by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
Although he had not exactly come to terms with his alternating fascination with and suspicion of Delyth Owen, Simon was dressed for dinner and in the drawing room with his sister, thinking about a predinner glass of something stronger than sherry, when Delyth was ushered in by the footman. Simon paused in the act of reaching for a decanter and dropped the glass he was holding. Louisa hurried across the room and rescued the—whatever he was about to pour, picked up the glass, which had fallen on the carpet and not shattered, and put her arm through Simon’s, turning him to completely face their guest.
Simon bit his lip, trying to school his expression. It would not do for his reaction to show on his face. But what was the woman wearing? My God! Her gown, while not as garish as Lady M’s, showed a distinct… He wasn’t even sure what to call it. What would he write if this were for “Aglaea’s Cabinet”? A distinct lack of taste. A total misunderstanding of color. He took a deep breath and tried to unfocus his eyes. That didn’t help. When he did that, all he could see was the color. When he focused, he could see that the structure of the gown was lovely and quite original and that the construction was nearly perfect and that it flattered her voluptuous little body. Delyth Owen was an excellent seamstress and, possibly, an excellent dressmaker. She just couldn’t pick out colors to save her life. At that moment, Simon realized that her design for Lady Marjoribanks was not at all malicious. It was just Delyth.
Just Delyth. The two words ran through Simon’s mind throughout dinner and after he had retired for the night. In that one moment Miss Owen had become Delyth and Simon found himself in a muddle. He wasn’t sure he should abandon his quest just yet. He told himself that one atrociously colored gown was really not sufficient evidence to acquit Delyth Owen of whatever nefarious plot she (or possibly he) had manufactured. On the other hand, he was increasingly taken with the young seamstress. She had been gracious and refined at the dinner table. Her conversation was quick-witted and amusing. She was a good companion, and Louisa obviously enjoyed her company. He needed to think.
Instead, he slept.
Chapter Six
“No Miss Owen?” Simon sat down at the breakfast table with a loaded plate and nodded to the footman to fill his cup.
“Miss Owen is in the workroom we’ve set up for her, unpacking her fabrics.”
Simon winced.
Louisa sighed. “I admit that last night’s gown does not bode well for what I might find when I go for my first session. But perhaps she made it out of leftover fabric from other projects, putting together whatever was available.”
“Perhaps.” Simon sipped his coffee. “Perhaps not. We shall see.”
“Shall we?” Louisa asked, emphasizing the second word.
“Yes.” Simon put his cup back in the saucer with a decided click. “I think I will come to your first meeting.”
“Totally uncalled for, Simon. And a little odd.”
“Perhaps, but I need to know what she is up to. And I need to make sure you are dressed properly.”
Louisa lifted her fork and poked at the eggs on her plate. “I am a grown woman and have been choosing my own clothes for some time now. And I shouldn’t have to point out that Miss Owen’s design and technique are excellent. I will admit that her color choices are a bit … unusual.”
Simon shook his head. “I feel involved, somehow,” he said. “I am no longer convinced that Lady M’s gown was done with malice, but I feel that I should follow through with this.”
“I wonder,” Louisa said, “what your real reason is.”
“I beg your pardon?” Simon lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of a question is that?”
“It wasn’t a question,” Louisa said. “It was a statement.”
“Then what kind of statement is it?”
Louisa frowned at her brother. “Men!” she said. “You are all impossible.”
Simon had lived among women his entire life, particularly this woman, whom he had known from an infant. And yet, they remained a mystery; their thoughts and conversation were frequently cryptic. The longer he lived with Louisa, the more he was able to decode her thoughts. But there were times when he was completely baffled. This was one of them. He wondered whether to pursue this discussion or abandon it as hopeless. In the end, he couldn’t resist.
“Granted,” he said at last. “I’ll agree that we are impossible if you’ll tell me what you mean.”
Louisa inhaled deeply and gazed at her brother in contemplation. “I think,” she said, “that you are no longer suspicious of Miss Owen. Or at least are less suspicious. But you won’t let it go. Why is that?”
