Chapter 7 - William #2
Once the tea was set, Dahlia poured for them. William smirked when she didn't offer him any extras—no cream or sugar for him, apparently. Instead, she filled a cup to the brim, handed it over, then doctored her own cup with a swirl of cream and two cubes of sugar.
"I fear Madame Aubert is not all that she used to be," he said, carefully choosing his words.
It was imperative that no one found out his secret.
There were rumors about how he made his fortune, but he did all he could to squash them or to laugh them off.
He wouldn't have worried so much, but now that he was head of his household, things had to be dealt with far more delicately.
Not for him—he didn't give a whit for himself—but for his sisters.
"Why would you say that?" Dahlia asked, tilting her head. "Madame Aubert has always been at the height of fashion."
"Perhaps that was the case, but lately she’s become a bit tired."
And missing, he mentally added.
“I think it’s interesting you say so.” Her eyes narrowed.
He didn’t like her focus being centered on the topic any longer than necessary, so he quickly added, "My sisters are exceedingly important to me. There’s very little I wouldn’t do to secure their future happiness.
It’s my job to see that they’re presented in society, that they have a successful Season, and that they have the same opportunities afforded other ladies of the peerage. "
"What do I have to do with any of that?"
"You and I both understand that being accepted in society isn't a given, regardless of title. Exceptional dresses will help my sisters in their endeavors, and you can give them exceptional dresses."
"As I said, I sympathize, but I’m not for hire."
She took up her tea and began to sip as if completely unconcerned.
As he watched her, he experienced a thrill he hadn't felt since he was a young boy.
He told himself it was because of the danger of what he was about to do, not because of her, not because he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her tart responses from several days prior.
"Begging your pardon, Miss Warrington, but that's not entirely up to you."
"Is it not? That is a surprise, considering you’re asking for my help.” Any softness that had been in her eyes when he’d spoken of his dedication to his sisters was now replaced with a frosty coolness. "Get on with it then, whatever you've come to do."
This part was harder than he'd imagined, even though he'd mentally practiced it several times.
"I would very much like it if you would help me out of the goodness of your heart. However, if you won’t, you should know that I’m in possession of some damaging information."
She leaned forward, set her teacup on the table, and nearly snarled at him. "About which of my sisters?"
He frowned. "About you, of course."
The fearsome look on her face eased to self-assured amusement. "Impossible, unless you plan on blackmailing me with the fact that I rode home with you alone in a hansom cab—"
"No," he said, cutting her off. "Apologies, but no. What I have is far more damaging than that. We…we've met before.”
“I’m aware. We met in the cab a few days ago.”
“We’ve met before that.”
She frowned. “Are you certain?”
“Do you really not remember?”
“Why should I?”
“It occurred four years ago in the gardens at the Marquess of Whittaker’s ball."
"How—?” Color drained from her face. She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes as if inspecting him anew. "That was you?"
That stung a bit, if he were being honest. He’d half expected that the moment he walked into her parlor and met her eyes, she'd immediately recognize him. He told himself that it was only because she’d been so flustered with the entire cab situation that she hadn’t recognized him to begin with.
He briefly wondered just how many garden trysts this young lady had attended in her past. Perhaps not so many, if the blush gracing her cheeks was any indication.
"So you seek to blackmail me with something that happened nearly four years ago? Something that was so out of character, no one would ever believe it?"
"You forget that we weren’t alone in the gardens that night. There were others, and though there may be some that doubt it, all it takes is a whisper of confirmation…"
He let the threat linger in the air like smoke trailing from a blown wick.
Her eyes went frosty once more. “You would be just as complicit as I. Would you truly risk being forced into a marriage that neither of us want, just to strong-arm me into sketching dresses for your sisters?”
“I would.”
He meant it, and he thought she could see the truth on his face.
She leaned forward and bared her teeth. “Do you think that you’re the first man who’s tried to blackmail me into something?"
His forehead creased. "Who—" he started to ask, before realizing that it wasn't his information to request, before he remembered the task at hand. "Aren't you worried about what the other gentlemen in society will think if they hear you were alone with me in the gardens that evening?"
"Not at all. Half the other gentlemen in society have already asked me to marry them."
He snorted at her arrogance, but he’d heard as much asking around about her—that she was, without doubt, the most sought-after lady in society.
He hated the words that he would say next, but whether she believed it or not, he needed her help. Madame Aubert wasn’t an option, but he could hardly tell her that without revealing his own secrets.
“If you care not for yourself, what about your sister, Rachel? You know that a blemish against one young lady is a blemish against a household.”
Her spine straightened, her nostrils flared. It pained him to have earned her hatred, to deserve it, but he was desperate.
They sat in tense silence for long moments until she finally said, "What assurances could you give me that I would not be found out, were I to help you?"
Hope leapt within his heart. "You would go to my house, accompanied by your lady's maid, under the guise of better acquainting yourself with my sisters."
"And who would do the actual sewing of these gowns? Or am I to do that as well?"
He shook his head. "Leave that to me."
"Oh, it's you who will sew them, then." She glanced down at his hands. "Forgive me, but you don't appear to have seamstress's fingers."
He had workman's hands, large and calloused—not at all what society said a nobleman's hands should look like. Still, his hands had changed his family's prosperity, and he’d not denigrate himself for them now.
Through his inquiries, he’d learned more than a little about this Miss Warrington.
He thought if anyone could understand, it was perhaps her.
She’d grown up poor on a farm, with a title and little else.
But as they’d both experienced, one could not eat a title.
One could not pull a title around one's shoulders when it grew cold outside.
And one could not pay their bills indefinitely with a good name alone.
“Thankfully, I have seamstresses lined up already.”
“So this was a planned blackmail, not just something that arose spur of the moment.”
William gave what he hoped was a charming smile. “I don’t think you fully appreciate my situation. There are eight of them. Four will be out this year, the rest the next. If they’re all still unmarried next year, if eight of them are available all at once…”
“Dear heavens, they’re your sisters. You speak of them as if they are some sort of product upon a shelf.”
“And?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Has it ever occurred to you that they might have their own opinions? That they might not wish to get married, for example?”
“I checked. They all very clearly stated that they wish to be married. They want to have children and their own homes. You and I both know that this is the way to go about it. A Season is what they need, and a Season is what they shall have.”
“A few beautiful gowns aren’t going to make society forget that Claire has been out before, that technically, she’s been out this entire time.”
“You’re not just going to design beautiful gowns. You’re going to design the best gowns.”
He wanted to show the whole of society that his sisters’ troubles were behind them. That whatever poverty they may have experienced, whatever rumors might have swirled around them because of Richard—that was all in the past.
With the way Dahlia looked at him, William thought she’d somehow heard his thoughts.
"Say that I do help your sisters. What assurances do I have that you won't go around besmirching my name after the fact?"
"You have my word as a gentleman."
He winced internally, waiting for her inevitable scoff or snicker. None came.
Instead, she nodded thoughtfully. "What of your sisters?"
"What of them?"
"Will they accept my assistance?"
"They will if I tell them to."
Dahlia smiled as if he'd amused her greatly. "Very well. I will come tomorrow."
The force of his relief pressed him back into the chair. He started to repeat his address, but she waved her fingers in the air languidly. "I remember."
So she remembered something about him, then. It was little consolation, considering what she'd forgotten, but he’d take it all the same.
"Tomorrow," he said.
Even to his own ears it sounded like some sort of a promise.