Chapter 20 - Dahlia
CHAPTER TWENTY- DAHLIA
The following morning, the Warrington ladies were gathered at Lord Cavendish’s breakfast table, per usual. At William’s suggestion, they’d taken to using the servants’ entrance at the back of the house to avoid gossip.
“It doesn’t matter that I’m good at dancing when it’s just the instructor present,” Lily moaned. “I shall embarrass myself and all of you beside, I just know it.”
“You’re so pretty that no gentleman will care if you step on their toes,” Margaret groused, slathering a piece of toast with jam. “You’re so light they probably won’t even notice.”
“I’m certain that the Duke and Duchess of Bedford would be shocked to know how their invitation was received,” Beatrice mused. “It’s the opening ball—one of the largest social events of the Season. Surely it’s a good thing that we were invited.”
Rachel cast a sly look toward the sideboard, and one of the footmen hustled over to offer her more bacon. She said, “It depends on how you look at it, I suppose. But isn’t that always the way of things?”
“I suppose you Warringtons were invited?” Claire said.
Dahlia noticed she’d been just a bit more personable as of late. It was subtle—as if their conversation were a piece of sandpaper that had rasped against Claire’s sharp edges.
Rachel sniffed. “Yes, but I’m offended, and I don’t know if I shall deign to attend.”
“Offended?” Lily blinked.
Dahlia shook her head. “You cannot feel slighted that Reginald wasn’t invited. He’s a stuffed bird.”
William chuckled. Dahlia met his laughing eyes and felt an answering swoop in her stomach.
The last few days, there was no helping it and no denying it—she felt something for him.
It was an emotion with one foot solidly in friendship, one foot sliding down a slippery embankment toward something far more…
“I don’t care for your tone,” Rachel said primly. “And I might bring him anyhow.”
“Would you truly?” Margaret leaned forward eagerly.
Rachel caught Dahlia’s pointed stare beneath her single raised eyebrow. “Alas, I’ve promised to behave in a boring manner for the time being.”
“I believe I simply requested that you act along the lines of normal decorum.”
“As I said—boring.”
“I, for one, am excited.” Beatrice grinned. “I cannot wait for the Season to start.”
The others joined in with various levels of enthusiasm. Dahlia eyed the plate of scones in the center of the table, thought of her ballgowns, and stuck to the scrambled eggs on her plate instead.
Abeer approached, whispering something discreetly into William’s ear. Through chance or design—her fluttering heart sincerely hoped it was the latter—Dahlia’s breakfast plate invariably rested right next to his. So she was able to hear his murmured reply.
“Upstairs. Arrange them in the ladies’ parlor.”
Dahlia sat a little straighter and blinked.
If she were correct, this morning just became far more exciting.
Her eyes slid to William’s, a question in their depths.
He gave a slight nod that none of the other ladies noted, save for perhaps Claire, who still watched them with a ceaseless gaze that reminded Dahlia of one of the portraits over the mantle.
With effort, Dahlia turned her attention back to the conversation, when all she really wanted to do was to savor a few more moments of William’s eyes on hers, of that secret little smile he only seemed to point her direction.
“I will dance with you,” Rachel was saying to Margaret, “if no gentleman asks you.”
The two had formed a fast friendship that Dahlia knew would last past the inevitable end of this strange arrangement.
“Ceratainly not.” Margaret laughed. “I’d rather dance with Reginald.”
“He is the superior dancer.”
“Ladies, are you all finished?” William had surveyed the situation clearly—the breakfast had devolved into conversation; Margaret was pushing her eggs round her plate in petulant boredom. “There’s been a delivery that requires your attention upstairs.”
Beatrice jolted. “The dresses?”
She didn’t wait for him to answer—William’s smile was confirmation enough. There was a sudden clatter of silver against china, the scraping of five chairs back from the table. A bickering scrabble ensued when three of them tried to fit through the doorway at once; Dahlia laughed.
Then she and William were alone. Nerves descended upon her like a sudden rainstorm.
Her lips trembled even as she smiled. “I suppose now we’ll see whether this has been time well spent.”
“I certainly think so, regardless of how the dresses turned out.”
His voice was warm, canted low just for her hearing.
Her eyes slid upward to meet his. Heavens, he was handsome.
