The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  Cecelia narrowed her eyes and regarded her suspiciously. “You’re not making that up are you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not. It was embarrassing.”

  “Did you know Eugene back then?”

  Priscilla had known his name would come up at some point and there was nothing for it other than to muddle through as best she could. “We were briefly introduced, but we didn’t really know one another.”

  Cecelia looked at her curiously. “Are you alright?”

  She swallowed and forced another smile. “I’m fine. Why would you ask that?”

  "You just seem a little... different today." Her brow wrinkled. "Has he asked you to marry him yet?”

  For a moment, Priscilla was struck speechless. “Has he what?”

  Cecelia’s green eyes lit up. “Has he asked you to marry him?” she repeated impishly. “The night we met, I asked him if Rand had set his cap for you and he almost bit my head off.” She grinned. “At the time his reaction didn’t make sense. He’s spent most of the past three years running away from women who wanted to marry him. But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. This is something entirely different.”

  Priscilla set her teacup down and blotted her lips, hoping those few extra moments would be enough to regain her composure. “We made the decision that we would not suit.”

  Cecelia stared at her. “Why ever not?”

  That Cecelia would ask such a bold question hadn’t occurred to her and she hadn’t any kind of an answer planned. A moment of despair rocked through her. What a miserable state this was. Priscilla latched onto the first thing that came to mind. “I would be unhappy living in the country. He would be unhappy living in London. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.”

  Cecelia’s forehead creased as she gave her a dubious look. “I think you’re both being perfectly silly. You could spend six months here and six months in Surrey. That would be quite fair.”

  Once again, Priscilla had no response and she breathed a sigh of relief when Madame Claudette burst in followed by a shop girl laden with yards of satins, and muslins.

  “You will be pleased with these, Lady Cecelia.” The French modiste spoke with a heavy accent. “Soft pretty colors. Simple lines. Very nice for a beautiful debutante.”

  The girl set the bolts of fabric down on an ornate table and Cecelia left her chair to inspect them. She trailed her fingertips over an ivory silk and sighed with pleasure. “It’s so nice to be able to look at these without arguing with Aunt. Or worrying about hurting her feelings.” She looked at Priscilla. “Madame Claudette and I spend most of our time trying to talk Aunt out of some horrid gown she thinks I would look marvelous in. If Eugene hadn’t told her that he must approve my gowns before he pays for them,” she flung her arms out dramatically, “I don’t know what I would be forced to wear.”

  The petite modiste nodded vigorously in agreement, her silver curls bouncing around her forehead and the nape of her neck. “Lady Fitzberry has unusual taste, shall we say?” She paused, seeming to carefully consider her words. “Unusual for a young girl in her first season, that is,” she murmured with an air of diplomacy. Ah, yes.” She pulled out a bolt of muslin. “This is the one. Isn’t it exquisite?”

  "Oh, that’s lovely,” Cecelia exclaimed as Madame Claudette unwrapped the ivory muslin embroidered with a green and deep rose floral design. Cecelia stood and the modiste draped the fabric across her shoulders and turned her to face the mirror.

  “For your ball gown, yes? With a green velvet sash and green ribbons and maybe a cluster of tiny roses in your hair. See how pretty it is on you? No, no, much better than pretty, you will be a vision. The young men will not be able to take their eyes from you.”

  Cecelia flushed at the modiste’s praise. She turned to Priscilla. “What do you think?”

  Priscilla nodded approvingly. “Madame is right. It’s perfect. The green brings out your coloring beautifully.”

  A male voice interrupted the discussion. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Shocked, Priscilla looked up to see Stratton leaning against the doorway of the back entrance with a lazy smile on his face. He wore a dark green jacket of superfine, brown waistcoat, buckskins and boots. Intensely masculine, he should have looked out of place amidst the dainty gold and white furnishings and feminine dress forms, but he seemed perfectly at ease as he strolled toward them. Two very diverse reactions warred within her. Just looking at him made her want to throw her arms around him, yet if it had been possible, she would have gladly allowed the thick carpeted floor to swallow her up.

  He made his formal bow. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  For a moment Priscilla couldn’t speak. Then years of training set in and she rose to her feet curtsied demurely. “My lord.” He didn’t appear to still be distressed by her refusal to marry him. She should have been glad for it, but instead, found it upsetting. Her back stiffened, her chin inched up and she decided that she would not speak to him further unless he addressed her directly.

  Madame Claudette curtsied and said, “Welcome, my lord. Please, sit and have some refreshment.” She turned back to Cecelia and continued to fuss with the muslin draped over her shoulders. “Does she not look beautiful in this?”

  Stratton sat down on the chair next to Priscilla. He appeared to be thinking as he rested his chin on his hand. “You wouldn’t prefer red taffeta, Cecelia? Or chartreuse with feathers along the hem?”

  She made a face at him. “Don’t tease, Eugene. Do you like it?”

  He offered a slow nod and a smile. “I do. Very much. It will make a lovely gown providing, of course, that the style is sufficiently modest.”

  Cecelia sighed. “I know the rules. You don’t need to keep reminding me.”

