The Beast's Bride (The Bluestocking War, #1)

by Eva Devon

  She realized now that she had not given the ramifications of such a serviceable gown considerable thought until she'd stood surrounded by the furbelows of other ladies of the town.

  It did not do to look like a servant when one was a duchess.

  In hindsight, perhaps she should have chosen a gown with a bit more, well, panache. Perhaps she should have chosen more than one. But it was not easy to become accustomed to wealth when one had done without for so long.

  And there was the fact that she did not wish to pick a gown which would overshadow her. She didn't want to look silly, bedecked with bows, lace, beads. No, such a thing would never suit her.

  Lady Montcrief followed beside her, her head held high, her own mightily be-feathered bonnet waving regally through the air. Her cane made a glorious rhythmic clip as they made their way through the gaping public.

  Lady Montcrief did not seem to notice the way the ladies about them made way, as if they were indeed the Royal Family.

  The woman was glorious to behold.

  She looked a little bit as if she was a ship in full sail. Her skirts were a voluminous emerald green and her muff was a matching sage. Her beautiful dark hair had been curled to perfection and the silver strands were barely noticeable.

  Augusta's younger sisters ahead were all but squealing with the joy and anticipation of the outing today. And Charlotte, who was a little bit less enthusiastic, had agreed to accompany them.

  Despite Charlotte's reticence, it was going to be wonderful.

  Augusta had decided she would give Charlotte a treat, and she was going to insist that Charlotte take it.

  For many years, Charlotte had been her only true friend and she deserved to have a sumptuous new gown. The mad marriage might as well benefit as many people as possible.

  And truth be told, it was probably the only way that Augusta could have managed to get herself onto Bond Street was with Charlotte. Lady Montcrief had all but bustled her out of the house, and she had said that if Charlotte came, she would willingly go and choose a dozen new dresses.

  To her, shopping was exciting as tooth extracting. The shop girls were never kind or happy to see her.

  Yet, here they were.

  She now wished she could take back her promise to Lady Montcrief as she clutched her gloved hands together tightly and kept her shoulders back to not give off the impression that she was actually most wary. Which she was.

  Young ladies who were beautiful were always successful in such places. Young ladies with questionable appearances and figures that were not exactly to today's tastes, well, they struggled a bit at the milliner's and modistes.

  Still, she’d promised. And besides, she didn't wish to disappoint her sisters and Charlotte today.

  Lady Montcrief herded them into a shop, much like an expert sheep dog leading its charges into a pen with a beautifully painted sign, Madame Marie Modiste, above the doorway.

  The windows were a polished glass that peered into a shop that was lined with the most beautiful silks and printed cottons and embroidered fabrics.

  Chiffon, muslin, and striped silks lined every potential surface.

  There were beads and pearls and feathers everywhere one looked. Augusta immediately felt overwhelmed, and she longed to bolt for the door.

  This was not the sort of shop for her.

  She turned to Lady Montcrief, her throat tightening, but Lady Montcrief merely gave her a wink. A wink! Somehow Augusta managed to draw in a deep breath and take another step into the decidedly female room.

  Immediately, her sisters dashed to a table where bolts of striped silk were laid out. Pinks, blues, and yellows were fanned out, all colors which would make her sisters appear like fashionable young ladies. Those colors had always made her look like a wilted, leftover bouquet that had been neglected to be put in water.

  So, she immediately went towards one of the more sedate colors.

  But, just as she was about to take another step, Lady Montcrief took her hand.

  "Dear girl,” Lady Montcrief intoned. “You are married now, and you may choose from the bold colors. I think they will suit you most beautifully."

  "Bold colors," she echoed.

  Lady Montcrief nodded her imposing hat. “You no longer are prevented from wearing them. No more pinks and yellows and pastels for you. What say you to a ruby-colored gown? I think it would do absolute wonders for your complexion."

  A bit bowled over, she followed Lady Montcrief over to the bolts of silk that were of emerald green, deepest purple, lapis lazuli, and crimson red.

