Chapter Six #2
of each of them. She’s picked out the prettiest shoes for Catherine, by far.
“These are beautiful, but they pinch,” Miss Linet says, considering her foot, now scrunched in a low-heeled and very narrow
brown boot.
“Beauty is pain,” Lady Rosalie says immediately.
Miss Linet moves her foot side to side, her long face set in a frown.
Catherine glances at Lady Rosalie and then decides to take a chance.
She needs to win over Miss Linet and Miss Raught as well.
She needs to get them talking, get them to trust her, so they might share something useful—faux pas Lady Rosalie has made, preferences Mr. Dean has made clear—something she can use to her advantage.
“Those will be awfully hard to walk in, though,” Catherine says carefully. “Mr. Fortes likes the outdoors, doesn’t he? You
want to be able to keep up with him.”
Miss Linet looks over at her, surprised. “I suppose.”
“Beauty is pain, but practicality, in this instance, might ultimately be more alluring, don’t you think?”
Miss Linet stares at her for a moment, and then nods slowly. “You know, I do. I’m sorry, Rose, I think these aren’t for me.”
They both look up at Lady Rosalie, who’s watching their exchange curiously.
“If that’s all right,” Miss Linet adds softly.
“I’m not going to buy you a pair of shoes you hate, don’t be daft,” Lady Rosalie says. “Mr. Deetson, please put those back.”
Mr. Deetson hurries to oblige, removing the pinchy brown boots and scurrying away. Miss Linet glances at Catherine with a
little smile and Catherine returns it.
Catherine looks up, but Lady Rosalie has already returned to wandering the shop, completely unperturbed. A small win, then.
When they arrive at the modiste’s shop, Miss Linet is giddy over the new black boots Lady Rosalie purchased for her, Miss Raught
is ecstatic over her new dancing slippers, and Catherine is the proud new owner of a pair of white lace slippers, which will
match the white lace gloves and white lace bonnet Lady Rosalie has gotten for her as well.
Lady Rosalie hustles them into Madame Florent’s shop, directing Henrietta to look for gloves while Miss Linet is to try on the dress her mother recently had commissioned. And Lady Rosalie herself goes to check on the status of her next ball gown.
Catherine still feels a bit other. Which is how she should be feeling, given she didn’t come on this trip to make friends. But having now been in their orbit for an entire day, Catherine
might not mind actually being friends with these women, Lady Rosalie’s matchmaking machinations aside.
“So, what do you think of Mr. Sholle?” Miss Raught asks.
Catherine turns and finds Miss Raught watching her as she thumbs through the display of gloves by the window. It puts her
on a slightly more even keel. They’ve been asking questions about her life near Idless and her family all day. Finally, they’re
going to go in for the kill.
“He seems kind,” Catherine hedges.
“He is,” Miss Raught agrees immediately. “Once, I fell on a walk, and he carried me all the way back to my house to spare
my ankle.”
“How chivalrous.”
“It was,” Miss Raught says a bit dreamily. “And he came to call to make sure I was all right the next day too.”
Catherine watches as she goes back to looking at the gloves. “It didn’t turn into . . . more?” she asks carefully.
It certainly sounds like the start of a romantic novel. Something right out of Sense and Sensibility.
“Oh, we didn’t have much in common. And he has these two enormous hunting dogs. I’m terribly allergic,” Miss Raught says with
a shrug.
“Oh,” Catherine says. She’s not one for large dogs either.
“Don’t let Henrietta’s fear of dogs dissuade you. They’re beautiful animals,” Lady Rosalie says, coming to join them at the front of the shop. “And he has such eyes for you, Miss Pine, you really ought to capitalize on it.”
Catherine watches Miss Raught busy herself with the gloves. “I wouldn’t want to—”
“Mr. Sholle’s father vehemently opposes Henrietta’s father representing a particular member of his opposition in the Lords.
It had little to do with Henrietta’s aversion to two average-sized hounds.”
“They’re huge,” Miss Raught exclaims. “They’re as big as you!”
“They’re—” Lady Rosalie starts.
