Chapter 33 - Dahlia
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE- DAHLIA
The following week found Dahlia in a new French pastry shop across town.
The café featured intricate baked goods that looked as beautiful as jewelry in their glass case.
Lured by the exclusivity of the prices and by the worry that they might be missing the next big thing, the nobility had descended upon the café in droves.
Dahlia sat at a corner table and looked out over the charming space.
The floor was polished wood parquet, inlaid with a flower design; the tables were marble-topped; the lighting just the appropriate level of dim.
A murmur of elegant conversations rose above the tinkling of fine silver and china.
Ladies and gentlemen turned their plates round to find the least offensive place to cut their culinary treasures in half to share.
Dahlia had been invited to the café by Lord Campton.
He’d said he’d been eager to visit the pastry shop, though Dahlia suspected the arrangement had been made all the more attractive because they would be alone.
William had been a devoted visitor to Rachel, bringing her a book every day—each one more obscure than the last.
Even though he sat across the room, he somehow still managed to continually finagle his way into the conversations surrounding Dahlia.
She couldn’t decide how she felt about it.
Annoyed, certainly, but she couldn’t ignore the little trill down her spine and the sensation in her stomach—much like fizzing champagne—she felt every time he inserted himself into the discussion.
His presence and wit made courting infinitely more enjoyable.
It vexed her to the extreme, to be so full of contradicting emotions where William was concerned.
Today, Dahlia had purposefully arrived nearly an hour early so she might sit and watch and sketch.
She hadn't designed any dresses since finishing with her own wardrobe, and the itch to create something beautiful had been building ever since.
As always, the sensation started in her mind and spread down to her fingertips, and the only way to release it was to curl said fingers around a sharpened pencil and redesign someone's ensemble.
Dahlia's current focus was Miss Prudence Booth. The lady was thin, but lovely. However, she had a penchant for dark brown—which was a terrible choice given her coloring—and she always wore her dresses buttoned to just beneath her sharp chin.
This was a grave error in Dahlia’s opinion, as she imagined the lady had lovely shoulders and excellent collarbones.
Dahlia sketched her in a wide-necked ball gown of a light blue and softened her hairstyle for good measure.
If Prudence were to wear such a gown, she wouldn't need to peer over at Lord Yates like she currently was doing; he would come ask her for a dance at once.
Perhaps that was the true thing Dahlia enjoyed about fashion: the power it had to change lives, the power it had to reveal who someone truly was. It made others see a person. For someone who’d spent the first half of her life feeling invisible, fashion was a heady thing indeed.
Thirty minutes later, at a quarter to their agreed meeting time, Lord Campton walked into the café. His eyes widened when he saw her. He strode over to her table.
"Miss Warrington." He removed his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, and skirted a bow. "Apologies. Have you been waiting? Did I get the time wrong?"
"Not at all. I’ve been pleasantly occupied, and you did say two o'clock.”
"Good."
He exhaled his relief in a gust and smoothed his hair again. That excellent head of hair was what had put him on her list in the first place. Though he came from a wealthy family, the title would go to his brother. That didn’t bother Dahlia—it was security she was after, not simply a title.
Lord Campton sat. He was handsome, even apart from his hair. He aimed his charming smile at her, then lifted a hand and made eye contact with a waiter, who scurried over.
He ordered a selection of pastries and tea for them, then checked with Dahlia as to whether she wanted anything else.
She shook her head, gratified by his ability to take hold of a situation.
It seemed that so many young gentlemen of the nobility were always waiting for somebody else to instruct them what to do.
The café was efficient. Dahlia and Lord Campton had no sooner made their way through the required pleasantries than a tiered server of elegant pastries and small sandwiches was set at the center of their table, along with a tea service.
"Are you enjoying London?" Dahlia asked. "For I do believe that you spend most of your time in the countryside, is that correct?"
"Indeed." Lord Campton removed the lid to the sugar bowl and began depositing pressed sugar flowers into his teacup with the tiny tongs. "I live in Hanfordshire," he said, adding the third sugar flower to his cup.
"And you like it there?"
Dahlia was fascinated. She had never seen anyone add so much sugar to one cup of tea before.
She kept her eyes smiling and on his face, but in the back of her mind, she counted.
