Chapter 9 - Dahlia
CHAPTER NINE- DAHLIA
The Cavendish townhome was grand, with a large portico supported on either side by marble pillars. The stone facade of the house was as proud as a lifted chin, softened only by the delicate filigree carvings around the windows.
Dahlia arrived at precisely ten the following morning, which was the earliest socially acceptable visiting time.
Since impropriety had got her into this predicament, perhaps propriety could see her free of it.
Despite the unaffected way in which she’d responded to Lord Cavendish's proposal, she wasn't keen on bringing criticism down upon either herself or Rachel.
Dahlia donned her finest armor for the visit—she wore a crisp navy day dress with matching leather trim braided through with gold.
The outfit had been exorbitantly expensive, but she adored it.
She’d never had the occasion to wear the extravagant dress before, but she thought if Lord Cavendish wanted her to design for his sisters, he should understand the fiscal outlay that would be required.
Dahlia Warrington was many things, but she was not inexpensive.
Though she’d been strong-armed into this arrangement, a thrill of excitement had woken her early that morning.
Mara had extra time to wield her hot iron and to work her magic with braids.
The end result was that Dahlia appeared as she was: a stylish, wealthy young woman, and a force to be reckoned with.
Mara knocked on the polished front door.
Dahlia smelled the fresh lacquer from where she stood.
Her reflection was mirrored in the deep-black paint.
She admired the gleaming brass door knocker fashioned in the shape of a ship with billowing sails.
An elegant butler bade them wait in the entryway until they were announced.
Dahlia looked around. The entryway smelled of wood polish and fresh paint. It seemed that the front door was not the only item that had been repaired recently. Gleaming parquet stretched out before her, covered in some places by an enormous rug that must have been custom-fit to the space.
Oil paintings crowded each other in an artistic grid on the walls.
A large statue of a woman holding an urn faced off with a massive gilded mirror; the statue appeared to be admiring her own reflection.
The hall tree was like nothing Dahlia had ever seen—a floor-to-ceiling mirror surrounded by swirling gold coat hooks shaped like vines and flowers. And this was only the entryway.
Even Mara appeared impressed. She glanced around, wide-eyed. Dahlia was curious to see if the same level of wealth continued throughout the house, or if this was a showy facade, much like old Lord Fettiwig’s padded shoulders in his coats.
Dahlia received her answer when a prim maid took her wrap and led them into the parlor.
It was a grand room with high ceilings that were cross-hatched with intricate beams and moldings.
At either end, enormous stone fireplaces stood against the wainscoting.
The room was divided into two spacious, charming seating arrangements.
It was an intelligent design; the space was far too large for just a simple set of couches.
A clock ticked loudly from the mantle. Dahlia swallowed back her sudden swell of nerves.
It had been easy enough to face Lord Cavendish when she hadn't known who he was—she’d been able to act with calm dispassion.
However, now that she knew he was the man she’d dallied with all those years ago in the Whittakers’ gardens, she wondered if she’d have difficulty meeting his eye.
She’d pondered late into the night about what he must think of her. Despite her shocking forwardness that particular evening, she’d never done anything of the sort before or since. He was the only man she had ever kissed.
In the next moment, Dahlia wondered why she cared about his opinion at all.
He was nothing to her, after all. He’d proved his boorish behavior three times—once by kissing her, again in the hansom cab, and now by blackmailing her into this arrangement.
She disregarded the little voice that whispered he’d done so because he cared for his sisters—that was her own fickle sympathy speaking on his behalf.
“Wonderful." William strode into the room. He wore no jacket, and the forearms of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. "I confess I wasn't sure if you were going to show or not."
"I said I would." Dahlia blinked as she redirected her gaze from his forearms back to his eyes. "I do as I say."
"I suppose we shall see. The butler is rounding up my sisters now.”
“Before they arrive, I believe we should speak about the manner of my payment."
He turned. "Excuse me?"
She canted her head primly. "What, precisely, didn’t you understand?"
The ends of his mouth curled up as if he were genuinely amused by her impertinence. He crossed to an ornate sideboard and poured a small tumbler of whiskey. She arched a groomed eyebrow but didn't feel it was her place to remind him it was only ten in the morning.
