Chapter 21
Livy
Livy read the note that had arrived for her earlier that morning from Lord Dunmore for about the millionth time.
“I will come to collect you and your aunt at half three for our sojourn to Hyde Park. Wear the yellow one.”
– M of Dunmore
She had only brought one yellow dress, and it was the one she’d worn when he’d called a sennight ago.
He couldn’t possibly mean for her to wear that.
Furrowing her brow, she read the note again.
Her yellow dress was also quite simple, not what one would choose for an outing to Hyde Park, where the entirety of the ton would be. The point was to flaunt. Not be frumpy.
At least he was keeping his promise. She’d worried at first that he’d wash his hands of her once he realized she wasn’t going to capitulate. But the man was more determined than ever. Her eyes slid shut with a grimace. She may have found it in herself to tell him no, but she hadn’t wanted to.
She folded and unfolded the note absently. She’d tried to fool herself before. It wasn’t the man she was interested in; it was the strength of his desire she found appealing. And she needed to be strategic. So it only made sense to give in occasionally.
Her teeth sank into her lip. Heavens, she was going to do permanent damage to the thing with how much she was gnawing on it lately.
No one had ever looked at her like Lord Dunmore had back in his private rooms at The Devil’s Eye.
It was the first time she’d thought someone had truly seen her. And liked what they saw.
Memories of back home flooded her. Five years of memories.
Rides in the country with Warren, his golden blond hair wind-tousled after a race, cheeks flushed, a smile just for her.
Warren spinning her in his arms in their makeshift ballroom in her stables, what had started out as him helping her master the waltz had turned into a raucous country reel.
All the boys in their little friend group had been there—goodness, Quint had accidentally spun her right into a hay pile.
Her stomach had been sore for days from how hard she’d laughed.
And Warren hadn’t once been ashamed to make it clear she was his.
He was hers. That’s always how it had been.
But every year Warren had let small things slip, about what a lady was expected to be and what they weren’t.
Maybe it was because, with each passing year, they were closer to their innocent time in the country ending.
She’d never truly thought it would end, though.
Just that it would shift…from flirtations to marriage, from carefree to assuming the responsibilities of viscountess.
She’d taken note of all Warren’s hints. Hiding her intelligence, holding her tongue—as much as she was able.
Any time he called, she’d hastily stowed her texts away.
Every country dance they’d attended, she’d done her best to prove she could be prim, demure.
She’d even tried her hand at ladylike activities.
Her needlework was atrocious, but she’d still learned. Something Warren had always praised.
She didn’t want to lose what they had. The feeling of being held, like she was important, wanted.
Having someone’s arms around her wasn’t a sensation she’d experienced often in her life.
Papa wasn’t affectionate. Mother was long gone.
Aunt Mellie had been off with Uncle Nigel.
But for five years, she’d had Warren. Tender touches.
Warm, strong arms. Soft declarations. They’d spoken of the future as if it were a given.
Until the future finally arrived and, apparently, she couldn’t be a part of it. Not as she was.
And perhaps Lord Dunmore liked who she was without alteration, and yes, that was thrilling—new and rare and a surprise.
She plucked at her worn skirts. But that was because the man didn’t want her as a wife.
It didn’t matter if she didn’t fit the mold if she was just one of his many bedpartners.
It wasn’t real, his appreciation of who she truly was.
Well, it was real. But was of little consequence.
And she needed to remember that. Focus on the facts.
If she wanted a future that wasn’t as lonely as the life she’d lived thus far, she needed to change.
Lord Dunmore had found her weakness and knew how to exploit it. It was smart on his part.
She needed to be smart too.
She lamented the world for condemning her for having a brain. Now wasn’t the time to fill it full of feathers just because a handsome devil happened to like her quick sums.
A knock sounded on her door. “Come in, Aunt Mellie.”
The door swung open, and her aunt stood in the doorway, a bewildered expression on her face. Behind her stood multiple young women carrying large white boxes.
“In here, please.” Her aunt waved an arm toward the interior of her room.
Livy scrambled off the bed, her foot catching in her skirts in the process, and she ended up half-hopping, half-stumbling to her aunt, who now stood off to the side in her bedroom. So, not always graceful, a hint of ungainliness still lingered.
“What is the meaning of this, Aunt Mellie?” Livy murmured.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said weakly.
A voice sounded from the hallway. “Maria, you have the special-order boxes as well, yes? Good, good. Now let us see what we are working with.”
A finely dressed woman in a deep violet dress strode into Livy’s bedroom. She was short with an hourglass figure. Despite her height, she had a commanding presence. She scanned the room, and when she caught sight of Livy, she beamed.
“Ah, it all makes sense now. You must be Miss Forester. I am Mrs. Bean.” She dropped a deep curtsy, the ruffled and frilled fabric of her gown fluttering around her like the petals of a flower. “It is my pleasure to work with you.”
Livy barely had the presence of mind to close her gaping mouth.
She glanced at her aunt, who looked just as confused.