“A mere few inches shorter when sitting,” Miss Raught insists. “It would have been a poor match regardless of my father.”
“He wasn’t that interested anyway,” Lady Rosalie says dismissively. “He never looked at you the way he’s been looking at Miss Pine.”
Miss Raught’s eyes dim, her round face falling. It’s a backhanded compliment fully at the expense of Miss Raught, and it prickles
at Catherine’s skin.
“You deserve someone who looks at you like he’s been looking at Miss Pine,” Lady Rosalie continues.
Lady Rosalie and Miss Raught stare at each other for a moment, before Miss Raught puffs up with a little pride. She turns
back to Catherine, her cheerful smile right back in place.
“You should definitely let him court you. He’s quite a catch. He’ll be a baron someday. And his lands are extensive. Your
father would love to go hunting with him. The dogs are very impressive at that. And he’s funny. He told me a joke this one
time that—”
“Henrietta, go give Amalie your opinion on her dress,” Lady Rosalie says.
Miss Raught goes a bit pink and mumbles, “All right,” before scurrying from the room.
Catherine watches her go, unsure of whether to feel bad that Lady Rosalie cut her off, or be grateful Lady Rosalie had the
gumption. Protesting a bit too much about Mr. Sholle, she thinks.
“Your father and the baron would get along well,” Lady Rosalie says.
“Yes, that is the most important part of a marriage, the groom getting along with the father-in-law,” Catherine says.
Lady Rosalie lets out a startled laugh. “It’s a benefit, certainly.”
“Hardly my most pressing concern,” Catherine admits. Lady Rosalie raises an eyebrow and Catherine decides to push. “If he’s
such a catch, why didn’t you catch him?”
Lady Rosalie sucks on her cheek. She reaches out and takes Catherine’s hand. It’s like a bolt of lightning courses up her
arm and Catherine withholds a gasp. But Lady Rosalie’s too busy dragging her into the fitting room to notice. Her delicate
fingers are gentle around Catherine’s.
She settles them both on the padded pink benches across from the dais where Miss Linet will model her gown. Her fingers leave
Catherine’s slowly, and Catherine looks down to meet her eyes.
“Mr. Sholle is a wonderful match. He’s charming, monied, in line for a title, and good enough to look at.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Catherine presses.
“My father—”
“Could likely get on with anyone, and given Mr. Sholle was at your concert, I’m assuming they’re aligned politically,” Catherine says. Lady Rosalie purses her lips. “You’re pushing him on me; I at least deserve to know why he wasn’t good enough for you.”
Lady Rosalie takes a breath and glances at the fitting room curtain. “We didn’t agree on books, music, or art. And Mama thought
I could do better.”
Catherine considers the slightly haughty look on Lady Rosalie’s face. Considers how hard she wants to prod her, how many cards
to show.
“What makes you think he and I will agree on anything, then?” Catherine asks.
Lady Rosalie opens her mouth, but Miss Linet and Miss Raught bustle out of the fitting room.
Catherine and Lady Rosalie turn, eyes ripping slowly from each other, to watch Miss Linet step onto the dais in a mustard-yellow
dress overlaid with brown floral lace.
It’s hideous. Catherine didn’t think Madame Florent could make anything hideous.
“Mama insisted on the colors,” Miss Linet says balefully, turning to face them.
Madame Florent slips out of the fitting room and looks Miss Linet over in the light coming in from the back windows. Her round
face is drawn, considering the dress, hands on her ample hips. “The craftsmanship is some of my best, but I don’t know, dears,
what do we think?”
Miss Raught has a hand pressed to her mouth to keep from laughing. Catherine glances at Lady Rosalie, who looks back at her,
equally horrified.
Miss Linet’s green eyes are round and wet. Even her auburn curls look like they’re sagging.
“No,” they say together.
Miss Linet nods and looks to Madame Florent. “I’m so sorry, madame, but I just—I just—”
“Maybe with some green?” Catherine suggests quickly. Everything about the dress is gorgeous, save for the colors. It must
be salvageable.
“And dusty orange flowers?” Lady Rosalie agrees quickly.
