Chapter 9 - Dahlia #2
"It’s not, actually,” Dahlia said. “Four years ago, I asked your brother to kiss me in the gardens at a ball. Shockingly, he agreed. Even more shockingly, he used the fact to try to blackmail me into this scheme. However, as I told him yesterday, I will not be blackmailed."
Dahlia turned to face William, who stood holding his empty glass, a thunderstruck expression upon his face. "So you can either agree to pay me what I'm worth, or I shall leave now and consider the whole thing finished."
Margaret, the shortest, turned to her brother. "William, is this true?"
Margaret had a full, voluptuous figure and blonde hair. Out of all the sisters, she stood apart the most. Her wide blue eyes and pale skin were set off fetchingly by lush lashes and slightly darker brows.
Margaret always wore the same style of gowns that the others did. Even now, she wore a dark green day dress that was nearly the same shade as Claire's, with a high neckline that did absolutely nothing to highlight her excellent assets.
Dahlia couldn't help it. She instantly redesigned the gown with a lower, sweetheart neckline, an elimination of lace altogether, and a blue that would highlight Margaret's fetching eyes.
"It’s true." William turned back to the sideboard and poured himself a much larger glass.
"Dear heavens, William," Beatrice chided, "it's not even noon."
"And yet circumstances dictate, don't they? I am claiming this glass as medicinal."
"Did you really kiss her?" Margaret demanded.
"Yes, he did," Dahlia said. "Quite thoroughly. Just think, Claire, instead of having me as your dressmaker, I could demand that you have me as your sister instead. Count your blessings."
Margaret snickered at the dumbstruck expression on Claire's face.
William sighed. "I'll pay you what I pay Madame Aubert, as you’ll be performing the same function.”
"Ah," Dahlia said, holding up a finger, "but I won't be performing the same function. You very clearly told me, in no uncertain terms, that I’m far superior to Madame Aubert. Therefore, I command a far superior price."
In truth, Dahlia had no idea how much Madame Aubert charged for her gowns. She would never consider asking the lady, as all bills were forwarded to her brother-by-law, the Marquess of Salisbury. However, if Percy's bluster could be trusted, then the woman commanded a very high price indeed.
"Ten percent more," William said.
"Fifty."
William lifted his brow as if surprised that Dahlia could speak confidently in terms of percentages at all.
But though he’d obviously looked into her past, he possibly hadn't thought of the ramifications.
Growing up on a farm, Dahlia had paid attention when Mrs. Ward and Adelaide discussed the prices of goods and livestock.
All of her sisters—well, the older ones at least—were very good at math.
It was Adelaide's passion, and she’d passed it along.
"Fifty?" he said incredulously. "You expect me to pay you fifty percent above the going rate?"
"I do, and you will, for I am a very exclusive dressmaker. It is only your sisters and one other person who’ve ever been the recipients of my talents."
Well, that wasn't precisely true, Dahlia thought. She’d helped Vera Ashbury choose a selection of mourning clothes when her mother had passed recently, but that was a private thing between the two of them and didn't need to be mentioned.
Dahlia straightened her spine. "Besides, I’ve already removed your leverage over me by telling your sisters the truth of the matter."
"Telling my sisters is not telling society as a whole.”
“Neither of us want that," she said. "Then we’d be forced to marry."
"You could do a lot poorer for a husband than me.”
If Dahlia didn't know any better, she could have sworn the man was slightly hurt.
"I don't even know you, and what I do know isn't information that recommends you for the role. You kiss strange girls in gardens during balls. You blackmail people to get your way, and now you're refusing to pay your tradespeople."
"That's another matter," William said, ignoring her accusations. "Doesn't it shock you to be paid for doing something? Aren't you afraid that people will accuse you of going into trade? A filthy business, trade." He said the last with some irony.
Dahlia's glance flipped around the sitting room once more.
"Sir, perhaps you forget I grew up on a farm milking cows. There are few trades as humble as farming, and yet I don’t disavow my past. On the contrary, I think my history has given me a better understanding of how the world truly works, which is this: if you want the best, you must pay for it. "
A glimmer of something—respect, perhaps?—briefly shone in William's eye, there and gone so quickly that Dahlia couldn't surmise whether or not she'd imagined it.
"Fine," he said, setting his tumbler upon the sideboard decisively. "Thirty-five percent, and that's my final offer."
"Done." She held out her hand.
He blinked at her, then smiled and crossed the room to shake it.
Dahlia wasn't sure what had prompted her to offer it in the first place. It was considered a civilian gesture, certainly not one that young ladies of nobility should employ. But as they’d previously stated, they were engaged in trade here, and she thought a handshake appropriate.
She reconsidered the notion altogether as soon as his large hand encased her much smaller one. The heat of his palm seeped instantly through the delicate lace of her glove. She glanced down at their intertwined hands; her heart rate suddenly increased.
He shook her hand once, twice. She looked up into his eyes. He was grinning down at her, and suddenly she felt as if she were uncertain instead of the confident businesswoman she’d felt like moments prior.
"I would have paid fifty," William admitted with a smile. "I expect you’ll require payment after the customary ninety days trial period?"
"Thirty days," she snapped tartly.
William laughed, his head tipped back with the force of his mirth.
He still held her hand, and Dahlia longed to yank it out of his grasp.
But instead, she allowed him to hold it so he wouldn't suspect the effect that his laughter had on her. She felt that same swooping feeling in her stomach all over again, as if she were four years younger, sitting upon his lap in the Marquess of Whittaker’s gardens.
"Right," he said, releasing her.
He stood next to her to face the line of his sisters. Margaret was smiling. Lily and Beatrice wore nearly identical expressions of bemusement. Claire was studying them with sharp eyes.
"Let's get started," he said.