It wasn’t just his ash-brown hair that always fell perfectly, no matter how many times he ran his fingers through it.
Not just the strong jawline, prominent nose, or those piercing green eyes fringed in lashes thick enough to make any lady jealous.
It was him she found attractive—his sharp mind, his wit, his blunt honesty. He was fiercely loyal—he cared for his sisters and his close friends, and everyone else might go hang. That attitude perhaps shouldn’t have been so appealing, but it was.
William’s smile had grown; it now bordered on wry amusement. Dahlia realized she’d been studying his face while her thoughts skipped about her mind. He’d remained silent, allowing her to stare boldly at him. Dahlia dropped her gaze and cleared her throat.
Thankfully, he broke the silence that threatened to pitch forward into awkwardness. “Shall we go up?”
“Certainly.”
She accepted his hand to rise from her chair, trying not to notice when he swiped his thumb across her knuckles before he dropped it again.
When she entered the ladies’ parlor, Dahlia blinked. A familiar young woman stood there. She was dressed in a plain, serviceable day dress, a far cry from her usual uniform of dark navy with a starched white apron. Even still, Dahlia recognized her instantly.
As the ladies descended upon the tissue-wrapped parcels like hyenas to a wounded gazelle, Dahlia took the opportunity to murmur to William, “Perhaps you aren't aware of how often I’ve visited Madame Aubert's shop. That particular young lady has adjusted my hem no fewer than three times.”
William chuckled. “As I’ve told you before, Madame Aubert and I have a business arrangement. She lent me Miss Stevens for the morning with her compliments.”
Dahlia pursed her lips. She wondered, not for the first time, how strong his connection to Madame Aubert truly was.
“As long as Madame Aubert is aware of it,” she said. “I don't want to risk angering her.”
“I assure you, she’ll be thrilled to keep providing you with your abundance of beautiful gowns.” William gestured at Dahlia’s person. “We couldn't have the most fashionable lady in all of London separated from her dressmaker, now could we?”
Dahlia was flattered by the compliment, even though he’d delivered it with such a casual air.
The first of the gowns emerged from their wrapping paper like butterflies from a chrysalis. There was a murmuring sigh among the ladies of the room. Margaret held a ballgown to her chest, her eyes wide in an almost scandalized level of delight.
“Look at it,” she said. “It's beautiful.”
Even Claire seemed momentarily stunned into silence by the deep aubergine gown she held.
She swallowed deeply. Her eyes lifted, meeting Dahlia's.
An unspoken sort of understanding seemed to pass between them.
Claire nodded her gratitude; Dahlia smiled and inclined her head in return.
Perhaps there was hope for a true friendship between them, after all.
“I love it,” Lily exclaimed, sliding her hand down the length of an oyster-grey wool day dress.
“Yes, yes, they're all beautiful.” William waved his hand. “Stunning, marvelous, wonderful—all of the adjectives you could possibly imagine. Now go try them on so we can see if any alterations need to be made.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. Margaret squealed as she turned toward her door, Rachel following closely behind.
The other ladies hurried from the common room with only slightly more composure.
Feminine murmuring could be heard from behind the bedroom doors as their maids helped them into the new creations.
William said, “You certainly have delighted them.”
Dahlia smiled, though nerves still roiled within her. “We’ll see how well your seamstresses did with the measurements.”
“I have faith in all of you.”
He slouched onto the sofa and crossed his long legs at the ankle.
Dahlia wanted to shake her head but refrained.
Though he was a wealthy lord, there was something in his posture that hinted of the sailor he'd been for so many years.
It was as if he were forever trying to get comfortable, trying to stabilize himself against a sudden swell of the ocean, no matter where he was.
“I thought that tomorrow you and Rachel should come for dinner.”
“Oh?” Dahlia said.
Though his words were casual, her traitorous heart gave a little leap at the suggestion.
“You said you need to sketch my sisters in all the situations in which they will be using the dresses. You've yet to come for dinner and see them by candlelight. I thought it only right. Or is that unnecessary?”
“No,” Dahlia said faintly. “That would be fine.”
It was hardly a romantic invitation; it was barely a personal one.
Dahlia vowed to keep her emotions in check even further.