  Lady Montcrief gestured to the array. “Which one would you fancy?"

  She couldn't deny that the crimson red did appeal to her. It had the most lush look to it.

  As she reached out to touch the tempting fabric, a bright young French voice called, “Bonjour!"

  Augusta all but jumped, as if caught doing something she oughtn’t, at that sound.

  In her experience, French dressmakers did not like her.

  Firstly, because she did not have credit. Secondly, because she was not particularly pretty. And thirdly, she was not interested in bedecking her gowns with dead birds and things like that.

  Slowly, she turned to face the source of that voice.

  The young French woman was blonde, pink-cheeked, and blue-eyed, but her gown was remarkably simple. It was a soft dove gray that accentuated her figure to perfection. There were no furbelows, no bows, no tucks, no ribbons, just thin fabric draped over her chemise. The whole thing was very nearly indecent. In fact, there was a certain nakedness to the young lady’s appearance.

  Was this the fashion?

  “Madame la duchesse requires a gown, non?” the young woman asked with a winning smile, though the question sounded more like a statement.

  Lady Montcrief let out a humph. "Madame le Duchess requires many, many gowns. But today we will begin with three or four, and perhaps a few other things."

  Augusta coughed then confessed, "I am in dire need of a wardrobe, essentially."

  “Bien sur and brava!” The young lady cheered with a happy clap. “I adore helping young ladies achieve a trousseau. It is most important, especially since your title is new, that you give the right impression with your clothes. Now, tell me a little bit about yourself."

  Augusta swallowed and suddenly she couldn't breathe. Her mouth went dry. This young, beautiful woman wanted to know more about her so that she could dress her appropriately?

  Again, she desperately wished to bolt for the door.

  Lady Montcrief gave her a slight nudge with her elbow and Augusta blinked.

  “Well," Augusta started rambling, “I'm very good with numbers. I enjoy reading. Walking is a particular favorite activity of mine. And, well—”

  "Ah. A woman of action," the modiste announced as if what Augusta had said was the most fascinating thing she’d ever heard. The young French girl nodded and touched her chin thoughtfully.

  "A woman of action?" Augusta echoed.

  Such a phrase had never occurred to her and she absolutely loved it.

  “Oui, oui, oui! You like to be doing. You don't want to be sitting about doing nothing.” The modiste gave a Gallic shrug. “Not like some. You know, some young ladies, they like to sit and be like a portrait. But not you. I can see it. You like to be doing things, to be occupied. And an occupied lady must have a wardrobe which reflects her bon vivant life. Now, I think that we can accomplish this very easily."

  "Do you?" Augusta marveled, stunned.

  And she was stunned that the young lady should see her in such a positive light. Was it simply because she was a duchess now, with funds? It was very likely, but there also seemed to be something special about this modiste. For Augusta did not feel as if she was going to be lied to or tricked.

  “But of course. Let me show you some examples." And with that, the young lady went off to gather some cards with sketches of current fashions that Augusta might choose from.

  "There, you see?" Lady Mo
ntcrief declared. "That wasn't absolutely terrible."

  "No. No, it wasn't. But we're not done yet," Augusta reminded.

  "Oh, my dear. Now that you are a duchess, things will become remarkably easier for you in many respects."

  "And harder in others?" Augusta queried.

  "And harder in others,” Lady Montcrief agreed. “But in this, I think that you shall find it quite simple. And besides, Madame Marie has excellent taste. She will take very good care of you."

  Augusta smiled at the older woman who had so quickly become indispensable. "And you will take good care of me too?"

  "Of course I will, as long as you wish it," Lady Montcrief assured, clearly moved, but not wishing her to see it. "I think you're a dear girl. And I should hate to see anything happen to you."

  "What the devil should happen to me?" Augusta piped, not sure what to make of Lady Montcrief’s warning.

  "The ton can crush anyone, Augusta, even a duchess if you're not careful. That's why you need your friends about you. Like Charlotte there, I like her a good deal as well, myself, and your husband."

