The shock of that revelation nearly made her trip as she descended the carriage steps.
Oh, she was deranged, surely? The physical act of loving him must have addled her brain.
As they entered the sumptuous showroom of Mrs. Walker’s favorite modiste, Hilary was startled out of her reverie. She looked about her and swallowed hard.
She had no experience of London dressmakers, it was true, but she’d expected something a little more genteel than the establishment they entered.
She’d imagined walking into a showroom filled with colorful, sumptuous fabrics and stacks of the latest fashion magazines, like La Belle Assemblée. This shop was furnished in gaudy brilliance of purple and gold, with a plush velvet chaise longue at one end and a massive chandelier looming overhead. The walls were such a violent color, they seemed to pulse around her.
“Madame Perrier has a style that is utterly unique,” whispered Mrs. Walker.
Hilary could well believe it.
“Besides being dagger cheap, my dear,” added Mrs. Walker. She beamed at the emaciated little woman who emerged from the back of the shop.
“Madame Walker, how lovely to see you,” said Madame Perrier. Hilary detected an undercurrent of East London in Madame’s “French” accent.
Madame had dark hair and snapping dark eyes and wore black bombazine, which made her look like an undernourished crow. Altogether an unprepossessing aspect. And this woman was a wizard at dressmaking? Hilary found it difficult to believe.
Equally difficult was associating the eye-watering color of Madame’s establishment with the funereal sobriety of her gown.
The dressmaker gave Hilary a quick, hard, assessing stare before directing a look of inquiry at her patroness.
“I’ve brought you my kinswoman, Miss deVere,” said Mrs. Walker, taking Hilary’s hand and patting it. “She is making her come-out this season and requires dressing. An entire wardrobe, madame. Her guardian insists upon it.”
A thin eyebrow quirked. Calculation gleamed in the woman’s black eyes. Then she clicked her fingers and another woman appeared—equally thin and dressed in the same manner as her mistress but tall as a beanpole.
“If Mademoiselle will step on the plinth?” said the tall woman in a sepulchral tone that made Hilary feel as if she were being led to the scaffold.
The experience went downhill from there.
The assistant brought forth several bolts of cloth, each shade more lurid than the last, and instructed Hilary to hold them against herself so Madame could judge the appropriate shades for her complexion.
Aghast, Hilary said, “But I ought to wear pale colors, don’t you think, Mrs. Walker?”
Debutantes always wore white or pastels or sprigged muslins. She didn’t even want to touch a bilious shade of chartreuse Madame insisted would be exactly the thing for her complexion.
Mrs. Walker waved away her tentative bid for independence. “My dear, you are pretty but not enough of a beauty to outshine the other gels. You must be different—and what better way to stand out than to wear bright colors? I assure you, my unique sense of style was what caught the late Mr. Walker’s eye. Bless his soul.”
“I know it is terribly tame of me, but I don’t mind dressing like all the other debutantes,” ventured Hilary. “Indeed, I don’t wish to stand out, particularly.”
All she’d ever wanted was to take her place among the fresh-faced daughters of the ton at Almack’s. How often she’d heard the pupils at Miss Tollington’s bemoan all of the rules of society. Hilary relished every one. She positively yearned to show how well she’d learned them, how modest and quiet and elegant a deVere could be.
How on earth could one appear modest and quiet—not to mention elegant—in eye-watering burnt orange?
What would Davenport think?
The doubt crept into her mind before she could stop it. Oh, she was a sad case indeed to crave his admiration.
Disappointment curdled Hilary’s stomach as she surveyed her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass. She’d dreamed of appearing exquisitely gowned before Davenport, of seeing awe in his eyes instead of that amused gleam. If she wore a gown made of fuchsia pink silk he’d either roll on the floor laughing or cast up his accounts.
She shuddered. What gentleman would want a girl who dressed like a Chinese lantern?
Hilary argued her case, her tone polite but firm, to no avail. She bit her lip, desperate to come up with a way to foil Mrs. Walker’s plans without criticizing her chaperone’s taste.
