“We’ll wait. We don’t want one of your minions.”
The approaching minion stopped in her tracks. She moistened her lips. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Miller, I’ll attend to Miss Chenoweth.”
“Thank you,” Wenna said, her smile wry. Since these two dressmakers remembered her as Mrs. Brook’s unmarried maid and clearly knew she had turned her hand to hair styling as “Miss Chenoweth,” she needed to remain “Miss Chenoweth.” As “Miss Chenoweth,” her job didn’t compromise Devon. However, her single name compromised her in the eyes of her new social contacts. Time stood still. She had no idea how to get out of this mess of her own making.
Patricia gave a derisive laugh. “Oh, so you are Miss Chenoweth now, are you? Not Mrs. Courtney? Your wedded status changes daily. But we know the truth of it, don’t we, Daphne?”
“I’m not sure,” Daphne said with a funny little blink. She could possibly see that sneering at Wenna would win her no points with Mrs. Miller, nor her blue-gowned minion, who both stood watching the byplay.
“Now, Millie dear.” Patricia turned her back on Wenna. “I am desperate, positively desperate, to have a new shawl for the ball. Green silk. Tell me, please, that you have a green silk shawl.”
“I do.” Letting out a breath, Mrs. Miller glanced apologetically at Wenna. “Miss Bunter, please escort Miss Chenoweth into the dressing room and take her measurements.”
Wenna, holding her breath, followed Miss Bunter into the back room.
“Would you like a cup of tea? You look rather pale, Miss Chenoweth.”
“Patricia looks foul in green,” Wenna muttered. “Oh, I hope Mrs. Miller has a yellowish green because that would look perfectly unhealthy on her.”
Miss Bunter’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Green is a difficult color. I’m sure Mrs. Miller will find the right shade. Now, let me run the tape measure over you. Though, a week... It’ll be a rush job. What on earth do those two have against you?” she asked in a whisper.
“You mean, other than I was Mrs. Brook’s maid?”
“Ooh.” Miss Bunter nodded sagely. “I suppose Miss Brook would rather have you pattering hither and thither for her than making a fortune for yourself.” She began to race her tape over Wenna. “I say be darned to the lot of them.”
“Be darned to the lot of them,” Wenna repeated in dire voice.
“That’s the way.” Miss Bunter’s tape swooped and her pencil jotted down figures efficiently.
“They’ve gone.” Mrs. Miller’s neat little frame appeared in the doorway. “They didn’t really want anything. They just came in to give Miss Chenoweth a hard time. How are you getting on with that, Bunny?”
“Finished. We haven’t discussed styles or materials yet.”
“Most of my ladies are very nice. You won’t meet with that sort of treatment often, I’ll be bound.” Mrs. Miller folded her hands across her waist. “This isn’t the old country. A man is as good as his master here. And your hard-earned money talks loudly.”
Wenna shrugged. “I’m going to Lady Grace’s ball with Mr. Courtney. That put Patricia Brook’s nose out of joint.”
“I should say so.” Mrs. Miller’s bright eyes twinkled. “Mr. Courtney from the surveyor’s office? My. You’ve done well for yourself. How did you meet him?”
“Through Mrs. Brook.”
“I see.” Mrs. Miller nodded sagely. “Miss Brook had an interest in him. That would explain her attitude. Now, what style were you thinking of?”
Wenna spread her hands and shrugged.
“What about color?”
“Red.” Wenna compressed her lips. “Bright red for a scarlet woman.”
“Pastels are in this year,” Miss Bunter said, smiling hopefully.
Mrs. Miller narrowed her eyes. “I’ve got just the thing out the back. Old stock, but I’ll give you a discount.” She bustled off.
“You don’t want red, Miss Chenoweth. Not with your hair. Have a pretty cream.”
“No.” Mrs. Miller huffed into the room and set down a bolt of shining red satin. “Miss Chenoweth wants to cause a stir. She will in this color and personally, I think it’ll be stunning. We’ll make it up real plain, low cut, and a heavy full skirt, pleating perhaps. Cap sleeves, no ruffles, no frills, nothing. What do you think?” She looked into Wenna’s eyes.
