The duchess waved away the apology. “There’s no need for such formality. Jilly will do quite nicely, as I said last evening,” she said. “Our appointment isn’t for another hour yet, so no harm has been done.”
“Our…appointment?” Poppy echoed, a frisson of alarm slipping down her spine.
“With Madame Moreau,” Jilly clarified. “You haven’t forgotten?”
Poppy sank heavily onto the sofa beside Lady Winifred. “So soon?” She swallowed down her apprehension. “I had thought—perhaps, in a few weeks…”
Jilly hid a smile behind her delicate china teacup. “Madame Moreau was good enough to shuffle her schedule at my request,” she said, her sly tone suggesting that her rank carried a fair few benefits which she was not above making the most of. “I do find it’s best to begin as one means to go on, and you cannot let the Season pass you by in the meantime.”
“Let’s not forget that a proper gown is a work of art,” Lady Ravenhurst added, “and art takes time. Madame Moreau will no doubt require a week or two to produce something unique.” Her dark eyes slid over Poppy’s face, reading the indecision there. “Let’s start with a ball gown, shall we? A justifiable expense, and if you don’t feel it suits you in the end, you may have it resized for your sisters.”
Poppy prepared herself a cup of tea, taking a bracing sip as she considered the situation. “I haven’t the funds to spend frivolously,” she said, ignoring the stern glance she received from Lady Winifred. As a concession to proper etiquette, she added, “I know it is considered crude to speak of such things, but I’m afraid I must be practical.”
“But surely one ball gown,” Jilly said. “Your sisters must have a dozen or more between them!”
“Yes, but—” But they had prospects. They had opportunities that had long passed Poppy by. It was foolish to spend her funds on herself in that way, when nothing would come of it.
Lady Winifred cleared her throat. “Your Grace,” she said. “What Miss Fairchild means to say is that Victoria and Isobel have the opportunity to marry well. Those gowns are an investment into their futures.”
The subtle insinuation that Poppy could have no such expectations, and that it would be a waste of money to indulge in a gown for herself was undeniably true, but she cringed to hear it said aloud nonetheless.
“What rubbish,” the duchess scoffed, and Poppy shot her a grateful glance. It might have been a lie, but it was undeniably kind. “I was near to twenty-three when I married the duke. Long in the tooth by any standard.”
“My lady.” Lady Winifred turned to Lady Ravenhurst, desperately seeking reinforcements. “Surely you can see the futility of such a course.”
Lady Ravenhurst gave an elegant shrug. “I’ve never been of the opinion that women have outlived their usefulness at twenty,” she said. “I think that Poppy—I can call you Poppy, can’t I?—ought to enjoy herself while she’s in London. A proper ball gown will be a decent start.” With a firm nod, she collected her own teacup.
Lady Winifred made a strangled sort of sound, exactly the kind she would have chastised Poppy for. “Well, I think it’s vulgar the way some ladies do not seem to understand when they are past their prime,” she sniffed. “I took myself off of the marriage mart at twenty-one, as is only proper.”
“I daresay Poppy can decide for herself whether or not she wishes to pursue the possibility of marriage,” Jilly said. “I’m only suggesting that perhaps she ought to have a ball gown and enjoy herself.”
“It’s not proper,” Lady Winifred insisted, her mouth turned down in disapproval, as if the duchess’ arguments had disappointed her. Clearly she had hoped that Jilly would be a woman in her own image, a champion of correct behavior. She had failed to consider that it had been some forty years since her own come-out, and standards had evolved somewhat.
Jilly cleared her throat. “Yes, well, it had been a lovely visit,” she said, casting Poppy a look that suggested she did not know how Poppy had borne the weight of Lady Winifred’s condescension thus far. “But we must leave soon if we are to make our appointment with Madame Moreau. Oh, Poppy, before I forget, here you are.” She scooped up the small stack of books that had been resting beside her on the sofa and handed them over.
“How lovely,” Lady Winifred said, mollified. “You see, Miss Fairchild? Doubtless Her Grace would never think to pollute her mind with the drivel that is so common nowadays. Do tell me what she’s lent you.”
