by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
But never mind that, the lady was responding. “Actually,” she began in a dry tone, “I have lived here my entire life. So if you consider that I have never left, then yes, this is my first time in London.”
Wonderful. He had asked her one question—one!—and it had been the stupidest thing in the world to have said.
“But I can understand you thinking I have just arrived.” She gestured to her dress and offered an embarrassed smile.
Now he wished he could just sink into the ground. Not only had he asked an inane question, she had assumed he had asked because her clothing was not what most polished ladies in town would wear. And she wasn’t wrong, but he couldn’t very well acknowledge that.
Not for the first time Henry wished he had been born smaller. Or mute.
“Ah, yes. Well, then.” Because that was the most intelligent response he could think of. He wished he could smack himself in the head.
“Mr. Dawkins,” Lady Euphemia began, then stopped herself to giggle, putting her tiny little hand in front of her rosebud mouth. “It feels so odd to be so formal, and yet in town you are not Henry, and I am not Effie.” She giggled again.
“But it would not be correct for Mr. Dawkins to address you so familiarly, Lady Euphemia,” Miss Grant said with a glance toward Henry. He could have sworn she had a look of repressed irritation, and he didn’t feel quite as bad for being an idiot. Because if she felt comfortable enough to share that kind of commiseration about Effie with him, maybe he hadn’t insulted her irreparably.
Effie’s rosebud mouth turned a bit … thorny, as she twisted it into a pout. An adorable pout, to be sure, but a pout nonetheless.
“Well, Mr. Dawkins,” she said, over-enunciating as she glared at her companion, “I came by because it has been so long since I have seen your sister, and you, of course, and I was hoping I could purchase some gowns, but since she is not here, perhaps you could inform her I called, and if you would be so kind as to escort me and Miss Grant to our carriage…?” And she tilted her face up to his and nearly flattened him with the brilliance of her smile. It really was blinding, and if he had ever wondered if he felt an iota of attraction to his family acquaintance, he could answer that now. Definitely not.
He shot a desperate look at Effie’s companion, hoping the woman would be able to deflect some of Effie’s focus.
“Effie, before we go, we should see if Miss Dawkins’s shop has any blue ribbons that could go on your new hat.” Miss Grant took Effie’s arm and steered her away toward a table covered with, presumably, ribbons. That were blue.
She glanced behind her, a wry smile on her lips, and Henry heaved a deep sigh of relief. Perhaps Effie would get so distracted by the prospect of ribbons she’d forget all about the prospect of him.
Although if that happened, it would mean she’d realized she didn’t require the attention of every single person in the room. Which would never happen.
Katherine suppressed a snort at seeing Mr. Dawkins’s face. It didn’t make any sense, but seeing him so discomfited only made him more attractive, although Katherine would guess Effie wouldn’t feel the same way. There was something so warmly appealing about him, even beyond his admittedly good looks and impressive physique. Even his glasses made him look appealing. As though there was a shy person hiding inside the hulking giant, a man only Katherine could see.
“And we will get you a ribbon or two as well,” Effie was saying, now leading the way to the table. Katherine still felt his presence behind her, his gratitude nearly palpable in the small shop.
“That is not necessary,” Katherine murmured, even though she knew it was useless to argue. She already had a collection of things Effie had insisted on purchasing for her, even though she protested she didn’t need anything. If Effie were to somehow decide to buy her a small cottage somewhere, that would be useful, but as of now, Katherine’s bedroom was cluttered with porcelain figurines, jewelry that was not to her taste, and many, many ribbons in bright colors, all of which would clash with Katherine’s drab clothing.
Not that she didn’t appreciate Effie’s generosity—she did, and she knew the girl was motivated by kindness. It was just that there were only so many small pottery horses a woman could own without feeling as though she was somehow expected to transform into a small horse herself, just to fit in.
Dear God, what if Effie’s younger sisters also deluged her with gifts? She’d end up overcome with stitched handkerchiefs, ferns in glass cases, or perhaps just numerous portraits of themselves painted by their swains.