The shop bell tinkled, startling her. She turned her head, to see Lord Davenport’s tall form in the doorway.
“My lord!” said Mrs. Walker, beaming at him. “You found us.”
“Lord Davenport,” said Hilary, her voice scraping slightly.
There was an intense, smoldering look in his eyes when they alighted on her that sent a spear of heat to the pit of her belly. She all but melted on the spot.
By now, he’d assimilated the horrors of the décor. “Good God,” he said, looking about him. “It’s like being trapped inside a sore throat.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Walker, ignoring the dressmaker completely. “Honey, where the Devil have you been?”
He looked aggrieved, which was rich, considering Mrs. Walker had invited him on this jaunt and he’d failed to appear at the appointed time.
“Here,” she answered. “As you see, I am being measured for gowns.”
“In this place?” He took another glance around. “Looks more like a brothel than a dressmaker’s shop. You can’t buy gowns here.”
A muted squawk of fury burst from Mrs. Walker’s lips.
Hilary nearly choked on a spurt of laughter but did her best to frown him down. “Mrs. Walker patronizes this shop. She recommends Madame Perrier’s services highly.”
Davenport eyed Hilary’s chaperone, who today wore a mustard yellow ensemble, edged with bottle green. “I daresay.”
The dressmaker herself stood openmouthed with shocked fury at his outrageous comments. Hilary noted that the emotion colored the lady’s cheeks nicely. She looked a little less like an effigy now.
“Cancel the order, Mrs. Walker,” said Davenport. “Honey, come with me.”
He held the door open for her and bowed. Nearly skipping with relief, Hilary tossed the bolt of fuchsia silk into the scrawny arms of Madame’s assistant and hurried to join him.
Ignoring Mrs. Walker’s squawking protests, Davenport calmly drew Hilary’s arm through his and strode up Bond Street.
“Oh, I could kiss you!” she whispered. So utterly thankful to have been spared the humiliation of wearing Madame Perrier’s creations, she really could have kissed him, right there on Bond Street in full view of all onlookers.
He glanced down at her with a glint in his eye. “Make your apologies to Mrs. Walker and we’ll find somewhere for you to have your wish.”
Vignettes of the previous night rose in her mind’s eye, making heat pool in her belly. Coloring, she shook her head. No matter how often and severely she castigated herself for her behavior, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
Now her tarnished hero had saved her from sartorial suicide. “You are becoming a white knight, you know, Davenport. You are forever rescuing me from something.”
The notion made him stop short. He was silent for a moment, with an odd look on his face. Then he said, “Don’t be ridiculous,” and kept walking.
“Ah. Here we are.” He stopped outside a shop with an elegant bow window that did not have a shingle out the front or any indication of the owner’s name or the shop’s purpose. He ushered Hilary through.
With a soft gasp of wonder, Hilary stepped into an establishment that was as different from Madame Perrier’s as champagne from small beer.
* * *
“Come along, Mrs. Walker,” Davenport called as the irate matron puffed her way up the street toward him. “Don’t dawdle.”
“My lord,” she panted as she
caught up with him. “This is Madame Giselle’s. Lord deVere has given me a strict budget and I assure you, it don’t stretch to that woman’s prices.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” said Davenport, who’d expected nothing less. He let the door close with Honey on the other side of it so she couldn’t hear them. “You may send the bills to me.”
The blowsy matron’s shrewd face turned calculating. “Now that’s what I call gentlemanly.”
“On two conditions, ma’am,” said Davenport. “First, you must have a wardrobe for the season from Giselle also, and place yourself completely in her hands.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Walker, glancing dubiously at the shop window.
“At my expense, of course,” murmured Davenport.
The lady’s face lit up, and Davenport saw that she could be attractive if not for the dreadful garments she wore. And the hair, of course.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the second condition?”
“You must leave all sartorial decisions about Miss deVere’s gowns to Miss deVere and Madame Giselle.”
Mrs. Walker sniffed with affront. “Well, I’m most happy to, I’m sure.”
