by Turano, Jen
Harriet drew in a breath, stopping midway when she realized her chest had no more room to expand. “It’s not her fault she’s been coddled, Lucetta. Why, after she finished apologizing to me, profusely at that, we ending up meeting with her father who was waiting in Abigail’s drawing room. The poor man was completely appalled by what his daughter had done to Oliver, but he did hint that there’s a reason behind Lady Victoria’s sense of entitlement. Something to do with indulging her far too much throughout her youth because of . . . well, he never really explained properly, except to mention he was beginning to see there were going to be definite repercussions from that indulgence.”
“Lady Victoria admitted to you she knocked Oliver down and then tried to kiss him.” Lucetta let out a snort. “Honestly, if someone ever tries to kiss my fiancé, if I ever get around to even entertaining the thought of finding one, well, I’m certainly not going to pat that someone on the back and try to soothe away their guilt with kind words.”
“If Oliver truly was my fiancé, I doubt I would have been as forgiving, but again, he’s not.”
“You hold him in affection,” Lucetta countered.
“Perhaps, but there’s no possible future for us. I’m simply going to take any affection I hold for the man and wrap it away much like I did with my mother’s gown. Maybe, when I’m feeling sentimental, I’ll pull out my memories of Oliver and sigh over them before I pack them away again.”
“That’s a bit of a maudlin thought,” Lucetta mumbled.
Harriet laughed. “I don’t intend on sighing over the gentleman very often, Lucetta. Starting up my own business is going to occupy most of my time.”
“True,” Millie said, “but enough about business and the relationship with Oliver that was destined to be doomed from the start. You have a ball to attend, and you need to keep your wits about you. You know you don’t have all the uses for that silverware down, and you certainly didn’t get much practice at Delmonico’s since you almost burned the place to the ground. And don’t even get me started on all the dance steps you’re going to have to remember from clear back in the day when your aunt made you take lessons. How long ago was that anyway?”
“Far too long, and thank you for reminding me,” Harriet muttered. “I forgot all about the dancing.”
“Which is somewhat odd, considering you’re going to a ball,” Lucetta said before she whipped the gown off the dress form, gave it a good shake and smiled. “You’ve done wonders in the small amount of time you had to redesign this.”
“I could hardly wear a gown tonight that was originally equipped to handle hoops—although, looking at it now, I probably should have used some of the excess fabric to shore up that bodice.”
“No sense worrying about it now,” Millie said, taking the dress from Lucetta and moving to Harriet’s side. “We’re losing track of time, and revealing bodice or not, we need to get you into this.”
Two hours later, Harriet stared at the reflection in the mirror, hardly able to believe the elegant and well-coifed lady staring back at her had recently worked as a milliner.
Her black hair had been swept to the top of her head and anchored in place with pins covered in tiny pearls. Soft tendrils of curls teased her cheek, and her face was slightly flushed, the color highlighting the fact her eyes had taken to twinkling.
She raised her hand and tugged up her neckline the best she could, the diamond bracelet Abigail had lent her sparkling in the reflection of the mirror. Abigail had also lent her the use of the matching necklace, and while the diamonds glittering back at her gave her a very regal appearance, Harriet knew it was simply an illusion.
She wouldn’t belong tonight—of that she was quite certain—but honor demanded she see the deal she’d struck with Oliver through to the end. Wearing the gown of her long-dead mother would also honor that mother, if only in Harriet’s mind. Perhaps, in the process, she could finally lay to rest all the resentment she’d unconsciously been holding against her mother, that resentment stemming from leaving Harriet all alone—except for Jane, a poor excuse for an aunt.
Maybe it was as Lucetta had suggested and God had sent her that odd dream where she saw herself wearing her mother’s gown. Perhaps He’d known she’d been harboring a hurt for most of her life, and by having her wear her mother’s gown, had given her a means to heal that hurt.