“Will I look like a lady?”
“That’s up to you,” Mrs. Miller answered severely. “My gowns are made for ladies, but how they act in them is their business. I often wondered how you’d look if you took off that nasty black gown of yours. I guess Mr. Courtney had the same idea, that is to say...” Mrs. Miller blushed.
Wenna laughed. “Don’t apologize. He might be a gentleman, but really, he’s all man, too.” And then she blushed.
Until Miss Bunter had the presence of mind to prick her finger, none of the ladies’ eyes met. However, her yelp brought on a solicitous conversation, which led to Wenna’s appointment for her first fitting in two days’ time.
She moved out of the dressing room, stopped to gaze at a little frilled cape, and heard Miss Bunter say in a low voice, “So, it’s true. She’s Mr. Courtney’s mistress.”
“Word is, he married her.”
“Whose word? She didn’t say so.”
“Mr. Snow. And she’s going with Mr. Courtney to Lady Grace’s ball.”
“The rich get up to all sorts of shenanigans. They don’t roll up their noses at mistresses the way us ordinary folk do.”
Confounded, Wenna left the premises. She’d done this to herself, but she couldn’t see a way of working without using her single name. On the street, she was known as Devon’s mistress. In society, she was his wife—unless Patricia’s poison spread. Only she knew where she belonged—in both places. She laughed bitterly. Only she knew she couldn’t belong in two places. At some stage, she would have to make a choice.
* * * *
The seam between the two velvet curtains allowed a vertical gleam of moonlight into the room. Her vision clear and her purpose uncertain, Wenna rolled against Devon’s broad naked back and touched her lips to his shoulder. From “Miss Chenoweth” to “Mrs. Courtney” and back again, Wenna knew her duty, but her heart was another matter. She knew almost nothing about her husband other than the bare essentials, most of which seemed shady at best. Yet he had never broken his word to her, he had never let her down, and even the mere sight of him caused her heart to skip a beat. He didn’t move, but she lost the sound of his deep regular breathing. Knowing she’d disturbed him, she opened her mouth over his skin. “Are you asleep?”
“Not now.”
“The first time you had a woman...were you in love?”
“It’s midnight. Is this an important conversation?”
She pushed herself away from him and rolled onto her back. “I suppose you don’t want to answer because you were and she wasn’t.” She tried not to sound snappish. “If the woman loved you, too, you would be married to her.”
He rubbed his hand through his hair. “It wasn’t possible. She married someone else.”
“Then she didn’t love you.”
“She married another to prove she loved me, I think.”
Wenna rolled onto her other side. “Good night.”
“Was there a point to this?”
“A woman who loved you wouldn’t marry someone else,” she said into her pillow. “Not in a lifetime.”
“Why the hell are we arguing about Jenny? I haven’t seen her for years.”
Wenna squeezed her nose. Jenny. She hadn’t wanted to hear a name, but now she had. “Gone, but not forgotten.”
“No, not forgotten. She’ll always have a place in my heart. A man never forgets his first love.”
“What about his first wife?”
He didn’t answer. A hollow formed inside her chest. She knew he had married her, but she didn’t have a marriage license. She didn’t have a wedding ring. If he hadn’t really marr
ied her, she didn’t want to know. If he hadn’t, she knew she wouldn’t leave him. Aside from the fact that she wanted to be near him every second of the day, if he didn’t love her now, if he hadn’t made a lasting commitment to her, she would have to stay to earn his love, to force his commitment.
Rolling over, she cupped him between the legs and hated herself. He might always love Jenny, but he responded to lust. “Touch another woman with this, and I’ll leave.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Her voice sounded louder than she had meant, and far more vehement. If he hadn’t laughed at that moment she might have shed a genuine tear or two, but the sound of his chuckling infuriated her. “What’s so funny?”
“You’re admitting to jealousy.”
“I’m admitting to selfishness.”