So far, he’d added five sugar flowers, with no sign of stopping.
At this rate, there would be no room left for cream in Lord Campton’s teacup—it would be sugar and nothing else.
"I enjoy the countryside. I ride nearly every morning when I'm at home. Do you enjoy riding, Miss Warrington?"
Dahlia gave a self-deprecating smile, even as she noted that he’d added his eighth sugar cube. If he added another, she might not be able to control the width of her eyes. Thankfully he began to stir, his teaspoon knocking against the sugar cubes as they dissolved.
"I’m not an excellent rider," she admitted. "I confess I prefer at least a carriage-length of distance between me and horses. Not that I don't like the animals," she added when he frowned. "They're beautiful. However, it was always my sister Josephine who was the equestrienne in our family."
"Ah, but she is married, is she not?" Lord Campton seemed to recognize the error of his question and softened it with a smile. "To Lord Wallace, I believe."
"Indeed." Her face was placid serenity, giving no indication that Lord Campton had just admitted he would rather court her sister, the equestrienne, were she available.
"How is Lord Wallace? I hear he has excellent business dealings in York."
"I'm not privy to my brother-by-law's business dealings," she admitted. She pretended not to notice the little disappointed frown that appeared on his face. "Though he is an agreeable man, and I'm sure that he’d discuss such things directly were he asked."
"Indeed," Lord Campton said, his frown growing. "Indeed."
A small, uncomfortable silence descended upon the table. Dahlia cast about for something to say, though she hardly thought the awkwardness her fault or her responsibility to break.
A waiter scurried over to the table and leaned over. "Apologies, Lord Campton. There's been a messenger. Apparently, your house is on fire."
"What?" Lord Campton jerked to standing.
Dahlia reached out and steadied the table, where the dishes clattered and teetered. Lord Campton jammed his hat upon his head and wrestled one arm into his jacket.
"Forgive me, Miss Warrington." He sketched a bow and ran for the door, nearly bowling several ladies over with his haste.
Dahlia's mouth pinched. She hoped that his home would be all right, though she wouldn't mourn the early end to their tea. It seemed that Lord Campton had a list, just like she did, and that Dahlia had not met the parameters on it.
He wanted an equestrienne or someone with interesting business connections. And though she didn't begrudge him either, she wished he hadn't had to charge off, leaving Dahlia alone and blinking at two place settings.
She was uncertain how to exit gracefully, and so many eyes were turned in her direction because of his abrupt exit. Should she continue her tea? She was quite hungry, though it might seem callous for her to feast on fruit-topped custard tarts while Lord Campton’s house was burning.
"Why hello, Dahlia."
She blinked up from her plate just in time to see William sliding gracefully into the seat across from her. He was so much larger than Lord Campton had been, his presence so much more commanding. She felt pinned in place by his green eyes; his sudden appearance nearly stole her breath.
"Fancy meeting you like this."
There was something smug about his lips.
Her eyes narrowed and flicked to the door. "Are you the one who sent the messenger?"
"What messenger?"
William lifted his empty plate—formerly Campton’s plate—and slid a delicate tart onto it. The strawberry slices were arranged in concentric circles with a shiny glaze that made the entire thing glisten like a ruby held under bright light.
"The messenger who said that Lord Campton’s house was on fire."
"Would you like half of this?" He gestured at his plate, then shook his head. "Of course you would. What a silly question."
He took up knife and fork and deftly cut the thing, then slid the larger portion onto her plate while she gaped at him.
"It was you, wasn't it?"
"Certainly not." He sucked a bit of syrup from his thumb. Dahlia blinked and refocused from the inconvenient turbulence in her stomach as William continued. "I didn't say that his house was on fire. I said there was a fire in his house."
"What’s the difference?"
He shrugged. "I assume the man has fireplaces. Most every house in London has a fire in it at the moment. I never said it was out of control."
Dahlia leaned back in her chair and looked heavenwards. Her sigh gusted; one of the little feathers on her hat fluttered.
"Well, we're here now." He looked comfortable, as if they’d planned to spend the afternoon together all along. "We might as well eat. We wouldn't want to waste all these pastries. You haven't even tried one yet, have you?"