She took a moment to consider her reflection again, her hands smoothing down the fine silk. Her eyes misted with tears as she gazed at her mother’s gown, wondering how her mother must have looked wearing the dress, and wondering if her father had been the one to give the gown to her mother, perhaps as a token of his affection.
Brushing that ridiculous thought aside, given the reality of her mother’s situation, she nodded, just once.
“I hope I’ll make you proud tonight, Mother.”
Closing her eyes, she took a moment to pray, asking God to give her strength to see the night through to the very end.
“Ready?”
Harriet opened her eyes, felt the all-too-familiar feeling of terror seize hold of her, and turned from the mirror, finding Abigail marching determinedly into the room. Abigail stopped dead in her tracks, right as her mouth gaped open.
“Good heavens, child, you’re stunning.”
Harriet grinned. “Thank you, but I must admit I feel a bit like a fraud.”
“No fraud could look as beautiful as you do. Where in the world did you get such an original gown? Why, I haven’t seen that particular shade of purple for decades, but I must say, it suits you to perfection.”
Harriet ran a hand over the delicate silk. “It was my mother’s.”
“Your . . . mother’s?” Abigail repeated slowly, moving to her side and reaching out a hand to touch the fabric. “It’s very fine.”
“It is, and I’m fortunate that my aunt kept it so well-preserved all these years.”
“Forgive me, but from what I’ve learned about your aunt Jane, she really doesn’t seem like the type to be overly sentimental.”
Harriet frowned. “Now that you mention it, it is somewhat odd she’d save my mother’s dress because Jane told me herself that she’s been very annoyed with my mother for up and dying and leaving me in her care.”
“What a completely horrid woman your aunt is, dear, but let us put such unpleasant thoughts aside. You look lovely, and I’m delighted you actually have something of your mother’s to wear this evening.” Abigail reached out and snagged hold of Harriet’s hand, sliding a ring over Harriet’s gloved finger.
Looking down, Harriet found a huge diamond ring glittering back at her. “Oh, I can’t wear this,” she muttered, trying to pull her hand back, but to no avail when Abigail refused to let go of it.
“It’ll be expected that Oliver’s fiancée has a ring, and . . . I would be tickled if you’d agree to wear this particular ring tonight. It’s a family heirloom and I always intended to give it to my daughter, but . . . well, no need to get into the drama that happened there.” Abigail blinked away tears that had sprung to her eyes before she let out a sniff, dropped Harriet’s hand, and then patted Harriet on the cheek. “You, Lucetta, and Millie have, in a relatively short period of time, become like daughters to me, or granddaughters considering our age differences. I would be truly honored if you would wear the ring, if only for this evening.”
Harriet’s throat constricted, but she managed a nod right as Victoria burst into the room, Oliver by her side.
Any air she’d been able to keep in her chest left her the second her gaze settled on Oliver. He was looking more handsome than ever in his formal coat and cravat, the cut of the coat expertly fitting his broad shoulders and tapering all too attractively down to his slim waist. His hair was combed back from his face without a single lock falling out of place, and his eyes were . . . wide and staring in a somewhat dazed fashion back at her.
For the first time in her entire life, Harriet truly did feel beautiful.
“I do hope you won’t be upset
with me for coming early,” Lady Victoria exclaimed, drawing Harriet’s attention. “Father told me I was being inexcusably rude, but after your kindness of yesterday, Harriet, I’ve just felt this pull to be around you. I thought it might be lovely if we greeted guests together.”
Harriet’s lips curved into a smile as Victoria pulled her into an enthusiastic hug and then stepped back. There was something refreshing about the young lady, even though she was certainly spoiled and a bit strong-willed. Harriet took Victoria’s hand in her own and gave it a good squeeze. “I would be honored to stand by you and greet the guests, but where is your father?”
“He’s still back at the hotel, because Mother’s running a little behind schedule. She began feeling better only a few hours ago, which is why she’s coming tonight. But it takes her forever to get ready, so they’ll be late.”