Please don’t let them get painted by too many swains, Katherine thought.
“Oh!” Effie exclaimed, spinning around to face Mr. Dawkins. Katherine did as well, telling herself it was just to follow what Effie was saying. Not because she wanted to look at him again. “I’ve just had the most wonderful idea.” She clapped her hands and blinked as Katherine braced herself for what was to emerge from her charge’s mouth.
Mr. Dawkins, poor fellow, clamped his teeth together so tightly she saw his jaw muscles clench.
“It is for Henry—Mr. Dawkins, that is,” Effie corrected with a flutter of her lashes, “to be my partner to practice my dance lessons.”
“Lady Euphemia,” Katherine began, while at the same time Mr. Dawkins said, “My lady,” each of their respective tones exhibiting their skepticism at the plan.
“It will be perfectly respectable, and since you are such an old friend of the family, there will be nothing untoward about it. Plus Katherine will be there, so it is all aboveboard.”
This was precisely the kind of trouble Katherine had been engaged to circumvent, and yet here she was, unable to think quickly enough to halt the ridiculous plan in its tracks.
“I cannot dance.” Mr. Dawkins’s tone was abrupt, and entirely awkward.
Oh, thank God, Katherine thought.
Only— “Excellent! So we can learn together,” Effie said brightly.
“But,” Mr. Dawkins began, only to have Effie wave a delicate finger in his direction.
“I am considering who will be making the gown I will wear to the king’s coronation. I do wish to give the honor to your sister, but if you cannot do me this favor…” She let the words dangle there, but Katherine felt as though she could see the words nearly wrap around the poor man’s throat.
“I agree,” he said at last in a low voice.
“I knew you would,” Effie enthused. “Come to my parents’ house tomorrow at three o’clock. It has been so lovely seeing you,” she said, taking Katherine’s arm and heading for the door.
Henry stood gaping long after the door to the shop had shut behind the two ladies. How had he gotten enmeshed in Effie’s schemes—again? He’d thought that once she was a lady in town that she would change, but apparently not. And he had hoped that once he was older, he would be able to withstand any female machinations thrown his way, but again, apparently not.
Dancing. If his sister were to get the dressing of the admittedly lovely Lady Euphemia, he would have to dance with her. Not to mention dance to her tune. He chuckled without humor at the thought.
Effie’s companion had tried to speak up, but Effie had just rolled right over both of their objections, as he should have predicted she would.
Not for the first time, he cursed his appearance. He knew full well he attracted more than his fair share of female attention, and Lady Euphemia was not the most obvious nor the most unsuitable lady he seemed to have acquired among his list of admirers, but she was the most persistent. It had taken him an hour to persuade her that no, she was not in love with him, and no, he would not risk everything to be with her. And that had been when she was fifteen.
She was eighteen now, and her self-absorbed interest in him did not appear to have abated.
He groaned as he removed his spectacles, rubbing his palm over his face, wishing he could just be left alone to do his work and help his sister. Although that was what he’d be doing, wasn’t it? Helping her? If she were known to
be dressing Lady Euphemia, who was likely the reigning beauty of the ton, then customers would be flocking to her shop to have her do the same for them. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to be so worried about her future, and their mother’s. It was their mother’s dress shop originally, but his sister had taken over after Henry had shared some hard truths about the shop’s finances with their mother. She had protested vehemently, but had finally seen the sense in relinquishing the shop to Felicity. It would take a tremendous success—something like dressing the desirable Lady Euphemia—to make it so he would worry less.
Not that he found Effie at all desirable. Beautiful, yes, but not the kind of woman he could see himself with.
Her companion, on the other hand. Something about her intrigued him; perhaps it was her shockingly red hair, or pale skin, or dark brown eyes. Or, most likely, it was that she was built like a woman, not a waif or a statue. She had curves that made him want to touch her, and he wondered what she would look like if Felicity had the dressing of her as well—all those curves encased in something other than the drab cloak and dress she wore.