Simon felt like grinding his teeth. Cryptic. Nothing clarified. His sister was so annoying. “I’ll join you in the workroom,” he said.
“Very well.” Louisa threw her napkin on the table and stood. “I’ll be there, but don’t come in until later. Miss Owen will be taking measurements and I’m sure no one wants you about for that.”
Simon wandered into the library and sat at his desk. He opened his account book, but could not muster the will to deal with today’s bills. He opened the newspaper and found nothing of interest. He opened a book and then another and finally dropped onto a sofa and closed his eyes.
He supposed that Louisa was right about many things. She needed no help in choosing her wardrobe. And he didn’t doubt that she could easily deal with any problems that might arise with Miss Owen. But he needed, or rather, wanted to be there while Delyth worked with his sister. Louisa was right about that, too. His reasons were no clearer to himself than they were to his sister. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to expose Delyth Owen or help her. Or perhaps both. In the back of his mind, he had a niggling suspicion that he wanted whatever would put him in close proximity to Miss Delyth Owen. The idea bothered him enough that he was happy to push it as far from his thoughts as possible. If, indeed, that were possible.
Rising from the sofa, he went after his hat and gloves. Maybe some fresh air would clear his mind.
Delyth had just finished Louisa Merrithew’s measurements when someone knocked on the door. Louisa was behind a makeshift screen with her maid, getting back into her clothes. Delyth was sitting with her paper and pencil, sketching some ideas for additions to Miss Merrithew’s wardrobe.
“Enter,” she said.
Simon Merrithew cracked open the door and stuck his head in. “Am I too early?”
Delyth jumped up from her seat. “No,” she said, a little out of breath. “Not at all.”
Louisa peered around the screen and said, “Just in time, Simon. Take a seat.” And then disappeared again.
Simon looked pointedly at Delyth, who was confused until she realized that he was waiting for her to be seated. Without speaking, she dropped back onto the stool on which she had been sitting to take Miss Merrithew’s measurements and picked up her sketching tablet. Simon sat.
Delyth bent over her work, her pencil flying. She could feel Simon Merrithew’s eyes on her back and it made her anxious. But she didn’t stop her work. She was here for Miss Merrithew. And Mr. Merrithew seem to have softened a bit since her arrival. Perhaps he was getting used to her. Maybe she’d ameliorated his dislike of the Welsh. She flicked her eyes in his direction. He wasn’t frowning. Surely that was a good sign. She smiled to herself and continued drawing. She had not changed her mind about him being a very handsome man. He was even more handsome when he wasn’t looking forbidding. A second glance confirmed that he seemed much more relaxed and the lines of good humor around his eyes made her heart beat a little faster and, she feared, brought a blush to her face. She bent lower over her tablet.
Miss Merrithew finally glided out from behind the screen, looking as elegant as ever. She dismissed her maid and took the chair next to Delyth, looking over her shoulder as she sketched.
“Oh! I like that one.” Louisa pointed to the upper left corner of the sheet.
Delyth turned the drawing around so Louisa could see it more clearly. “Do you?” she asked and then pointed
to another drawing. “What about this one? It’s similar but there are small differences.”
“Yes, I see.” Louisa took the tablet out of Delyth’s hands and looked closely. “Very nice. I’d like to have them both. In different colors, of course.”
“Of course.” Delyth jumped up and went over to the corner where the fabrics she had brought with her were draped over the back of a settee. She had brought a wide range. She knew that not everyone liked the brilliant colors that she loved. She was afraid that Lady Marjoribanks might be the exception to the general taste and thanked the fates that had brought her into Madame Follette’s. She would start with what she liked, though. Miss Merrithew had chosen her after visiting Lady Marjoribanks. There must be a reason for that.