Grateful that the darkness hid the sulky tightening of her jaw, she caressed him, determined to prove that he belonged to her. Under her palm, his male part expanded, lengthened, and hardened. He rolled onto his back. “I don’t object to either.” He covered her hand with his.
Her heart thudded. She could excite him whenever she chose. She loved him showing her how to pleasure him. He wouldn’t get rid of a woman whose touch he craved.
“You know that I haven’t thought of anyone but you since I met you. The only trouble is that you’re so darned perfect for me that it’s unlikely I will.”
She let out her breath slowly. “Perfect?” she said, burying her surprise in his chest.
“Perfect.” He sat up, leaned over her, and pressed his mouth to the curls at the apex of her legs. Angling his head so that his cheek rested on her stomach, he circled his arms around her hips.
Almost overwhelmed, she didn’t move. However, the weight of his head on her abdomen seemed a comforting thing. She ran her fingers through his hair, loving him, now almost certain he felt as possessive as she did. With her touch, he turned his head and kissed her at the juncture of her thighs again.
From the first time they’d made love, she had realized she would never want anyone but him. That night, she belonged to him in a slow, gentle way, all the more precious because of its intimacy. They pleasured each other deliberately, carefully and with groaning delight. Strangely, he made sure he didn’t impregnate her.
* * * *
The slate roof on the lodgings held the heat during the long spell of unseasonable weather, not that Wenna, born in South Australia, expected winter early. Autumn was usually warm and winter usually came almost as a surprise. In the mugginess of the hat shop, she worked, clammy with sweat. Her rigid black uniform didn’t help cool her skin. When she went for her fitting on Wednesday with Mrs. Miller, she almost couldn’t bear to try on her gown.
“This red looks so hot,” she said to Miss Bunter. Regretting her ridiculous decision to dress in scarlet was about as useful as a toothless comb.
“There’ll be a change in the weather soon,” Miss Bunter answered through a mouthful of pins.
“The fit’s good.” Mrs. Miller stood in the doorway of the dressing room, her eyes narrowed on the gown.
Sticky, and with her face red from the heat, Wenna knew she looked far from glamorous. “If this weather keeps up, I doubt I’ll be able to go to the ball.” She hoped she sounded casually unconcerned. Both Miss Bunter and Mrs. Miller stared at her. “They’ll ban me in this red. I’ll look like a fire in the room.”
“Don’t you go worrying about anyone else,” Mrs. Miller replied in a severe tone. “You’ll be credit to my dressmaking and that’s the truth.”
Silenced, Wenna stood while Miss Bunter eased the gown off her. “Pick it up on Friday.”
Wenna sighed and paid, although her hands shook when she parted with the three pounds. The furniture she had planned for the downstairs sitting room would now not be forthcoming, all for the sake of her vanity. When she told Devon and he didn’t turn a hair, she decided that if he didn’t care about not having a respectable place to entertain guests, she didn’t either, and she spent ten shillings on silk stockings and black velvet dancing shoes, not because she expected to cavort all night, but because she had never owned elegant shoes. Her economical habits of a lifetime had simply vanished, all for the sake of trying to impress the gentleman she had married.
She despaired of their future together, each as irresponsible as the other.
* * * *
Saturday dawned with a perfect pink sky, the day only moderately warm. Dev left to work on his house, as usual. He could now see the end of the building. The slate would go on the roof next week and he could start on the inside. The Baltic pine for the floorboards had arrived by steamer last week. He couldn’t stop himself from standing back and admiring the first house he’d had a hand in building. The stonework on the front face added a grander look.
He finished up at four thirty, as usual. When he arrived home, Wenna had hot water waiting for him. “Did you wash your hair?” he asked, gazing at the frizzy mass she rubbed with a towel. She wore a paisley shawl over her chemise.
“Don’t worry. It won’t look like this when I’ve finished.” She watched him unbutton his filthy work shirt. His clothes had been prepared for him, as usual, and lay neatly across the bed.
He was glad he’d told her he worked as a laborer. Leaving daily dressed neatly and having to change when he arrived at the site had been a time waster. Now, when he arrived home, he only had to strip off his working clothes with the suspicious redhead watching him, no chore, because she was always amenable to daytime dalliances should her interest be caught. She was not quite so willing at night when he had to pretend he was trying to impregnate her. Twice he’d faked completion, and she hadn’t noticed either time.