  "He's not my friend," Augusta pointed out.

  Lady Montcrief tilted her head to the side and she pursed her slightly rouged lips. "Do you think not?"

  Augusta bit down on the inside of her cheek, hating to admit her husband had little use for her outside of the bedchamber. “I do not think so."

  "Could he not be?” Lady Montcrief challenged.

  Augusta let her gaze wander to a simple piece of nearly translucent silk and she wondered. . . There was one place that she and Adam were united. Perhaps it was the place to begin a friendship too.

  A slow smile tilted her lips as she asked, "I wonder if Madame Marie could have something special prepared for me?”

  "Madame Marie," said Lady Montcrief as she patted Augusta’s hand approvingly, "is a wonder, and she can prepare just about anything that you propose. I'll leave you to it with her because I have a sneaking suspicion that it is a matter for private conversation between the two of you."

  Lady Montcrief's eyes twinkled and she sashayed away.

  How had the older woman known? The truth was she was fairly certain that Lady Montcrief knew almost everything.

  All she wanted was to find a way to show her husband that while she might not enjoy everything about him during the day, she certainly enjoyed him at night. And in that, she saw no reason to hesitate.

  Chapter 21

  After the cacophony of idiotic Parliamentarians, Adam strode up the steps of his London townhome eager for silence.

  When he strode into his foyer, passing off his hat and greatcoat to his ancient butler, Hargrave, he was instead met with the shrieks of delighted giggles.

  He stopped, as stunned as a fainting goat. A horrible but accurate image.

  Suddenly, he recalled he no longer lived alone.

  Well, he'd never lived alone, per say.

  He had a hoard of servants, but now he truly did not live alone. Not in any way.

  The sounds of the young ladies coming from the salon to his right were remarkable. Happy. He was glad of it, but at the same time, he was also a little bit off foot.

  Did he dare go and investigate the realm of such young female noise? Having never had sisters, and having steadfastly avoided the very young ladies of the ton, the sounds of rapture were most singular.

  He supposed that he should go into them, but truthfully, they all seemed a bit, well, young.

  He wasn't old, of course, but he certainly felt it standing in his foyer, after debating the prices of corn only to be met with. . . Giggles.

  He gazed at the winding marble stairs lined with his favorite blue Axminster carpet. Sighing, he knew if he went up now, he was a total coward.

  So, girding his loins, he turned his perfectly polished, booted feet towards the noise. He hesitated at the ajar door and listened for a moment. The rush of voices and sound of tissue being mussed about filled the air.

  Ah, he thought to himself, with a smile, a shopping trip. Augusta and her sisters had finally taken advantage of his fortune and bought out, with any hope, the entirety of Bond Street.

  He rather fancied the idea.

  He had a strong feeling that Augusta and her sisters had likely never had the opportunity to run a bit wild in the shops.

  Adjusting his features into a suitable expression, he strode into the room.

  "Good evening, ladies,” he called. “I’m glad to see that you have taken over London."

  His young sisters-in-law, Felicity and Philippa, jumped to their feet and applauded with joy.

  "Good evening, Your Grace,” trilled Felicity, her soft blonde hair curling about her elfin face. “It is so good to see you. Welcome home.”

  Phillipa gave him a winning grin which caused her bright blue eyes to positively shine. “We hope that your day was triumphant."

  He really didn't know what to say to this.

  He was completely unused to such a greeting, so instead he just cleared his throat. "Thank you, ladies. It was a passable day. Full of trial and tribulation, but I overcame and so in that way, yes, one could say I was triumphant.”

  He turned, still not spotting his wife in the fray. Instead, his gaze cause sight of another young lady who was vaguely familiar to him.

  “Lady Charlotte, is it not?” he asked, sorting through the hundreds of faces he met almost weekly, trying to place her. “You were at our wedding."

  Lady Charlotte, a young woman of rather unremarkable features but a pleasant personality, smiled at him. "Indeed, Your Grace. I am most pleased that you remember my name. You meet so many people."