Looking anything but happy, she barged ahead of him into the sumptuous salon.
He didn’t think she’d give them any trouble, however. The prospect of a season’s worth of new gowns from London’s most exclusive modiste ought to keep her quiescent.
Once he’d delivered Honey into Giselle’s capable hands, he intended to leave everything to the women. The only thing he knew about ladies’ clothing was how to remove it, an accomplishment in which he took simple pride.
However, his sister patronized Giselle and that was enough to recommend her. Cecily was accounted the most stylish woman in London, so it made sense that he’d bring Honey here.
Honey looked at him askance when the exotically dark Giselle greeted him with purely Gallic enthusiasm. When Madame mentioned the Duchess of Ashburn, however, the slight stiffness that had entered Honey’s manner vanished.
So Honey wasn’t quite as innocent of the world’s ways as she liked to appear. She suspected he brought his mistresses here. Or that Giselle had been his mistress. Not a bit of it. He could behave himself when he wanted to, as his false betrothed would see.
“Miss deVere requires a gown to wear to a soiree this evening,” said Davenport. “In addition to a wardrobe for the season, of course.”
Madame ooh-la-laed and tsked and shook her head, no doubt trying to drive up the price. “Tonight? But that is impossible. You expect me to work the miracle, milor’.”
He slapped his gloves on his palm. “Impossible, eh? Pity, that. Well, we’ll just have to go elsewhere, won’t we, Miss deVere? Good day, madame.”
With a slight smile at Honey’s crestfallen air, he turned to go.
“Mais non, pas de quoi! Ah, you are teasing me, Lord Davenport.” Giselle wagged a slender finger at him. “You would not go anywhere else, for Giselle’s creations, they are the best.”
She put her fingertip to her lips. “I do not normally do this, you understand, but if Mademoiselle does not object, I have a sprigged muslin that might do very well.” She waved a hand. “Young ladies, they are capricious. Mademoiselle decided she wanted pink silk, not white muslin, and so we have my so beautiful creation languishing.”
“What do you say, Miss deVere?” said Davenport.
Giselle tried to appear nonchalant, but her gaze darted between Davenport and Honey. She’d taken a risk telling them the gown had been another lady’s leavings. Most women of his acquaintance would never accept another woman’s castoffs, even if that lady had never worn the gown.
But what was the alternative? He wanted Honey to shine and tonight was the perfect opportunity to attend a party on friendly territory. That was, he hoped Lady Arden’s house proved to be friendly territory. He wouldn’t place money on it after yesterday.
“Indeed, I should like to try the gown,” said Honey. “I daresay it will require alterations—”
“They will be of a moment.” Madame waved away that consideration, and the gown was fetched.
His warning to Mrs. Walker had been unnecessary. With barely a glance at the chaperone’s hideous attire, Giselle expertly ejected her from the proceedings until it was her turn to be measured. With flattering deference, she served the lady champagne and offered her several fashion periodicals to choose from.
Davenport selected a sofa somewhat removed from the chair on which Mrs. Walker perched. Sinking down into the comfortable cushions, Davenport sat back and watched the show.
He wished he might join Honey in the small dressing room where Giselle took her to change into the spurned sprigged muslin. His imagination ran wild over the things he could do to her in that confined space while everything went on as usual in the dressmaking shop outside.
“Charming,” he said when she emerged from the dressing room to stand on the raised platform for Madame to fit the garment to her slender form.
She blushed prettily at his praise, but she kept her gaze lowered, as if suddenly shy.
Who would have thought that little virago who had abused him and pummeled him with her fists only days before would now color up and regard her toes when he praised her?
He eagerly anticipated the day when she was no longer shy of him or ashamed of her own desires. As he watched her, his own need seemed to become even more powerful and urgent.
The gown was simple, virginal even, but it transformed her. Without all of the coverings she usually wore to mask her assets, he noticed her in excruciating detail. The elegant turn of her neck, the neck he’d so recently nuzzled and kissed to make her sigh and shiver. Her breasts, modestly covered but enticingly framed by a scalloped bodice. The lush lips he had traced with his tongue now curved in a smile. Her eyes shone with delighted anticipation.