Victoria grinned. “Oliver’s delightful grandfather seems to believe that’s a fortuitous circumstance, since my parents will then be able to make a grand entrance—something he thought you, Mrs. Hart, would appreciate.”
“Indeed I do,” Abigail agreed. “It’s quite the feather in my cap to be fortunate enough to introduce your family to New York, Lady Victoria. I’m delighted your mother is feeling up to coming this evening, but we really must get to the ballroom. Our guests will be arriving shortly, and it wouldn’t do to not be there to greet them.”
She took hold of Victoria’s arm, pulled her away from Harriet, and lowered her voice. “We should give Harriet and Oliver a moment alone.” She sent Harriet a wink. “I’m leaving the door open and I expect both of you in the ballroom within the next five minutes.” With that, Abigail strolled arm in arm with Victoria out of the room.
Harriet’s nerves immediately made themselves known, increasing steadily when Oliver didn’t say a single word but simply stood there, watching her. “Is something the matter?” she finally asked.
Oliver frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“You’re not speaking, and it’s been my experience that you’re never at a loss for something to say.”
Laughing, Oliver took one step forward. “If you must know, the only thing the matter at the moment is that you look enchanting this evening, quite like a princess, and your beauty is what stole the words straight from my lips and fogged up my mind.”
Harriet suddenly found she was at a loss for words.
Oliver grinned and moved across the room, stopping directly in front of her. He drew her hand up and placed a kiss on the knuckles, his gaze and the merest touch of his lips against her gloved hand sending shivers down her spine.
“Is something wrong, Miss Peabody?” he asked and continued before she could reply, not that she was certain she would actually have been able to do that. “Why, since I’ve become known to you, it’s been my observation that you’re never without words, and yet, here you are . . . speechless.”
He was far too attractive when he was being charming, and charming he certainly was this evening.
He needed to stop it, before she threw aside all the decisions she’d recently made and told him she wanted to continue being his pretend fiancée, if only for another month, or two, or perhaps six, or . . .
“Where did you get this ring?”
Harriet pushed her less-than-helpful thoughts aside. “Abigail lent it to me. She thought people will expect me to be wearing an engagement ring.”
“I do beg your pardon, Harriet. I never once thought about getting you a ring.”
“Again, we’re not really engaged, and besides, you’ve had quite a bit on your mind of late, so it’s perfectly understandable why you didn’t think of it.”
“But . . . still . . . you deserved a ring.”
“And now I have one, if only for tonight.”
Oliver smiled. “You really are an extraordinary lady, Miss Harriet Peabody. Now, would you do me the supreme honor of joining me in the receiving line where ladies are certain to remark on that lovely dress of yours, and gentlemen are certain to drive me mad by lingering over your hand for an inappropriately long period of time?”
He really was going to have to turn down the charm or else . . .
Drawing in a deep breath, Harriet slowly released it and then took the arm he was offering her. Tears blinded her for just a moment as he escorted her down the hall, the knowledge that this was going to be the last night she spent in Oliver’s company causing her heart to break just a touch. Blinking the tears away, she squared her shoulders and made a promise to herself as they drew closer to the ballroom. She was going to enjoy this night with the gentleman by her side because, quite honestly, she would probably never experience another night like this for the rest of her life.
20
Gentlemen were lingering far too long over Harriet’s hand.
Oliver had known the moment he’d seen her tonight that it would be a strong possibility the gentlemen of New York would take an immediate interest in her, but he hadn’t been expecting their interest to cause him quite so much irritation.
That troubling business was probably what was behind him proclaiming to each and every guest they’d greeted so far the fact that Harriet was his fiancée in what sounded like a remarkably possessive tone of voice. That circumstance had caused Harriet to send him more than one disbelieving look, while Abigail, on the other hand, kept sending him smiles of pure delight.
He had no idea when he’d turned into a possessive sort, but he had the sneaking suspicion it might have occurred when the first guest, a Mr. Matthew Prescott, walked into the room, took one look at Harriet, and had almost begun to froth at the mouth.