“I… I think you may be mistaken. I mean to say, I am Miss Forester, but… I didn’t hire you to do…
” She waved a hand helplessly at the women rearranging the furniture of her room, setting up a small stand in the middle of the room. “Whatever it is you do.”
Mrs. Bean laughed and rapidly clapped her hands, artfully placed tendrils of her dark brown coiffure bouncing in delight.
“Oh, lamb, he didn’t tell you? He hadn’t mentioned it was a surprise.
” She shook her finger back and forth. “What a naughty boy.” Her gaze grew distant, and she sighed wistfully. “But how romantic of him.”
She snapped back to attention with another clap that echoed throughout the room. “We do not have much time, so we must get started, yes? Off with the clothes.”
Livy’s eyes widened. “Pardon?”
Mrs. Bean winked at her. “I am here on the orders of the Marquess of Dunmore. He said you needed a wardrobe.”
Livy lifted the back of her hand to her brow. What on earth? What was the man up to now?
“We cannot afford this,” Aunt Mellie said softly from behind Livy.
She stepped forward and cleared her throat.
“My apologies, Mrs. Bean, but we do not have the money for your services. We are sorry to have wasted your time.” Her aunt’s cheeks reddened as she said the words.
Livy reached out and found her aunt’s hand in the soft fabric of their intertwined skirts, giving it a squeeze. They may be poor, but they were proud.
“Oh, do not worry, my lady! All is already taken care of. By His Lordship himself. He said nothing but the best for the blue-eyed angel. I can see why.” She looked Livy up and down, her lips curling in a small approving smile.
Livy blinked. Blue-eyed angel?
Aunt Mellie hovered at Livy’s ear. “Darling, you cannot accept such a gift. As much as I want this for you—Lord knows you deserve something nice for once in your life—the talk it will cause…it will ruin you.”
Livy’s gaze landed on a length of champagne and gold glittering fabric, and the little girl inside her wanted to wrap herself in it like a cocoon. But her aunt was correct. The tiny glimmer of excitement she hadn’t even realized had sparked to life fizzled out.
“Oh, but who would ever find out?” Mrs. Bean said, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Behind every powerful man is a more powerful woman keeping him in line. Us women deserve to be draped in nice things for all our hard work, yes?” She winked.
“Isn’t that the truth?” Aunt Mellie murmured from Livy’s side. “There are quite a few people in this room, Mrs. Bean. I mean no insult, but if word were to get out…”
Mrs. Bean gave a dismissive wave. “You have nothing to fear, lovelies. Gossiping about patrons is bad business. We’d be packing up shop quicker than a gentleman could gamble his fortune away.
” She raised her hand and snapped her fingers above her head.
Her battalion of assistants jumped to attention. “Now, let us begin.”
Her smile was gone, her jaw set, as her gaze bored into Livy. She held out a hand.
Livy hesitated, staring at the woman’s pristine white glove. The worst that could happen was word would get out. She would be ruined. The same thought from the night of The Devil’s Eye whispered through her mind: But wasn’t she already? At least now she’d be fashionably dressed while she was at it.
Calculated risks.
She placed her hand in the modiste’s and stepped onto the stand.
A few hours later, Livy flopped back on her bed. She’d had no idea being poked and prodded, thrown in one dress after another, would be so exhausting. But she now had three beautiful dresses ready for her—she glanced to her side where a yellow one rested on the coverlet. Wear the yellow one.
The ones that required more extensive alteration would follow tomorrow, and then even more a week from now.
Walking dresses, morning dresses, gowns, stockings, undergarments, spencers, pellises, redingotes.
Livy’s head spun, her throat tight. She’d barely been able to push a thank you past the lump lodged there.
She fingered the yellow muslin, its moss-green embroidery winding like vines across the delicate fabric.
Which only had a pair of moss green eyes flitting through her mind.
Ones responsible for today. The material was petal soft; she’d never felt a muslin so fine.
Nothing like the stiff, practical cotton she was used to.
And now she had an array of gowns she’d never dreamed would be hers to wear.
She turned to her right and came face to face with a white box. These boxes hadn’t been opened while the modiste had been there.
She tugged on the dusty-rose bow securing the box shut and lifted the lid. She delicately pushed aside the tissue paper concealing the contents. A gasp escaped her lips, and she shoved the cover back on the box, glancing around the room with wide eyes.
Taking a bracing breath, she unveiled the contents once more. Her cheeks flamed. A pair of pristine white silk stockings lay within. And on top of them—a set of deep red garters. The same shade as the red that had decorated his private rooms.
Along with a note.
“Only silk as soft as your lips should be allowed to grace your skin.”
“You rogue,” she scolded aloud, her words echoing in her empty bedchamber. And now she knew it for certain. This was a clear attempt at seduction. This entire visit was. One she refused to be influenced by. But she couldn’t deny the man was clever.
Clever girl. His whispered words rushed back, and she shivered.
She gently caressed the red silk with her fingertips.
Well played, Lord Dunmore.