“Gothic novels,” Poppy said brightly, taking an absurd amount of pleasure in crushing every last one of Lady Winifred’s hopes. And by the horror scrawled upon Lady Winifred’s face, she’d done an excellent job of it.
Chapter Eleven
Poppy had been pinched and poked and prodded and measured to within an inch of her life. She had never set foot in a modiste’s shop in her life, and she hoped never to do so again. It had been a place of utter chaos, with attendants running about, casting bundles of fabric every which direction, and jabbing needles and pins with deft hands.
She had been so twitchy and uncomfortable that she’d nearly been stuck several times, and each near miss had resulted in a terse order to stand still, until she had held herself so rigidly that the tension had not left her muscles even hours after the duchess had at last brought her home.
It had been a rather humiliating experience, having Madame Moreau cluck over her grey gown, touching it only briefly, as if its unfashionable design might somehow taint her own style, or seep out into her shop. She hadn’t been so near nakedness in front of anyone since she had been a child, and it was disconcerting to stand behind a strategically-draped curtain in only her chemise, hearing the rattle of carriages down the road just outside the shop. It seemed even more indecent for anyone to have taken such intimate measurements of her body, but Madame Moreau had insisted they were necessary to ensure a perfect fit.
And she certainly hadn’t liked the way that the duchess and Lady Ravenhurst had pored over the fashion plates, whispering amongst themselves like overexcited children.
She had asked to look at the plates herself, reluctant to let the one gown she intended to buy for herself turn into something beyond her meager means.
But Lady Ravenhurst had simply fixed her with a firm stare and asked, “Did you select the gown you’re wearing now?”
Poppy had replied, “Well, yes.”
And Lady Ravenhurst had snapped the little booklet closed and said, “Absolutely not, then. I can see that your taste runs to the practical, and while there is a time and a place for practicality, it is most certainly not in selecting a ball gown.” And then, as if as a conciliatory gestured, she added, “Don’t fret. Madame Moreau has wonderful taste, and she’ll take into account your finances.”
In the end she had had to endure being draped with swathes of various fabrics, one after another until she had grown dizzy with the effort to recall them, and Jilly had finally proclaimed her approval of a butter-yellow silk that was so sheer, Poppy could see straight through it.
The whole ordeal had taken hours, and the gown was not expected to be completed for another week or two. Poppy feared she would spend the time vacillating between anticipation and terror. She was rather ashamed to admit that there was a part of her—a very small part—that longed for beautiful things, for the opportunities she had quietly surrendered, and it vied for supremacy over the practicality she’d cultivated.
She had been surprised by the duchess and her friend, Lady Ravenhurst, neither of whom had had displayed the slightest bit of either pity of condemnation for her. Poppy had spent so much of her life expecting to be shunted off into corners and left to molder that she had had no idea what she was meant to make of their kindness. She had not expected to make friends or to find herself drawn into any sort of social scene, but the two women had taken it for a given that they would find Poppy at other social engagements and expected to renew their acquaintance there.
She had the strangest feeling that neither of them intended to let
her take to her chaperone’s corner and remain there, and she didn’t yet know whether she was dreading the experience or looking forward to it.
∞∞∞
David turned up at Lady Gladstone’s garden party promptly at three, despite the fact that his inclination had never run to such insipid affairs before. He’d attended Jilly’s out of obligation, but he’d shown up to this one for a far different, more troubling reason. Jilly and Lady Ravenhurst had been spotted with Poppy at Madame Moreau’s shop, and he’d been overset with conflicting feelings—the vague, baffling sense of irritation that the meddling women had determined that Poppy required making over, and the desire to see what they’d decided upon for her.
Jilly had already arrived, though he hadn’t yet seen her—but Rushton was present, talking with a group of gentlemen near the refreshment table, and he only attended this sort of function at Jilly’s behest.