  “Good.” He glanced around the shop. “As we seem to be sans Aunt Mirabella. I take it our little ploy was successful?”

  Cecelia grinned. “Brilliantly so. Aunt was searching the house from top to bottom, insisting she couldn’t leave until her poor little dear was found. I did feel a bit sorry for her. She was very upset.”

  “Don’t let it perturb you. I told Reeds to fetch Ulysses from the wine cellar about one. Beast and owner should be happily reunited by now.”

  As much as she wanted to remain angry with him, an unwanted bubble of laughter escaped Priscilla’s chest.

  He smiled at her. “It wasn’t a difficult ruse. The beasts are in trouble one way or another on a daily basis and, as you well know, Ulysses has a penchant for running off.”

  Of course, she knew. If she hadn’t rescued the silly thing to begin with, she wouldn’t be in this awful fix.

  “Eugene, whatever are you doing here?” Cecelia asked suddenly. “You didn’t tell me you were planning to visit Madame’s.”

  He looked up at her and replied mildly, “I would think it’s fairly obvious. I’ve come to approve your gowns.”

  Priscilla found that difficult to believe and it appeared that Cecelia did as well, because she tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and said, “You told me anything Miss Hawthorn approved of was fine.”

  “You ask too many questions,” he chided. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere getting fitted for this lovely gown?”

  She broke into a wide grin. “You’re right. I should.” She motioned for the modiste to come with her. “We must take measurements.”

  Madame Claudette wrinkled her brows in confusion. “But Lady Cecelia, we have just taken measurements.”

  “We should take them again. I believe I have grown.”

  “In one half hour?” Madame Claudette asked.

  “I’ve eaten a number of ginger biscuits during that time. I could well burst my seams. Come to the back room, Madame.”

  Priscilla watched in dismay as Madame allowed herself to be taken by the arm and dragged off.

  Stratton turned a smile on Priscilla and said quietly, “That wasn’t particularly subtle, was it?”

  She didn’t return his smile. Instead, she swallowed,
trying to dislodge the lump that had formed in her throat. “I thought we had an understanding. You shouldn’t have come here. And don’t say you had to approve Cecelia’s gowns.”

  “You are very much mistaken." He leaned toward her and said in a low voice, "We do not have an understanding. Far from it. But even if we did, we can’t completely avoid one another. London is not that large and the season’s entertainments are upon us.” He caught her chin, tilted her face up and looked her directly in the eyes. “I mean to wear you down. Don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  His touch brought about an awareness that flooded her senses and to not be able to respond was pure torture. She pulled away and slowly shook her head.

  He dropped his hand suddenly and reached for a biscuit.

  She glanced at the back door. “Did anyone see you come in?”

  His hand stilled. He looked at her closely. “Are you afraid of someone?”

  Annoyed with herself for making such an obvious blunder, she said, “Don’t be absurd. Who would I possibly be afraid of?”

  His expression darkened and he stared at her with such an intensity that she had to look away. “I don’t know," he said. "You tell me.”

  It was tempting. It would be such a relief to tell him everything; such a relief to not have to bear this alone and if she had only Patrick's memory to consider, she would. But she would not hurt his family. So she stared at her hands until the sound of a well orchestrated coughing fit came from the fitting room.

  “Eugene!” Cecelia strode into the sitting area with the modiste and shop girl following close behind, her arms laden with even more bolts of fabric. “I’ve found some of the loveliest silks. And given the number of invitations we’ve accepted, I could use more gowns than what we’ve discussed.” She offered him a dazzling smile. “Please?”

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And exactly how many additional gowns would we be talking about?”

  “Five?”

  Stratton frowned at her. “Five seems excessive.” He thought a moment and countered, “Two.”

  “Four?”

  “No.”

  “Three?”

  “Three,” he relented.

  “Thank you, Eugene.” She beamed happily at her brother while Madame Claudette looked on, not at all disconcerted with the additional business.

  “Now that I have been thoroughly managed, I believe I will take my leave.” After retrieving his hat from the chair beside him, he offered an elegant bow. “I bid you farewell.” He walked a few feet toward the back door then stopped and turned. “Miss Hawthorn?”

  She slowly raised her head to look at him. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I should very much like to continue our discussion. Perhaps we could meet again sometime this week.”

  Knowing she couldn’t very well refuse him with Cecelia and Madame Claudette watching, she responded in a noncommittal tone, “Perhaps.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once Priscilla reached the sanctuary of her parlor, she pulled the door shut, pressed her back against it, and closed her eyes. She was in such a fix and hadn’t the vaguest idea how to get out of it. Stratton had made it clear he wouldn't give up until she agreed to marry him, but if she accepted his proposal, and God knows she wanted to, everything would come out and she didn't know if she could live with that.

  None of this made any sense. Why would anyone care if they were together? He was bullheaded and arrogant enough to think he could change her mind and she was afraid that he just might be right.

  She crossed the parlor and sat down. It was impossible to remain in this room without thinking of him. The orchid he sent her bloomed by the window sill, filling the parlor with its light, faintly sweet scent. They had argued here. He had made love to her here. He had left an indelible stamp on her life and there was nothing she could do to change that. And if he had left her with a child, as well... It was too soon to know and she would deal with that when the time came.