He didn’t share his sister’s knowledge and skill with clothing, but he had enough of an eye to know when something—or someone—would be remarkable if just given the right context. What would Miss Grant look like if she were given a chance to shine? He probably shouldn’t be thinking too much about that, given that he was in a shop filled to the rafters with ladies, and they would notice if he—well, he just couldn’t.
He felt his face get hot, the way it always did when he was embarrassed. Damn it. He hadn’t actually done anything, just thought something. And his face had turned red, and other parts of him had reacted as well.
And he was obliged to see the lady in company with Effie as he was trying to dissuade the latter from her interest in him?
That scenario just felt like a romp from a Shakespeare play. If Shakespeare had written about a lovely red-haired woman whom there was no mistaking for anything but a woman.
Damn.
Chapter Three
Katherine fully expected Euphemia’s parents would balk at having Mr. Dawkins reenter their daughter’s life, but apparently not—Effie had taken her mother aside and whispered something that made her mother brighten up and nod, and that was it.
He was to help Effie dance, even though he did not dance himself and Effie’s own dance skills were already well-honed, since she’d been attending balls in the country from the age of sixteen.
It was such a clear subterfuge it seemed ridiculous.
“It’s nearly three,” Effie pointed out, as though she hadn’t been reporting on the time since noon. “I told Hen—Mr. Dawkins three o’clock, and he is not here yet.”
“It is nearly three,” Katherine reminded her. “Not three right now. He should,” she began, but stopped when she heard the knock on the door.
Thank goodness Mr. Dawkins was prompt. She did not want to have to listen to Euphemia report on the time every other minute.
“Lady Euphemia, your guest is here.” The Kilchesters’ butler did not look pleased at Mr. Dawkins’s arrival. Unlike Effie, who positively beamed.
“Show him into the ballroom, Jenkins, and please make sure we are not disturbed.” Euphemia gestured to Katherine to follow, then both ladies made their way to the ballroom.
Each time Katherine saw it, she felt a pang of—of loss, or wishing, or regret. The room was enormous, empty of any furniture except for a few chairs against the wall and a piano in one corner. The windows were huge as well, going from floor to ceiling, with heavy green velvet curtains covering them. Effie had ordered that the curtains be pulled back, so the light—meager though it was, given that it was London, after all—streamed through the windows, throwing a golden glow on the polished wooden floor.
It was a room devoted to pleasure, designed only to provide adequate space and a lovely surrounding for parties. For events where every lady would have a dance partner, and the drinks would be sparkling and bubbly, as would the conversation. Where someone like Katherine, even, could find a moment of pleasure herself, a relief from her everyday cares and worries.
It wouldn’t ever happen, not here, not anywhere, which was likely why the room filled her with such regret. She was well past the age of such fancies, and yet she had never experienced them in the first place, so her imagination insisted on dreaming up scenarios where she would be the belle of the ball, which was laughable, not when females like Effie existed, not when Katherine herself was so old, poor, and not attractive to marriage-minded men.
“Katherine, would you mind playing the piano?” Effie gestured to the corner where the instrument stood. “Henry, that is, Mr. Dawkins,” she said with one of her delightful giggles, “you just stand there, and we can begin. Oh, I do so love dancing,” she said, clapping her hands together in her enthusiasm.
Katherine suspected that what she really loved was the opportunity to capture Mr. Dawkins’s interest, but she dutifully made her way to the piano and sat down, flexing her fingers.
“Play that waltz that I can never remember the name of,” Effie said as she smiled up at Mr. Dawkins.
Mr. Dawkins, Katherine noticed, didn’t smile back as much as grimace. Perhaps it wasn’t that he hadn’t learned to dance so much as he just wasn’t able to? In which case, Effie’s toes would take a beating, since Mr. Dawkins was so much larger.
And that led to some very inappropriate thoughts. She’d wondered if she’d exaggerated his largeness and general good looks, but no, she definitely hadn’t. If anything, in the nearly empty room he looked even more massive, as though he were a Greek statue come to life.