Not so very many years ago, Rushton had been a man much like himself, avoiding social functions like the plague and carousing into the early hours of the morning. He and his friend Sinridge had cut a swath across London, scandalizing society as the worst sort of rakehells. It seemed almost a pity to see the man now, tamed to civility, happily ensnared by the love of his wife. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Rushton at his club, or within the walls of a gaming hell.
The man had become positively boring.
With a rueful shake of his head, David passed by the group of men and edged past a topiary pruned to resemble a lion’s head, moving deeper into the garden. Several small tables had been set up along the grass, each draped with a pristine white tablecloth. Lady Gladstone had outdone herself, he supposed—arches of ivy threaded through with pink and white roses had been assembled on the lawn, creating a sort of shaded walkway, and servants milled about carrying trays of tiny finger sandwiches and other bite-sized foods. He snagged a tiny apple tartlet off the tray of a passing servant and popped it into his mouth as he scanned the crowd. At least the food was passable.
There in the back, near the end of the flowered walkway, seated at a small table across from Lady Ravenhurst, was Jilly. The two women were talking animatedly, so engrossed in conversation that they did not look up until his shadow fell across the table between them.
“David!” Jilly said at last, her face wreathed in a smile. “I didn’t expect you.”
Unsurprising. He hadn’t expected himself. He shrugged, attempting a bland tone. “I was at loose ends. Nothing better to do.” He leaned against the table, surveying the crowd.
“She’s not here,” Jilly said immediately, and David felt an odd upwelling of disappointment. But Jilly continued, “Leighton also sent his regrets.”
For a moment David was baffled, his brows drawing in confusion. At last it occurred to him that Jilly hadn’t been referring to Poppy, but to Lady Elaine.
Automatically he began, “I wasn’t—” He clamped his mouth shut, belatedly realizing that even that small denial was a bit too revealing for his taste. Beset by an awkwardness he couldn’t begin to understand, he risked at glance at Jilly’s face and saw at once that she had comprehended the slip. Her grin widened, so satisfied that he could only roll his eyes heavenward and groan.
“Miss Fairchild has yet to arrive,” she said. “But she is expected—she said yesterday that she would be bringing her sisters.” Jilly dimpled at him, pleased as punch at his interest. “Nora and I took her to Madame Moreau’s shop yesterday.”
There was no safe response to that. Still, he heard himself grit out, “My God, Jilly—what were you thinking?”
Nora gave a light laugh, her dark eyes dancing with delight. “That it’s a shame for a woman of her age to have to sit with the dowagers and chaperones,” she said.
“She’s an unmarried woman,” he stressed. “She can’t be seen wearing the sorts of things you wear!”
“And she won’t be,” Jilly said. “We were quite circumspect. I’m sure you’ll approve. Anyway, it makes little difference, as she would allow only one ball gown, and it will take some time for Madame Moreau to complete.” She waved away his discomfiture as if it held no significance.
“Only one gown?” Somehow he found himself surprised—he’d never met a woman who could constrain herself to a single gown when she might have a dozen.
“Yes,” Nora said on a despairing sigh. “She seemed to think one was enough of an extravagance, as she has only a bequest from her grandmother with which to support the three of them. It would seem that she would prefer to reserve the bulk of their funds in seeing her sisters settled. I don’t believe their father did his duty by them.”
Of course the man hadn’t, if he hadn’t bothered to bring his eldest daughter out for her own Season. Clearly the man had failed in his duty to all of them, and left Poppy to bear his responsibilities. It seemed rather too much of a burden to place upon one woman’s shoulders. It reminded him of his own failings, and his conscience stung with the knowledge that he had managed his responsibilities little better—but at least he had never put Jilly in the position of scrimping and saving, of pinching pennies until they screamed, or of agonizing over the purchase of a single ball gown. If he had been an absent guardian, at least he had been generous.
“Oh, there she is!”