Those eyes had been glazed with passion last night.
He couldn’t wait to have that slender, lithe body beneath him again. Last night had been like taking one sip from a glass of the finest wine, only to have it whisked from his grasp. He wanted to savor her, drink deep of her, until he was intoxicated, castaway.
The need grew uncomfortable as he watched Giselle’s fingers flutter around Honey’s form, measuring, draping, turning her this way and that. Here the line of the bodice was discussed, there the skirt pinned tighter around Honey’s trim waist.
Soon Honey floated in a whirl of silks and furbelows. He felt a warm sense of achievement at having been the cause of that animated expression on her face, even if indirectly. He couldn’t deny a feeling of satisfaction that he and no other man had paid for the clothes on her body. A wave of possessiveness struck him so hard, it would have knocked him down if he weren’t seated already.
The feeling was new to him. Hilary deVere was an innocent in both nature and experience, unlike any woman he’d bedded before. Perhaps that was the reason. She was naïve and thus he felt doubly obliged to keep her and protect her.
From everyone but himself.
He was no knight-errant—quite the reverse where she was concerned—but having brought her to London, it was his responsibility to shelter her from the spite of the ton. He wouldn’t let anyone belittle her or shun her because she was a deVere.
Giselle assisted Honey down from the platform and indicated it was Mrs. Walker’s turn to be accoutred.
Hilary crossed the lavishly carpeted floor and sank down beside him on the sofa.
“Thank you,” she whispered, impulsively placing her hand on his wrist. “Oh, thank you, my lord. You cannot know—”
Moisture glistened in her eyes, and instead of wishing himself elsewhere at the sight of feminine tears, he wished them both away from this place. Somewhere private so he could take her into his arms.
He waved away her gratitude, for his part thankful Mrs. Walker hadn’t mentioned his offer to foot the bill. Honey would have killed him if she knew he was paying for it all.
“Do you
attend Lady Arden’s soiree this evening?” she asked when she finally realized he wasn’t interested in basking in her effusions of gratitude. “It seems Mrs. Walker and I are to go.”
“I’ll be there,” he said. “In fact, I’ll escort you.”
Her shoulders relaxed, as if in relief. “Thank you. I admit, I am in a quake over my first appearance in society. It has all happened so fast.”
He was already calculating ways and means to detach her from the rest of the company. He knew Lady Arden’s house fairly well. “The good thing about soirees is you don’t have to dance,” he said. “Perfect way to ease into things.”
But the tenor of his thoughts must have shown in his face, for she blushed delightfully and glanced toward Mrs. Walker.
“You must not look at me like that,” she breathed.
“How do I look?” he murmured, so low, only the two of them could hear. “Like I want to kiss you from your topmost curl to your toes? Like I want to spill this champagne all over your naked body and lick it off?”
He reached across her for the bottle he’d left on the table and she gave a nervous start.
Grinning, he filled an empty glass with the fizzing gold liquid. “Decent stuff, this.”
Davenport offered the glass to her, but she shook her head, frowning at him, with that twitch to her lips that showed she was trying to suppress a smile.
Stupid to feel so triumphant at this small victory. He set down the glass and fell to considering ways and means to have her again tonight.
When all was settled, his newly fakely betrothed fairly danced out of Giselle’s shop. Her chaperone was equally frisky, having ordered as many gowns as Giselle judged he could stand without being bankrupted. The glowing look Honey cast him was worth every penny.
“Until tonight, then, Lord Davenport,” she said, giving him her hand. “We ladies have more shopping to do.” She patted her reticule. “Madame Giselle has given me a list of the best establishments to patronize.”
“Ah, then you must do so, and spare no expense,” he said, with a glance at Mrs. Walker.
Honey looked at him oddly, but Mrs. Walker took his meaning. He trusted Honey now had the gumption to order what she liked without allowing her chaperone an opinion.
London's Last True Scoundrel Page 21
