Delyth was amazed that her nose-in-the-air delivery worked. The footman executed a short bow and opened the door wider.

  “Please see to my parcels,” she said, suppressing a grin and sweeping inside as grandly as she could manage in her seamstress’s cloak.

  “If you’ll have a seat, Miss—er—ma’am.” The footman had gone from condescending to confused.

  Delyth loved it and did not deign to respond to the implied question. “Miss Merrithew is expecting me,” she said, instead. “I trust she is at home.”

  “Just a moment, ma’am—Miss,” the footman stammered, bowed, and hurried out.

  Within moments, a woman Delyth had never seen before hurried into the entry hall and greeted her. “Miss Owen. I’m Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper. Miss Merrithew asked that I show you to your room.” She looked at the pile of packages and back at Delyth.

  “For my work,” Delyth said, looking apologetic.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Reynolds gestured to the footman. “Take these to the smaller morning room. And you.” She pointed to a second footman who had appeared behind her. “Take Miss Owen’s trunk up to the blue room.”

  Turning back to Delyth, she added, “If you’ll follow me.”

  Delyth forbade herself the curtsy that Mrs. Reynolds’s manner seemed to solicit and just smiled at the housekeeper. “Of course.” She picked up Anthea’s portmanteau and followed the lady out of the room and up two sets of stairs.

  The blue room was lovely. The walls were covered in a soft blue silk that was echoed in the bed curtains. The rosewood furniture was polished to a high gloss and the carpet was soft under the thin soles of her shoes. She was definitely not in the servants’ quarters and felt quite gratified that she had not let the driver take her around to the back entrance. Her trunk was at the foot of the bed and a maid was busily unpacking it. Delyth was taken aback. She and Anthea shared a maid/housekeeper at their lodgings, but she had taken care of her own personal needs since she left her father’s house. She decided she rather liked having a personal maid and stopped herself from remonstrating with the housekeeper. If the Merrithews wanted to treat her like a guest, who was she to disagree?

  “This is…” Delyth hesitated over the next word. She didn’t want to seem too effusive. “This is quite nice,” she said, finally, smiling at the housekeeper. “Where shall I wait upon Miss Merrithew?”

  “Miss Merrithew desires that you make yourself comfortable and rest from your journey,” the housekeeper said.

  Her journey? Delyth had taken a hackney cab from Henrietta Street to Portman Square, which couldn’t be more than three miles. That could hardly be considered a journey. Even if she had walked, which she could easily have done, she would not require a rest.

  “But I’m—” she started to say before Mrs. Reynolds cut her off.

  “You will join Mr. and Miss Merrithew for dinner,” she said. “I’ll send the maid up to you in time to dress.”

  “Th-thank you,” Delyth said. She was not feeling quite so cocky at that moment. As soon as the housekeeper left the room, she whirled around to the clothes press to see if the maid had miraculously unpacked something suitable for a dinner with aristocracy. Rather high-in-the-instep aristocracy at that. Thank goodness that she was a good enough seamstress to make her own clothes. She pulled out a lovely puce and green gown that she had recently made for herself. Although Anthea had made a choking sound when Delyth had first modeled it for her, she thought it would do quite well for dinner.

  A soft knock on her door woke Delyth. She sat up, surprised to find that she had fallen asleep and even more surprised that someone had entered while she slept and lit a fire in the grate. She could get used to the luxury. Smiling to herself, she allowed the maid who had unpacked her trunk to help her dress and do her hair. She looked very well, indeed, she thought as she examined herself in the glass between the drapery-clad windows. “Where am I to go?” she asked the maid.

  “Sterling tells me that Miss Owen will join us for dinner.” Simon had tracked Louisa down in the library to verify that rumor.

  Louisa blinked up at him. “Yes,” she said, as if that was a stupid statement.

  “She’s a dressmaker.” Simon dropped into a chair and narrowed his eyes at his sister.

  “I had noticed that,” Louisa said. “It’s an acknowledged fact that dressmakers need to eat.”

  “With us?”

  “If we invite her.” Louisa nodded, adding, “Which we have.”

  “Why would you do this, Louisa?”

  “What would you have me do?” Louisa leaned forward. “Make her take a tray in her room? Tell her to eat in the kitch
en? Throw scraps through the door?”

  “She’s a servant.”

  “She’s a dressmaker. And at the moment, she’s my dressmaker. I want her at my table.”

  Simon noticed Louisa’s jaw firming and realized that he was not going to win the argument. “Very well. I’ll be there.”

  “Yes you will,” Louisa said, picking up the book she had been reading.

  Simon left the library, wondering why his sister’s decision had left him so befuddled. The idea of having dinner with Miss Owen was hardly anathema. Yes, he was probably being unreasonable. He was just not sure why. He collected his hat, gloves, and walking stick from the butler and went out to cool off with a walk in the park. It would give him time to consider his response to the little dressmaker.

  Taking deep breaths as he crossed the street and opened the gate to the park, he began to feel that he had overreacted. In fact, he was ready to acknowledge that he had been overreacting to everything concerning Miss Delyth Owen since he saw Lady Marjoribanks wearing that atrocious gown. Yes, he had become an arbiter of fashion since his mother’s untimely death, but good lord this was taking it to unwarranted extremes. The fact that details on Miss Owen’s background had been so scanty, however, caused him to still wonder if she had some ulterior motive in dressing the lady in such hideous colors. What was her story?

  And why did he care? Simon found a dry bench and sat, fondling the head of his walking stick while he considered this question. He was not in the habit of deceiving himself and was ready to admit that something about Miss Owen called to him. Appealed to him? Granted, she was not what anyone would describe as a beauty. She was short and a bit more curved than the current styles called for. Granted, her hair was dark and lustrous if not particularly stylish. But what would you expect of a woman who had to work for a living? And her skin was luminous.

  Simon straightened abruptly and ran his hand over his face. Her skin was luminous? Wherever did that thought come from? It was not like him to wax poetic. Well, maybe about gowns and then only in print, but not about skin—or hair! And it certainly was not like him to moon over a woman. If he were to say “her skin is luminous” to Louisa, she would fall over laughing. Shouldn’t he be doing the same? He pulled his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and examined the face. How long was it until dinner?