She disappeared into her dressing room while he washed and changed. He expected her to take longer tonight, and she didn’t disappoint him. He had time to total most of his bills before she appeared in the doorway of the study. His jaw dropped. Why on earth he hadn’t queried her choice of a gown was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he trusted her taste. “Hell!”
“The gown is too loud. You don’t want me to go with you.”
“The red screams for attention, and I definitely want you to go with me. You look...” He lifted his hands, lost for words for a moment. “That red with your hair. The effect is...amazing.”
She glanced down at her unadorned skirts, which filled the doorway. Her neckline curved from the tip of each shoulder to just above her cleavage where a line of fabric buttons ran to her tiny waist. Someone else in that gown might look like a brassy tart, but Wenna’s magnificent hair had been carefully styled back from the elegant bones of her face.
“Turn around.” He admired the simple lines of the gown and the thick arrangement of plaits she wore shaped into her nape just behind her ears. “Very nice.”
She looked wary, but she smiled. “I’ll get my shawl.”
When he escorted her into The Pig and Whistle, Maisie gaped and seated her very carefully. “You look gorgeous, Mrs. Courtney,” she said in a whisper before dashing out to the kitchen.
Within seconds, Mr. Snow appeared at the table. “Blow me down. You look a fair treat. Don’t she, Mr. Courtney?”
“She does indeed.” Dev leaned back. “I’m introducing a flare of heat into Adelaide’s society.”
She pulled her white lace shawl across her shoulders. “That was the idea.” Her chin lifted.
He noticed the sheer perfection of her jaw line. He also noticed the tremble of her hand, which he took in his. Braving society as a former lady’s maid was not an act of a coward, but he would take care of her. She had, after all, married him.
Chapter 15
Although the Graces’ double fronted townhouse looked modest from the outside, the single-story house sprawled back along the acre block. The straight slate path, lined with rose bushes, gleamed in the light of the planted torch flares, which lit the imported palms in the lawns from beneath. The sound of a hundred voices all speaki
ng at once pelted through the open front door where Sir Patrick and Lady Grace stood greeting each new guest.
The couple, satisfied parents of an eligible son and three pretty daughters, had repurposed their very fine reception area into a ballroom and a supper room. Dev patted the tentative hand Wenna had latched around his arm. Although outwardly confident, her fingers gripped tightly. Despite the fact that no gossip about her former position as a maid had come to his ears, he didn’t doubt Patricia Brook had done her utmost to discredit the woman, who was, after all, if he ever mentioned his birth, Viscountess Dellacourt, wife to the heir to the title and estates of the Earl of Marchester.
She smiled while greeting their hosts, she formally shook hands, and she held Dev’s arm as he moved her into the green painted main room. His friends stood together, gossiping casually. Ivor turned and beckoned them.
“See now. You had no need to be nervous.” Dev strolled toward to the welcoming group.
“I’m wearing red. I’m terrified,” she said barely moving her lips.
He glanced at her again. The red might call attention to her, but the color showed up the milky whiteness of her skin and the perfect styling of her glorious hair. Being a former lady’s maid had advantages. She knew how to dress to an inch. On his way, he stopped to introduce her to the new governor. “Sir Domonick, I’d like you to meet L—” He came to his senses. He’d near as hell introduced her as Lady Dellacourt.
The smile hardened on her face. Her chin lifted and her eyes glinted a chilly green.
“My dear delight, Wenna.” To gloss over his embarrassing gaff, he moved into a comfortable conversation with Sir Domonick Daley while keeping Wenna tucked close by his side.
As soon as he joined his friends, Wenna’s dance card filled, though he insisted on the first waltz with her. She didn’t melt against him, but kept her body rigid and trod on his toes. “Relax, my dear. You seem to know the steps.”
“I’ve never danced with a man before. Only with maids like me who wanted to ape our betters.” Her voice sounded stiff.
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