She picked a deep crimson from the array and then reached for a daffodil yellow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Miss Merrithew jump up and, when she turned her head, she noticed that Mr. Merrithew was wincing. These were, apparently, not successful choices. She stood where she was as Louisa crossed the room to join her. So much for hoping that the Merrithews shared Lady M’s sensibilities.
“Perhaps something not quite so … bright,” Louisa said, removing the fabric from Delyth’s hands. “I like both of these colors,” she continued, “but perhaps not together.”
Mr. Merrithew joined them at the settee, looking over the display of fabrics. “Why did you make this choice, Miss Owen?” he asked.
Delyth flushed slightly, but straightened and looked Simon Merrithew directly in the eye. “I like these colors,” she said. “They are vibrant and can easily be seen from—from a distance.” She had almost said “from the last row,” but stopped herself. She was not ashamed of her time in the theater, but she thought that Mr. Merrithew might not want a costume designer dressing his sister. And she wasn’t sure that Miss Merrithew would want that either.
“I see,” Mr. Merrithew said, cocking his head as he examined the fabrics. “From a distance.”
Delyth hesitated. She supposed they were bound to find out eventually anyway. And this way she could go back to her home. She was sure Anthea missed her. “I … I began designing in the theater,” she said, keeping her voice low. She definitely wouldn’t be heard from a distance.
“Ah.” Simon Merrithew’s blue eyes looked into her face and perhaps into her brain, as if he were probing her thoughts.
“It’s true,” she said. Did he doubt her?
Delyth saw Simon glance at his sister and some unspoken communication pass between them. Was this where they’d tell her to pack her valise and go home? “I’ll get my things.”
“No,” Mr. Merrithew said, as Delyth turned and began gathering up the material on the settee.
Louisa reached out and took her hand. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“You can’t want a theater costumer dressing you,” Delyth said, blinking her eyes.
“No,” Simon repeated. “Don’t go. Let us help.”
Delyth dropped her fabrics and stared at Simon in amazement. “Don’t go?”
Louisa looked up at her brother and then nodded. “Stay,” she said. “You do beautiful work. I want you to design my gowns. But…” And she looked at Simon again.
“But,” he continued for his sister. “I—We would like to help you decide how to choose colors. Are you willing to do this?”
Delyth couldn’t speak, but managed to nod vigorously until she regained her voice. “Yes,” she said, a delighted grin supplanting her earlier distress. “Yes, please.”
Chapter Seven
That smile. As Simon prepared for what he thought of as The Education of Delyth Owen, he couldn’t keep the image of that incredible smile from his mind. He thought back to the first time he’d seen her smile, her genuine delight when his sister had complimented her voice. He thought, now, that moment had been his first insight into who Delyth Owen really was, the moment he knew he was wrong to suspect her of subterfuge. Her smile when she realized that she was not to be dismissed for having worked in the theater left him breathless and made him want to know so much more about her. But this time he did not want to find where she had come from. He wanted to know what she thought, what she felt and, he admitted to himself in the privacy of his own chamber, what it would feel like to hold her in his arms.
He shook his head. That was impossible. She was not someone he could court and he was not someone who would seduce her.
“Damn.”
“Sir?” Simon’s valet dropped his hands from the cravat he was tying and stepped back.
“My fault.” Simon shook his head at the man and lifted his chin to signal that he should continue. “My mind was wandering.” And it was, to places it shouldn’t ever step into. He would have to discipline his unruly thoughts if he was to be any help to Delyth. Miss Owen. He should also stop thinking of her by her given name.
Miss Owen. There, that wasn’t so difficult. Miss Owen was waiting for him in the front hall. He was relieved to see that her street clothes were fairly subdued. He had half expected to find her in an aubergine pelisse and green bonnet. Instead, he found her in a drab gray cloak and matching bonnet. It was so unlike her that he almost missed the outrageous gown she had worn to dinner. And then she smiled at him, and everything around him had more color. How did she do that?
“Miss Owen,” he said. “I see you are prepared for our adventure.”
“I am.” She appeared to be shifting from foot to foot in excitement. “What are we to do?”