Jilly’s exclamation startled him out of his thoughts, and he lifted his head to see Poppy arriving, shepherding two young ladies along with her, along with Lady Winifred, who looked as though she had bitten into something exceptionally sour. The girls looked as fresh and young as daisies, their golden blond hair pinned and curled to perfection. Poppy looked like a governess, a faint frown etched upon her face as she tried to herd her exuberant younger sisters toward the refreshment table. She wore a nondescript brown gown that did nothing to flatter her form or complexion. It had likely been drab when it had first been fashioned, and he couldn’t imagine any other lady of his acquaintance willingly clothing herself in such a wretched garment. Her hair had been pinned up in a severe style as if it were nothing more than an afterthought, unworthy of consideration. He frowned to see it—she had clearly hired on a lady’s maid for her sisters, but she hadn’t bothered to engage one for herself.
He saw the moment she noticed them. She could hardly have failed to miss Jilly’s efforts to get her attention, but the moment her eyes lit on him, he watched her shoulders stiffen, her lips purse. Even at a distance, he watched a dull flush spread across her cheeks.
A surge of satisfaction speared him. She hadn’t been raised to society life, hadn’t yet learned the artifice perfected by his social set. She didn’t know how to keep the emotions off of her face, how to hide her true thoughts and feelings beneath a veneer of fashionable ennui.
Still, she must know she couldn’t slight a duchess, couldn’t simply pretend she hadn’t seen them. Her shoulders set in resignation, she released her charges into the care of Lady Winifred and at last tromped across the lawn as if it were a journey to the scaffold.
Studiously she avoided looking at him as she greeted Nora and Jilly. Of course they hadn’t been properly introduced, and it would be utterly inappropriate to assume acquaintanceship on the basis of a kiss that no one else could know of.
Jilly’s grin only widened, as if she could sense the tension roiling off of Poppy. “Have you met my brother?” she inquired, her tone deliberately light. “David, this is Miss Poppy Fairchild. Poppy, my brother, David Kittridge, Earl of Westwood.”
With only the briefest moment of hesitation, Poppy sank into a respectful curtsey. Her knees popped. A scalding blush stole across her cheeks and David found he couldn’t quite restrain his grin.
“My lord,” she said stiffly, her shoulders tense with strain. If she held herself any more rigidly, her back was going to crack, too, and wouldn’t that just humiliate her?
“Do sit,” Nora said to Poppy, gesturing to the empty chair beside her. “We’ve saved a space for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—I really should be keeping an eye
on the girls,” Poppy said.
“Nonsense; Lady Winifred is managing them just fine,” Jilly said. “David will go procure us some refreshments.”
“I will?” This was news to him.
“I’m volunteering you,” Jilly said, a touch too sweetly. “Six years might separate us, but I think I have more than enough ammunition gleaned from our younger years to entertain Miss Fairchild with some of your more humiliating escapades.”
David blinked, stunned into utter bewilderment. “That’s blackmail.”
“Siblings do excel at it, or so I am given to understand.” Jilly canted her head at him speculatively. She had never so much as hinted that she might be inclined to embarrass him before Elaine. That she would do so now before Poppy Fairchild was baffling. Still more inexplicable was that it was working. The threat had unexpected teeth—for some unknowable reason he cared what Poppy thought of him.
He kept his face studiously blank. “I’m not certain what you hope to achieve; Lady Ravenhurst, at least, is not a gossip,” he said.
“Oh, I am absolutely considering becoming one,” Nora said, her eyes alight with glee. “How about you, Poppy?”
To his surprise, Poppy’s face went crimson. She stammered out a few words, none of which even vaguely approximated a coherent thought.
A curious silence descended over them. Distantly he heard sounds of merriment; laughter, idle chatter, the clink of glasses, but they were all muted into insignificance.
Jilly was the first to break it. “When David was fourteen—”
Damn it all to hell. “I’m going,” he bit off, turning abruptly on his heel and striding for the refreshment table.
∞∞∞
“My brother,” Jilly said in a low, explanatory voice, as Westwood stalked away from them, “is oftentimes too concerned with his own consequence. It’s gratifying, on occasion, to bring him down a peg or two.”
His Reluctant Lady Page 8