  "I meet a good many people. It is true," he agreed, enjoying the way she did not fawn but greeted him with warmth. "But I always remember the friends of people that I care about, and you seem a very good soul indeed."

  Her cheeks pinkened at his praise. "Thank you, Your Grace."

  He noticed with some amusement that she did not return the compliment, but he did not think it had to do with the fact that he was nefarious, but rather that she was not used to company such as his.

  After all, he still had his reputation. Marriage had not changed that as of yet.

  "Where is Augusta?" he queried, searching for any sign of her in the long salon that stretched the length of his town house.

  The room was full of golden-edged tables, chairs, and chaise lounges. The green silk walls were covered in paintings that had traveled back from Italy and France from his years abroad.

  Lady Charlotte looked back over her shoulder and gave a little nod.

  He looked in the direction and, much as Augusta had claimed about loving a small nook to read in, he spotted her.

  Augusta sat in the shadows of the room, tucked in a corner, bent over a table.

  His wife was not obsessing over gowns or boxes of ribbons.

  Oh no.

  She was bent over a stack of ledgers. He wasn't entirely certain what they were and he wondered if she had taken herself to the bookshop, which sounded absolutely marvelous to him. Books were always something that he welcomed purchase of and adored adding to his library.

  But she was scribbling away madly in a notebook, pausing to blot it and dip her quill in a crystal ink jar.

  She had not even noted his arrival. Which did the oddest things to his arrogance. Usually, women always noticed his entrance to a room. Everyone almost always noticed.

  But apparently, not his wife.

  Augusta was riveted by whatever works she was consuming.

  When he paused silently behind her, he bent down slightly and whispered, "Good evening, Your Grace."

  She jumped a bit and ink splattered across her page.

  “Drat,” she exclaimed.

  "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said as he whipped out a piece of blotting paper from her stack. She took the paper, fanned the ink quickly, blotted it, looked up at him, peered at him strangely, and then. . . She smiled.

  "For a moment there," he
said, "you looked as if you didn't know who I was."

  "I'm still getting used to the idea that I'm married," she said, "if you must know."

  "Did you forget I would come home?” he teased.

  "Of course not," she scoffed. "It is still odd for me to think of this as my home. It feels more like I'm visiting somewhere."

  "Hopefully that will change," he said, "and if you wish to redecorate anything, you certainly may. To make it feel more your own.”

  She looked horrified by the prospect.

  "Why, thank you, Your Grace,” she replied politely. “But I think it is absolutely perfect the way it is. I should hate to waste any money upon redecorating something that's already rather fine."

  "You don't need to concern yourself about money now, Augusta," he reminded softly.

  It was odd to talk about money. It wasn't something that he usually did. The aristocrats of England did not talk about money.

  She shook her head. "I do not wish to be wasteful. If you wish to give me money to redecorate, I'm sure that I can take that money and find a more useful cause."

  That struck him as unique and damnably admirable.

  She wished to take the money that he'd give her to spend for her own pleasure and use it upon a cause?

  "Truly, Augusta? That's what you'd wish?”

  "Yes," she said easily, clearly not seeking praise.

  "Then how would you like it if I gave you a set of funds for you to do with as you wish and support whatever causes you wanted?"

  Her eyes widened and her mouth slipped open. "You're not serious."

  "Oh, indeed I am,” he confirmed, admiring the way the fading light of late day lit the golden strands in her dark hair. “A woman of your sound sense and good proper code? I'm sure you will choose the worthiest thing.”

  She pursed her lips, then finally said, "You're making it impossible for me not to like you a little bit, you know.”

  “What?" he teased with mock horror. “Rake that I am?"

  "Yes," she laughed. "Even so."

  "The devil," he pointed out, “is quite a charming fellow."

  "Well, I think you're both a devil and a charmer,” she said with a shrug as she put down her quill. “But I also think that you might just perhaps have a bit of a good heart.” Her lips curled in the most sincere of smiles. "Just a bit of one."