“We are taking a walk,” Simon said, offering her his arm.
Delyth looked startled, but took the proffered arm as he nodded to the footman and escorted her into the sunny afternoon.
Once they were on the street, Delyth looked up at him. “Where will we walk?” she asked.
“We are going to Bond Street.” Simon turned her in the proper direction. “And we will observe and discuss what the ladies we pass are wearing.”
The sky was clear and the breeze was remarkably fresh for a spring afternoon in London. Simon took a deep breath and looked around. It was a mild, spring day, and he felt particularly happy to have the adorable, if drably dressed, Delyth Owen on his arm. As they made their way down Oxford Street, Simon wondered if he would have preferred that she wore something reflecting her extravagant taste in color. An interesting question. He’d have to give it some thought.
Bond Street was alive with color. The trees were a new green and the ladies were wearing their spring fashions. There was a lot of blue this year, he noted. Also pink. Always pink. He could see some pale cloaks with brilliant scarlet linings and a few pelisses in salmon or a rich green. Not in the same garment, fortunately, or unfortunately depending upon your point of view. He looked down at Delyth—Miss Owen—trying to gauge her reaction. She looked disappointed.
“What do you think of the colors?” he asked.
Miss Owen stopped in the middle of the pavement and looked around her. “They’re rather dull, aren’t they?”
“Do you think so?” Simon discreetly turned her toward the lady in the salmon. “What about that? It’s a vibrant color.”
Miss Owen brightened. “Yes. Yes. That’s a lovely color and the construction of the pelisse is very fetching…”
“But?” Simon sensed her hesitation.
“But.” She took a deep breath. “But imagine it with some pea green piping or maybe violet gussets.” She looked up at Simon, her eyes dancing. “Or both.”
Simon groaned, noticing that his reaction had done nothing to diminish the dressmaker’s enthusiasm. He extended his arm again. “Come along.”
The walk continued in much the same vein. “Notice how the hint of carmine lining accentuates the rich gray of the cloak.”
“Gray? Why do ladies wear gray? It’s as if they are trying to be invisible.” When Simon gave her an inquiring glance, she elaborated. “I mean ladies of fashion. I’m just a dressmaker. The cloak would be much better with the red on the outside and perhaps a jonquil lining. Then
it would stand out.”
“Well then.” Simon spotted another smartly dressed lady coming toward them. “There’s a lovely jonquil dress, nicely set off by the fawn spencer.”
“Oh yes.” Delyth smiled at him again. “The dress is lovely. I think that it would look better with a brighter spencer. Tangerine, perhaps, or pistachio.”
Simon was suddenly hungry. “Let me buy you tea.”
As Simon steered Delyth toward a tea shop he liked to patronize, she grasped his hand and tugged him toward a shop window. “Look.”
He found himself looking into the window of Percival & Condell. P&C had a good reputation as a draper and the window today was awash in colored linens and silks. Delyth had not released his hand, and Simon did not feel inclined to bring that to her attention.
She stood, eyes shining, taking in all the colors. “Oh my,” she whispered. “Just look at these.”
At this moment, Simon’s latest suspicion was confirmed. Delyth Owen loved color, loved it in all its variations, loved the richness of good fabric, loved the way colors played off one another. Any colors. Her eye did not look for harmony, it looked for joy. Her love of color was disastrous and infectious. As she stood in front of the draper’s window, reveling in the sweep of color before her, she was impossible to resist.
Tea with Simon Merrithew. Delyth was floating. Walking through the streets of London today, looking at the fashionable ladies and in the shop windows, talking about clothes and fabric and color had been an afternoon outside of her experience. And then tea. During her time in London, Delyth had nearly forgotten that she had been a child of privilege, had actually presided over tea, had entertained neighbors, had planned menus with her father’s cook, had wandered the fields of her home. And yet, remembering all that today as she and Mr. Merrithew were seated at the little table in the confectioner’s shop he had chosen, she still could not remember a single moment as wonderful as this afternoon had been.