Design for Love

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  “Yes, milady.” Millie’s eyes surveyed the room. Was she looking for evidence of His Lordship? Fiona wondered.

  “I’m afraid,” she remarked calmly, “that I will have to wear the dove-gray on the chair there. You might see if it needs pressing. My baggage appears to have been lost.”

  “La, milady. To think of all yer pretty gowns lost.” The maid’s eyes grew wide. “But mayhap they’ll turn up yet.”

  “I do not think so,” Fiona replied, thinking of the drab brown gowns that she had cheerfully consigned to the flames before leaving Hinckley House. “I collect that is why His Lordship and I are to visit Bond Street. To replenish my ward­robe. And now, if I might have my chocolate.”

  “Of course, milady. Right away.” Millie was off immediately, her eyes gleaming in anticipa­tion of new gowns to come into her charge.

  Fiona lay back among the pillows and surveyed the room. It was a lovely place, done in shades of green. The hangings on the great bed were of forest green, as was the coverlet under her hands. The walls of the room, however, were so pale a shade as to be barely green at all.

  The rug that covered the floor revealed an intri­cate Oriental pattern of greens, browns, and rusts. The chaise, artfully ranged by the fireplace, was covered in the palest shade of peach. And the del­icate lyre-back chairs near the wall sported up­holstery of muted green.

  Yes, Fiona thought, it was a lovely room, the rich cherry of the wood furnishings in warm har­mony with its colors. It was also, she realized be­latedly, a fine setting for a woman of her coloring. But that must be coincidence. The earl could not have known ahead, could not have planned all this.

  Yet beneath her fingers the coverlet seemed very new. And the hangings on the great bed did, too. He had not told her when and where he had first spoken to Charles about their marriage.

  Well, if he’d designed this room as a foil for his new countess, he had certainly done a commend­able job. In such surroundings, she could hold court with the greatest of them.

  Fiona let her memory retreat to those long-ago days when Elvinia had painted for the awestruck young girls the word picture of a society lady’s boudoir. How she received in her rooms while still dressing, though doubtless it was only the finishing touches that visitors were permitted to see.

  It had been difficult for the child to understand why Elvinia found this so exciting, since the older woman was always careful to assure them that society ladies were raddled with disease, their cheeks pocked beneath the white powder and rouge, their figures falsely trussed and buttressed.

  But eventually Fiona had discerned the truth:

  Elvinia’s descriptions were colored by jealousy. For no matter how much wealth the avaricious Charles succeeded in amassing, the wife of a cit could never hope to be invited into the inner cir­cle of the ton.

  To the young Fiona, these grand visions had seemed unreal. Her happiest memories were of days spent in the ordinary rented rooms where she had lived with her parents. A new gown or a string of beads, though her acquaintance with them was minimal, were nothing to her. When she longed for something, it was the happiness of those lost days with her mother.

  Fiona sighed. This new life, in spite of its ap­parent luxury, was not going to be easy. Her eyes moved of their own volition toward his door, where the key still stood in the lock. His cheerful whistling last night had unnerved her. She might have supposed him to insist on his marital rights.

  But he hadn’t. And this way he had of smiling at her, as if they shared some secret, was most un­settling. Orders she could comprehend. Shouting she was used to. But this behavior was a new ex­perience.

  A brisk rap sounded on the door. She barely had time to hear it before the door swung open to admit His Lordship. “So, I see you have wak­ened at last. I hope my lady wife is not going to be a lay-abed.”

  “No,” she replied, trying to keep her tone even. “I am usually up and about at the crack of dawn.”

  His Lordship’s mouth curled in amusement as he settled himself on the edge of the bed. “I don’t believe that early rising is necessary,” he said, his thigh brushing her hip through the coverlet. “In the city ladies seldom rise before noon.”

  Why hadn’t he taken a chair? His nearness was very disquieting.

  “How do you like your room?” he inquired, turning toward her.

  She tried to collect her thoughts. “It is quite lovely.” His eyes were warm. It was then she re­called that under the coverlet she wore only a chemise. She clutched the material with nervous fingers.