  She picked up her needlework basket and fished through its contents, searching for the ring he had given her. She slipped the ring on her finger and held it up to the light. The gems sparkled in the sunlight. It was lovely. But the longer she kept it, the harder it would be to return.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  She quickly shoved the ring back in her basket. “Yes?”

  The door swung open and Beldon stepped inside. He held a letter in his hand. “This came for you earlier, Miss Priscilla. I was told to hand it to you directly.”

  She took it from him and turned it over. The wax seal had no emblem on it and the vellum was the type one would find in any number of stationery shops. Her name was printed in neat block letters at the top. It looked exactly like the missive she had received two days ago. The warmth drained from her face and her hands trembled. She was grateful that she was still sitting down. What more could they possibly want? She looked up at Beldon and took in an uneven breath. “Who delivered this?” By some miracle, her voice didn't shake.

  “A street urchin.”

  She set the letter aside, not wanting to touch it. “Would you recognize him if he returned?”

  Beldon looked puzzled. “I don’t know, miss. I'm afraid I paid little attention other than he was rather dirty and his cap was pulled down low.”

  Of course, he hadn't paid attention. There was nothing out of the ordinary about receiving a message. “If he returns, would you detain him for me, please? It’s quite important.”

  “Of course.” He hesitated. “Miss, might I ask you? I mean to say, are you well? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  She tried to smile, but her face felt frozen in place. “Thank you, but no. I’m quite alright.”

  For a moment, it appeared that he might actually argue with her, but all he said was, “Very well, miss.”

  She was touched that he was worried on her behalf—and sorry for it, as well. He was almost out the door when she called out to him. “Beldon, there is one thing. Would you please not mention this to anyone?”

  Once again, it appeared that he might argue with her. The moment passed and he inclined his head. “Of course.”

  She waited a full minute after he had closed the door before she rose and retrieved a silver letter opener from her writing desk and sliced through the wax seal. As she scanned the contents, the knot in her stomach tightened and her knees grew weak. She lowered herself into a chair and reread it. It was long, very detailed and there was no doubting the writer’s intent. Things had just gotten much, much worse.

  Mr. Andrews, a short man of middle years with a receding hairline and good-sized belly, had ushered Priscilla into his office, offered her a cup of tea and spent a short while politely inquiring into the wellbeing of her family. Then, finally, he had splayed his stubby little fingers on the edge of his desk and asked, “How may I be of service to you, Miss Hawthorn?”

  Believing the sooner she got it out, the sooner it would be over with, she said, “I find I am in need of funds and thought the most practical solution would be for you to release my quarterly allowance a little early.”

  He smiled the type of smile she was certain he reserved for those clients he believed had more money than sense.

  “The trust your father set up is quite generous and should be more than enough to handle your everyday needs. Now, if you are anticipating a large purchase such as a house, or perhaps some type of investment, I will be more than happy to take it into consideration and determine the wisdom of the transaction." He paused and his smile widened slightly. "Women rarely have a head for business and there are many unscrupulous characters out there just waiting to relieve you of your money. I would not like to see that happen. Now, what more can you tell me about the reason for your request?”

  Bristling at the insult, she pinned him with a hard stare.“I would prefer to keep my reasons private.”

  His smile faltered. It was no secret that he didn’t approve of the way Priscilla’s father had set up her tru
st. Once she reached the age of twenty, she received a sum of money every three months, to spend as she saw fit. “Your father placed me in charge of your financial well-being.”

  She pulled her shoulders back and sat up as tall as she was able. “My father gave you the responsibility of releasing my allowance on a quarterly basis. He did not give you the responsibility of deciding how I was to spend it.”

  Placing his finger tips beneath a double chin, he pursed his lips together and said, “I would be remiss in my duties if I did not attempt to determine the wisdom of your financial decisions.”

  The patronizing lull in his voice was enough to set her teeth on edge. “Have I ever given you reason to think that my financial decisions are unsound?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted, “but it’s something that I can’t allow to get out of hand. My only concern is for your well-being”

  This was proving to be much more difficult than she had hoped. She struggled to keep her tone even. “I’m not asking for additional funds. I’m simply asking that you release my allowance three weeks early. I don’t plan to make a habit of it.”

  “There’s no need to get overset, my dear. If you’ve exceeded your allowance and run up a bill at the modiste or milliners, have them send it to me and I’ll take care of it. In fact, it would be much easier to have all your bills sent here.” He cocked his head, making both chins wobble. “Then, you needn’t worry about a thing.”

  And pay you to pay my bills? I think not. His smile was positively ingratiating and Priscilla had the urge to knock him in the head with her reticule. She gripped it tightly and presented what she hoped was a pleasant expression. “I pay my bills promptly, Mr. Andrews. Always.”

  He continued smiling. “Then you must understand my position. I simply can’t advance your allowance without knowing the reason why.”

  They seemed to have reached an impasse fairly quickly and Priscilla realized that she must resort to something that she had never done before, something she had always regarded as ridiculous and demeaning. Mary made it seem easy enough but she wasn’t certain she was a good enough actress to do a plausible job.