Come to life to dance with Euphemia. Katherine sighed and turned her attention to the music.
She hadn’t had cause to play much, not since taking up residence at the Kilchesters’ house. Before, when she was Effie’s age, she had played the piano and sketched watercolors and done all those things genteel young ladies did to show their gentility.
She had yet to meet a gentleman who was passionate about a lady’s ability to stitch neatly, but if such a gentleman were to exist, perhaps she could dazzle him with her talent.
And while she was dreaming, perhaps she could find a gentleman who didn’t assume that her hair color and generous figure meant that she was wanton.
“Faster!” Euphemia’s voice interrupted her thoughts, thank goodness, since the last thing she needed was to continue being mournful about her lot in life. She had a home, currently, her duties weren’t too onerous—even if they could be aggravating—and she was able to enjoy the benefits of regarding Mr. Dawkins.
“Yes, of course,” Katherine replied, taking a quick look over her shoulder.
The two were dancing, sort of, but it appeared that Effie had taken the lead, while Mr. Dawkins looked as though he were trying to tiptoe, which looked almost ridiculous, especially on someone as large as he was.
But it was only almost ridiculous, because honestly, the man was so impressive-looking he could have been playing leapfrog and still looked handsome. His face was screwed up in concentration and what looked like embarrassment. No wonder he was embarrassed, since he obviously could not dance.
“This way, Henry,” Effie said in her impatient tone of voice. Katherine smothered a grin at seeing just how quickly Euphemia’s need to have things go the way she wanted them to overshadowed her desire to appear … desirable.
“I can’t,” Mr. Dawkins replied, sounding equally aggrieved.
It was obvious that the two had known each other for some time. Actually, they behaved more like brother and sister than anything romantic.
Katherine shrugged, returning her attention to the music. It wasn’t her place to categorize Euphemia’s relationships. Although actually it was, since it was Katherine’s responsibility to keep her from embarking on anything unsuitable.
But given how Mr. Dawkins seemed to regard Effie, she didn’t think she had much to be concerned about.
“Here,
you try dancing with him.” Euphemia’s pouty tone took on a much more sinister meaning when Katherine understood what she was saying.
She shook her head without even thinking about it, playing a very strident chord in the process. “I have to play for you, I know you do not enjoy playing, Lady Euphemia.” Perhaps if she reminded Effie that it was Katherine’s place to take the less pleasant tasks, she wouldn’t make her dance with Mr. Dawkins.
Who, she could see, looked just as discomfited as she felt, which made her feel worse. Was the prospect of dancing with her so terrible? No, you idiot, he just doesn’t like to dance. He isn’t thinking of you at all.
Which also made her feel worse.
“No, you don’t need to play.” Euphemia came to stand beside her, her arms crossed over her chest. “You can just hum as you dance. I insist.” Judging by her tone—and by the fact that the girl was the most stubborn person Katherine had ever met—she knew it was either comply now, or comply in half an hour after hearing a litany of reasons why she should comply. And since she had no idea if Mr. Dawkins had any other engagements that day, she took the path of least resistance, rising from her seat and glancing toward the gentleman in question.
“Effie.” He paused and looked skyward, heaving a deep breath that made his chest and shoulders seem even broader. “Lady Euphemia, that is, this is not going to work. I cannot dance. I told you that.”
“You can’t give up now.” Euphemia sounded resolute. And she should—probably the last time she had been told no was when he had told her no three years ago.
Maybe it was just as well Katherine wasn’t a raving beauty. Imagine being so spoilt that one assumed everyone would do as she asked.
Oh, now that would be a hardship, Katherine thought to herself, a wry smile curling her lips. Poor Euphemia. Too beautiful to ever be denied.
“Fine.” Mr. Dawkins glanced at Katherine, as though just realizing that she was there. His cheeks started to turn pink, and Katherine resisted smiling even more at how adorably odd it looked on such a male specimen. Blushing, of all things. All because he did not want to dance with her. Or anyone, it seemed.