“And green gloves to match,” Miss Raught puts in.
Madame Florent’s concern melts into a smile. “I think that would help immensely,” she agrees. “Miss Linet?”
“Please, oh, lord, please,” she says, her voice choked.
Madame Florent takes her hand, disappearing back into the changing room with her. Miss Raught follows them, mouthing Oh my God before slipping behind the curtain.
Which leaves Catherine and Lady Rosalie sitting alone again, aghast. The moment their eyes meet, they burst into quiet laughter.
Catherine tries to calm herself down. She doesn’t want to embarrass Miss Linet, but good lord, that dress was terrible.
After a minute, they slowly stop giggling.
Catherine meets Lady Rosalie’s eyes, deciding to push, just a little more. “It seems we have much in common in terms of taste.”
Lady Rosalie’s eyes narrow. “I suppose so. Does that mean, then, that you plan to pursue my tastes?”
Catherine blinks. Does she plan to—
“In gentlemen suitors,” Lady Rosalie continues quickly, her cheeks lightly pink.
Her words ignite something in Catherine’s chest—their tête-à-tête catching fire against her skin, tingling and bright. “What
would you do if I did?” Catherine asks, her voice rougher than she means it to be.
Lady Rosalie’s eyes seem to glint in the dim fitting room. She bites at her lip and glances at the curtain. Then she leans in to whisper, her breath warm on Catherine’s ear. It sends a shiver straight down to Catherine’s toes.
“That would mean war,” she says huskily.
Catherine swallows hard. “Aren’t—aren’t we already at war?” she whispers back.
It’s heady, and intimate, and exciting.
“Our mothers clearly are. But we’ve yet to formally declare, wouldn’t you say?”
Catherine can feel herself flushing, the tone of Lady Rosalie’s voice dancing across her body, every nerve ending alight in
a way she’s never experienced from a conversation. Or . . . possibly ever, actually.
But she can’t let herself be clouded by whatever this feeling is. By Lady Rosalie’s beauty there in the shadows. She has to
stay strong. She has to match Lady Rosalie quip for quip.
“Oh, well, if it needs a formal declaration, then we’re at war,” Catherine manages, her voice trembling just a hair.
Lady Rosalie’s lips curl in the most delicious smile. “War feels good.”
Catherine finds herself nodding. It does. This feels good. Whatever the hell this charged, combustible, sparkling tension
actually is.
“What do you think of this for the flowers?”
Miss Raught’s voice splits the silence and Catherine and Lady Rosalie wrench backward from each other.
It’s awkward. Oh, it’s awkward.
Lady Rosalie hesitates for a moment, her body going taut, before she stands and strides over to Miss Raught, like nothing
at all has happened. Like the air around them isn’t still crackling.
Does she do this a lot? Declare flirtatious war with new friends? So often, it’s easy for her to put that mask in place in an instant?
Because Catherine’s pulse is still thrumming. She tries to school her features as Miss Linet exits the fitting room, thanking
Madame Florent over and over.
A declaration of war over Mr. Dean isn’t . . . exciting. Not like this. It’s a challenge. It’s a gauntlet. It’s not . . .
thinking about how Lady Rosalie might look in that back changing room without her clothes on.
She’s had thoughts like this before, of course. In passing. Momentarily.
When she and Millie, one of the farmer’s daughters, kissed behind the barn when she was fourteen, it felt like this—shimmering
and simmering and consuming. But it passed. It had to. It was abundantly clear that the kiss meant more to her than it did
to Millie. Millie thought it a lark. And Catherine thought—well, she didn’t think. Hasn’t thought. Hasn’t focused on it in
years.
The pounding in her chest, the heat at her throat, the tingling in her fingers every time she and Lady Rosalie touch—it’s
absolutely, thoroughly inconvenient, and confusing, and startling. Of all people, why is Lady Rosalie the first person she’s felt this for as an adult?
She’s meant to be stealing her suitor. They’re in competition. They’re at war.
Lady Rosalie looks over her shoulder from the front of the shop, the light catching her face in a way that makes her almost
glow.
Holy shit, is she in trouble.