  He smiled and reached out to touch her cheek with a gentle finger. “I thought it would suit you. I mean to do well by you, Fiona. No one has ever accused me of being clutch-fisted. You’ll not re­gret our bargain.”

  She regarded the elegantly clad male shape of him. Evidently he had just come from business, but his morning coat was immaculate, his cravat blinding in its whiteness, and his well-polished boots reflected the sun. He’d been quite correct, if a little toplofty, in saying that he was a fine fig­ure of a man.

  But some perversity drove her to pick up the previous day’s quarrel. “I regret it already, as you well know.”

  The earl’s sigh was heavy. He’d hoped to find her in better temper this morning. Still, he could afford to be patient. They would be together for a long time. It struck him rather forcibly that this prospect did not bother him as it once would have.

  But then, the marriage had cost him nothing. He was not going to live in her pocket. He would have others when he chose. And now, at least, London’s mamas would keep their whey-faced daughters out of his path.

  He had lost nothing—and he had gained much. A piece of Irish land he had long coveted. And a beautiful wife.

  He would try another approach. “Fiona, my pet, there is no point in regretting what cannot be changed. Surely you must see that. Be logical.”

  Fiona swallowed. Her anger was foolish. She knew that Cousin Charles was probably right. Her marriage to Lonigan was most likely a sham, a trick to cheat an innocent girl of her chastity. Yet those golden days gleamed in her memory. And although it was illogical and ungrateful, she held His Lordship responsible for their loss.

  “It’s easy for you to speak of logic,” she said stiffly. “You have everything you want. While my chance at happiness is gone.” It was with dif­ficulty that she kept back the tears.

  She saw the lines of strain begin to etch them­selves again along his nose. Then he captured one of her hands, disentangling it from the coverlet. He raised it to his mouth, his lips seeking her palm and lingering there.

  “I must remind you, lady wife, that I do not yet have everything.” His lips touched the tips of her fingers in a subtle caress. “But we shall soon rem­edy that deficiency.”

  “Milord . . .” she began. But he dropped her hand, and his mouth moved to cover hers. Sur­prise held her motionless for a long moment while his mouth explored hers, while her body wakened to a sweet delight. Then suddenly he sat erect.

  To her consternation she realized that she had not heard, over the thudding of her heart, the rus­tle of skirts that heralded the maid’s return.

  “You may give Her Ladyship breakfast now, Millie,” he said, as calmly as though he’d been caught reading a book. “We shall leave the house at one,” he added cheerfully. “Until then, my dear.”

  And Fiona was left to choke down her break­fast under the admiring stare of the maid.

  * * * *

  Precisely at one, Fiona descended the great stairs. The dove-gray dress had been pressed to perfection. And Millie, murmuring little sighs of appreciation, had helped her into it. It clung to her in a way that gave her some confidence. So did her hair, piled beneath the matching bonnet in a style that Millie asserted was the highest fashion. Still, Fiona found herself fearful of meeting His Lordship’s eyes.

  He stepped out of the library and strode to the foot of the stairs, his eyes on her descending form. Fiona felt a shiver travel down her sp
ine. This man was her husband—according to the law, her lord and master. And she knew him only in his most superficial aspects as a bored man-about-town trying to be patient with a woman he deemed foolish.

  She had to admit that he might well be right in considering her foolish. But there was right on her side too. Marriage was the most intimate of institutions. And she would never have entered into it in this way if it hadn’t been for the specter of Cousin Charles, his beady eyes gleaming.

  But she had promised herself to forget Charles. He signified nothing now. The man before her was her future.

  His Lordship’s eyes rested critically on her face as she reached the bottom of the stairs and stood before him.

  “You are still not recovered from our trip,” he said. “I am sorry that we must go out today. But gowns take time to make, especially as many as I plan to order. And they can be stitched while you are resting. Then, when you are suitably out­fitted, we shall burst upon society in a blaze of splendor.”

  Fiona laughed nervously. “If you please, mi­lord, I believe I should find a subtle introduction more to my taste.”