It was as if he’d somehow sensed her condemnation even though his back was turned, for he said, "I never discuss matters of business without a small nip to ease the way."
"With habits like those, it's a wonder you've amassed a fortune. Or perhaps you're drinking because your fortune is gone, spent on all this fine furniture."
He turned back to her with a smirk. "Your words tread the edge of a gauche topic."
"Directness is often the best approach."
"There, you and I agree, though that’s a rare notion among the elegant female set. In fact, I find it surprising that you remain unmarried considering your…direct tactics."
Ah, it was to be like that, was it?
Her eyes narrowed; she opened her mouth to deliver a scathing reply, but just then, there was a rustle of silk in the doorway and four ladies entered the room.
"Well, William, you have summoned us. We are here," the eldest, Claire, said. She threw out her arms and gave a mocking sort of curtsy in their direction.
"Miss Dahlia Warrington, allow me to present my sisters: Miss Claire Preston, Miss Lily Preston, Miss Beatrice Preston, and Miss Margaret Preston."
Dahlia longed to roll her eyes but settled for a flutter of eyelash instead. "As they are your sisters, I can well assume they all share your last name. Thank you for the unnecessary clarification all the same."
Margaret snickered, but Claire cast a sharp look in her direction and the girl quieted immediately.
Claire was the eldest—a regal beauty of height and angles.
What Dahlia wouldn't do to possess cheekbones such as hers!
Her light brown hair was pulled into a simple bun at the back of her head, secured with an unadorned stick pin.
The gown she wore wasn't bad at all—Dahlia recognized Madame Aubert's talents in the simple lines of the bodice.
As Dahlia took her in, Claire turned to her brother. "I still think this is a foolish idea; we've already been to the dressmakers in Paris. Besides, I don't wish to look like she does." She flicked a thin hand in Dahlia's direction. "With all those ribbons and bits and bobs."
William tossed the rest of the whiskey into his mouth. "I told you, this one's better than Madame Aubert."
"And here I thought the subjects were willing," Dahlia said. "Now that I see it’s otherwise, my price just went up."
"Her price?" Claire hissed. "You're paying her for this?"
"I'm certainly not here out of the kindness of my heart."
Claire scowled. “If she doesn’t want to be here, send her away. I don't see why you've involved her in the first place. I hardly think that there's a thing we can learn about anything from Dahlia Warrington."
The way that the lady spat her name had Dahlia's eyes narrowing. "Apologies, but have I done something to offend you?”
"Not at all," Claire bit.
“Yet you seem to have some personal distaste towards me. Why is that?"
The other ladies shifted and shared a frowning glance.
"Only that when you and your sisters came to London, you quickly made much of yourselves."
"Your words sound like a compliment, but your tone certainly doesn't.”
"It wasn't meant to," Claire snapped.
"You felt slighted somehow by my sisters or myself, is that it?"
Claire lifted an elegant shoulder.
Dahlia exhaled a laugh of derision through her nose.
"One could assume it was your job to make me feel welcome, as I was the newcomer—not to mention much younger.
However, if we can both agree that—in retrospect—perhaps neither of us were in a prime position to help the other, then we can move forward as friends.
But of course, the decision is up to you, as it must be a mutual one. "
Claire blinked as if surprised she could string such sentences together. Dahlia wasn't sure whether it was the magnanimous approach or the logic that was the lady's cause for surprise. The other sisters shared a sidelong glance but remained silent.
"Is she holding something against you?" Claire demanded of William, her hands curled into fists.
Dahlia laughed. "On the contrary, it’s your brother who’s attempting to blackmail me."
Lily's eyebrows drew together. "What?"
Lily had a pleasant, gentle voice that matched her lovely exterior. A stunning beauty, her stature was nearly identical to Claire’s but was softened with lovely curves. Her hair possessed a luminous sheen with a hint of red to it, and her lips were over-wide and plump.
Dahlia already had six gowns in mind for Lily. She’d be the easiest Preston to dress, as she was the most classically beautiful. Nearly anything would look good on her.
"It’s appalling," she agreed. "Your brother came to my home yesterday and threatened me."
"That cannot be true. William would never do such a thing.”
William had the grace to look a bit discomfited. “It’s complicated.”