Several things he'd done had made her question whether his motives were completely for his sisters or perhaps a bit more personal. Still, when it came down to it, he’d made no declaration, and he’d barely singled her out.
He wanted her talent, not her. Dahlia would do well to remember that.
The ensuing silence threatened to congeal into something awkward—at least on her end—and she cast about for a topic of polite conversation. “Do you miss being a sailor?”
“Not particularly.”
“Yet it was such a large part of your life.”
“From the shore, sailing sounds dreadfully romantic.
Perhaps it is, for the first two or three days when the weather is nice.
Once you get past the seasickness, that is.
But then the rations start to spoil, or there's a storm, or your bunkmate snores so loudly that not even the ocean herself can drown him out.
It's long days, long nights, and a lot of danger for little pay.”
"If it’s so awful, why on earth do you own more than a dozen ships?"
He grinned. "It was always the business that was more attractive to me than the method of transportation. I'm still enamored with the fact that I can grow silk on a plantation thousands of miles away, and it ends up here, in a hundred different shades, in some duke’s ballroom."
"Why, you're not a pirate at all," she teased. "You're just another boring businessman."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Boring? Is that so?"
"Indeed. You don't even like sailing."
"I shall endeavor to prove that boring is the last of the adjectives you should attribute to me."
Dahlia smirked. "I'm afraid it's no use now—the mystery is gone. Once it’s fled, there's no hope of retrieving it."
"What mystery?"
"The mystery between you and me, of course. We know each other too well for you to invent excitement now."
"On the contrary, Miss Warrington, the more I get to know you, the more fascinated I become."
William delivered the last with a nearly blasé style.
It was not the kind of tone one expected to hear when one made the final tumble down the slick embankment of infatuation, yet it was effective enough to push Dahlia firmly over the edge.
She swallowed deeply, her eyes wide. She was exceedingly grateful that he wasn’t even looking at her.
Thankfully, Margaret emerged from her bedroom at that moment.
Her eyes were wide. She guided her skirts carefully through the doorway as if she didn't wish them to so much as brush the woodwork, even though everything was assiduously clean.
Her maid had pinned her blonde hair haphazardly on top of her head in the approximation of an updo.
Her gown was butter yellow silk satin with a sweetheart neckline, off-the-shoulder cap sleeves, and skirts that fell like liquid from the waist to swirl at her feet. The bodice was tightly pleated, interwoven from both sides in a pattern that accentuated her waist and her lush curves.
Dahlia gave a little sigh as Margaret came to stand before them. “It's perfection on you, Margaret. Do you like it?”
Margaret turned so that they could see the back. The pleats met in the center with a row of silk-covered buttons that extended all the way to the small train of the dress.
“You're a vision, sister,” William said. “If all your dresses are like this, we'll have you married off in no time.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose at William's teasing. “Who cares for that when I look like this? After seeing this dress, I’ve firmly decided not to marry for at least five Seasons, so I may have a new wardrobe every year.”
“It seems you’ve been spending too much time with Dahlia, as I’m certain that’s her motivation in remaining unmarried.”
Dahlia felt her smile freeze. Margaret winced a little, though William didn't seem to notice either of them.
“Does it fit?” he said.
“Perfectly,” Margaret said, and Dahlia was grateful that the moment had passed without comment.
“Then hurry up and try on the next.” William glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle. “I have an important meeting in an hour at the club.”
Margaret hurried back towards her bedroom, casting one last apologetic glance over her shoulder at Dahlia, who simply smiled at her as if nothing had affected her at all. One by one, the ladies emerged from their bedrooms for approval.
Only Claire's gowns needed slight alterations to be nipped in a bit more at the waist. Dahlia frowned, wondering if the lady was losing weight, but she didn't comment on it. She and Claire had just reached a tentative sort of peace, and she didn't want to disturb it with her unwanted concern.
“You truly are a marvel,” William said after the third round of changing. “I cannot decide which of my sisters looks the best in your creations.”
Dahlia shrugged. “They were beautiful to begin with. I had excellent raw material with which to work.”
“You and I both know that the gown can make or break a lady's appearance. You’ve achieved a level of mastery even I didn’t expect.”
“Thank you.”
His straightforward compliment pleased her; a flush settled over her cheeks. She was grateful when Beatrice emerged from her bedroom and stole William's attention once again.