  His Lordship smiled as he tucked her arm through his and received his curly-brimmed bea­ver from Berkins’s waiting hand. “I see that you have not looked in your glass this morning, my love. Otherwise you would see that a blaze of glory is the only way possible to us. How can you expect to ease yourself quietly into the ton when your hair and your figure demand everyone’s at­tention? To say nothing of a heart-shaped face and eyes so warm they melt a man’s soul.”

  A small sigh escaped from the lips of the maid­servant Millie, who was plainly lost in admiration for the earl’s style of compliment.

  “You are so kind,” Fiona replied sweetly as they swept out the front door toward the waiting barouche. “But then,” she added for his ears alone, “a man such as yourself is practiced in the art of flattery. So practiced that he can make it seem even natural.”

  The earl raised a black eyebrow. “I hope that you are not about to take me to task for being a man. Indeed, having reached the age of three and thirty, it would seem rather odd had I no experi­ence in these matters.”

  “While I, at three and twenty, am properly sup­posed to know nothing,” she replied as she al­lowed him to help her into the carriage. It was folly to argue like this. She spoke to him as she would never have dared speak to Charles. But, somehow, she couldn’t stop herself.

  He settled onto the squabs beside her and gave her a strange glance. “Of course. Women know nothing of these matters. Good ones, at least. The others are different.”

  He smiled. “I should not think you would do well in that line. You haven’t the disposition for it.”

  Fiona, thinking of how easily she might have become one of “them,” did not rise to his bait. Even now, if he knew about Lonigan, he would be greatly angered, even outraged. But it would not be because he cared for her; it would be be­cause she had come to him damaged goods. Be­cause his property had been tampered with, because she belonged to him in a sense that could never be reciprocal.

  Fiona sighed. The injustice of it was bitter.

  His Lordship crossed his elegant legs, smoothly muscled beneath his wrinkle-free inexpressibles. “Well now, we shall have a busy time of it. First to the dressmaker. Madame Ormond has the rep­utation of being one of the city’s finest modistes. When she dresses you, you are worthy of the first stare of fashion. Then we will frequent the boot­maker, the milliner, and sundry others whose job it is to furnish you with all those little luxuries of life that women of fashion find so necessary.”

  Fiona turned toward him. “Do you truly pro­pose to launch me into society?”

  His Lordship’s black brows rose indignantly. “How could you think otherwise? I am not some miserly nipcheese who intends to relegate you to the country while I enjoy myself in the city. You will have all the amenities that traditionally accompany your position in life.”

  Fiona sighed. “Everything except love.”

  His Lordship’s mouth tightened. Why did the woman have to talk of that? He wanted to forget love, forget Katie. No, he would never forget her. Or the indescribable joy he’d felt just being with her. But the cost of that joy had been too high. He would not open himself to such pain again.

  “I fail to understand why anyone needs love,” he continued. “I know it is much touted in ro­mantic novels. But I should think a sensible woman would prefer security. Love does not feed the belly. Nor clothe it. As more than one run­away has discovered to her chagrin. Yet women persist in this futile search for it. A search doomed always and inevitably to failure. Since even when love is found, it proves a fraud.”

  Fiona turned toward him. “You speak, milord, as one who has suffered love’s pangs.”

  For the merest instant he was afraid he had given himself away. But she could not know. She was only guessing. “You mistake me, lady wife. Love and its pangs are equally unknown to me. And as a man who values the rational, I take great pride in the fact.”

  Fiona said no more on the subject. It was clear to her that he had loved and been hurt by it. But she did not contradict him. His Lordship was not a man one could contradict with impunity.

  About that time the carriage rattled to a halt. The earl descended and turned to help her. Al­most automatically now, she put her gloved hand in his and stepped down.

  Madame Ormond’s establishment was small and discreet, so discreet that the bronze plate bearing her name could not be read from more than four feet away.