Unfortunately, Mr. Prescott had not been the exception with that troubling reaction. Oliver had been forced to stand by and watch as gentleman after gentleman barely took the time to acknowledge him before moving on to Harriet, where each and every one of them had proceeded to ogle her.
Did they not remember that it was hardly appropriate to meet a lady for the first time, and be told said lady was firmly off the market, and yet still direct their attention to the lady’s all-too-obvious charms? Quite frankly, he’d been considering covering up those charms with his handkerchief, or better yet, hiding them underneath his coat, which he certainly wouldn’t mind shucking off to give her.
“You’re glowering again,” Abigail whispered, stepping to his side and giving him a sharp rap with the fan she was clutching.
“Can you blame me?”
Abigail shot a look to Harriet who was having her hand accosted by an earnest young gentleman by the name of Mr. Richmond Sprout. “Not in the least, dear, but you really should try to control that temper of yours. The last thing we need this evening is for you to punch someone.”
“That thought never entered my head.”
“Of course it did, but I find it rather sweet.” Abigail sent him a wink, turned, and smiled. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Mulberry, and I see you’ve brought the always delightful Miss Dixon with you.” She craned her neck and looked past them. “May I hope you’re the last to arrive?”
Everett stepped forward and kissed Abigail’s gloved hand. “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Hart, for being somewhat tardy. Miss Dixon couldn’t quite decide what to wear tonight, and I fear that has made us a trifle late.”
“We’re hardly late,” Miss Dixon snapped. “And it’s hardly appropriate for you to disclose such personal information about me.” She nodded to Abigail. “I’m impressed by how quickly you pulled this together, Mrs. Hart. Why, I was worried no one would respond to your invitation, given that there was not even a week’s notice, let alone the customary three. It would seem I was mistaken, and I could not be more delighted.”
Oliver was fairly sure Miss Dixon was more disappointed not to witness Abigail’s failure than delighted by her success, but since she was the lady Everett seemed determined to continue on with, he kept his thoughts to himself and glanced to Harriet for a distraction.
Temper began to simmer when he realized that Mr. Sprout was still
dawdling over Harriet’s hand, bending forward as his lips lingered on her glove, his gaze focused on the front of her low-cut bodice.
Reaching out, he snagged Harriet by the shoulder and pulled her close to him, leaving Mr. Sprout with no option but to release the hand he’d been clutching, his lips still puckered but now finding nothing more than thin air to touch. Oliver narrowed his eyes at the gentleman, satisfaction flowing over him when Mr. Sprout blinked, straightened, and hurried in the opposite direction.
“Darling, look who finally arrived,” he said, wincing ever so slightly when Harriet stepped on his foot.
“Mr. Mulberry, Miss Dixon,” she began, “it’s lovely to see you both again.”
Miss Dixon edged closer, her gaze running over Harriet’s gown. “What an interesting gown you’ve chosen this evening, Miss Peabody. I wasn’t aware that violet was suddenly all the rage.”
“It’s the perfect color for you,” Everett said, stepping ever so casually between Harriet and Miss Dixon before he took Harriet’s hand in his and placed the now expected kiss on her glove. “I’m not surprised in the least you chose violet,” Everett continued, still holding Harriet’s hand, even though Miss Dixon had begun to turn a shade remarkably similar to Harriet’s gown. “The color suits you and, if I may say, makes your eyes appear somewhat mysterious.”
For a second, Oliver felt the distinct urge to throttle his best friend, but then he caught the gleam in Everett’s eyes and realized that, for whatever reason, his friend was deliberately baiting him.
Refusing to rise to that bait, he summoned up a smile right as Miss Dixon began to rail at Everett.
“My goodness, Miss Dixon, it’s hardly the thing to screech at Mr. Mulberry in such a common fashion,” Abigail said as she bustled over to join them. Ignoring Miss Dixon’s protests regarding the screeching, Abigail nodded to Oliver. “It seems all the guests have arrived—except for the duke and duchess, of course—which means we can repair to the ballroom.”