  Fiona felt a sudden rush of anxiety. Fortu­nately, Cousin Charles had had Constance edu­cated as a lady. And since Fiona was forced to accompany her everywhere, she had picked up a great deal of knowledge concerning the ways of quality. But she had never in her wildest dreams imagined that such knowledge would be useful. And she was far from believing that she knew everything she would need to know.

  “I know nothing of fashion,” she whispered as she tucked her arm through his. “How shall I make choices?”

  The earl’s gloved hand covered hers in what could only be called a comforting pat. “Don’t fret yourself, my dear. I did not imagine you would. I, however, am popularly accounted to have infal­lible taste.”

  Fiona could well believe this, but she did not see how it could help her. “But how am I to pro­ceed?”

  “You must look upon me with ardent eyes,” re­plied His Lordship, his lip curling slightly. “Knowing us newly married, the modiste will think you besotted with me. As any number of women have been,” he continued casually. “So, when you defer to my every whim, she will find there evidence of your feeling for me and not your lack of fashionable knowledge.”

  “I have come from the country, not the stage.” She knew her voice was rising, but she could not control it.

  The curl to His Lordship’s lip was even more pronounced. “Imagine yourself the heroine in one of those reprehensible novels of drivel that women are always poring over. That should serve admirably.”

  There was no time for Fiona to fashion a suit­able reply since by this time they had reached the door. The interior of Madame Ormond’s estab­lishment was dim after the sunlight in the street. Fiona blinked and clutched the earl’s arm.

  “Milord. Welcome.”

  A very tall, very slim woman approached them out of the gloom. Fiona could hardly believe her eyes. Madame Ormond had the figure of a stick, straight up and down, not a curve anywhere. She was clad in an expensively cut black gown that only emphasized her severe figure.

  “I am honored to have you choose my estab­lishment, milord.”

  The modiste’s sharp gray eyes slid over the new client expertly, taking in every inch of her. Every flaw, Fiona thought with distaste.

  But Madame Ormond knew her business. “Oh, yes, milord. You have done well. A jewel.”

  If the words had been gushed, Fiona would have discounted them. But delivered as they were in that cool, dispassionate voice they were quite effective. Fion
a began to feel more warmth to­ward the dressmaker.

  “We are here to get the jewel properly set.” The earl smiled. “I judge that between us we shall make my lady’s arrival into the ton an outstand­ing one.”

  The modiste nodded. “Indeed, milord. I’m sure we shall.” She turned and preceded them down the hall. “Let us go to the private rooms. You know, of course, that her hair— but then, what might have been an obstacle for some will only contribute to our achievement.”

  Fiona, trailing along on His Lordship’s arm, swallowed a sudden giggle. They were so serious about the whole thing. How could any one per­son’s clothing be that important?

  But she was soon to realize that no matter how she felt about the subject, both the earl and the modiste considered it of the utmost importance. They pored over pattern books, discussing the lay of a bodice or the puff of a sleeve with an inten­sity that astonished Fiona, whose acquaintance with fashion had been of the most limited kind.

  She was particularly curious at this kind of be­havior on her husband’s part, especially consider­ing that she had locked the door against him the night before. She had been angry with him then, and she was angry with him still, in spite of the looks of simulated adoration she managed for the dressmaker’s benefit.

  And here he was, devoting the whole of an af­ternoon to the purchase of her wardrobe. It was a sobering situation. She knew instinctively that Dreyford was not the man to spend hours with a modiste. But why was it so important to him that she be well dressed? There was his reputa­tion, of course. He would not want to be labeled pinchpenny.

  But there was more to it than that. Could he possibly be trying to placate her? To appease her anger over the inheritance by this display of thoughtfulness? For thoughtfulness it was, that much she was forced to admit.

  After her measurements were taken, the shop­girls brought bolt after bolt of material. Fiona found herself standing in the middle of the room while this fabric and that was held up to her face, considered against her hair, rejected or retained. Her ears rang with their names: jaconet, spotted cambric, muslin, striped silk, sarcenet, merino, satin, lame, crape, net, velvet. Her eyes swam from the onslaught of so many colors. After years of drab browns and grays so much variety was overwhelming.