Chapter 7
Seven
To Sebastian’s irritation, it was several days before he found time between the demands of his social obligations and managing his and his father’s affairs to pay a call at Lady Pemberthy’s.
It did mean, however, that there had been time for the modiste to deliver the first of the ordered outfits.
As agreed with the proprietor of that establishment, a note confirming the delivery together with the bill had been sent to him.
He paid it immediately, smiling faintly to himself while imagining the widow’s face as she pulled layers of tissue aside to reveal the satins and finery within.
She’d probably look angry. Her lip might curl.
There’d be a resentful glitter in those sapphire eyes.
This was the image he had in his mind as the aging retainer announced him with a ponderous bow straight out of the history books.
Sebastian stepped around him, taking a step into the sitting room where he’d been shown, but checked his brisk entrance in surprise.
Mrs Ardingly was standing on the sideboard.
He wasn’t the only one who was startled. She glanced over her shoulder, saw him, and lost her balance, teetering preciously for a moment before she steadied herself, one palm pressed against the wall, the other dragging a paintbrush from where it had been clamped between her teeth.
She glared down at him—he’d made it across the room in an instant, ready to catch her—a great deal of ragged irritation at the edges of the large, steadying breath she took.
“What are you doing, startling me like that?”
“What are you doing, standing on the furniture?”
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people!”
“I was announced!”
Finding that argument unassailable, she turned back to the wall with a huff. “As is perfectly obvious, I am pasting this wallpaper back into place.”
“But why?”
“Because, as is also perfectly obvious, it has come loose.” She jerked the hanging flap in illustration.
“So get a servant to do it. It’s no task for you.”
“I’m quite capable.”
She was talking to the wall, her back turned to the room, to him. Or rather, he was addressing the backs of her knees, her thighs, her…rear. And she was in that faded blue dress again. All its many washings hadn’t only stolen its colour, they’d also made the fabric very thin.
He should probably be offended. This was no way for a lady to receive him, forcing him to crane his neck. But his heart was still racing from thinking she was going to fall. And the view she presented was distracting enough that he couldn’t immediately think up a retort.
She stooped to dip her brush into a glutinous jar of paste set on the sideboard by her feet, further defining her rear under that thin, thin fabric. He did not even attempt not to look.
“My arm,” she continued, reaching up again, entirely oblivious to the picture she made, “is not going to fall off at a few strokes of this brush.”
He eyed those strokes, the steady flick, flick of her wrist as she brushed the clear, sticky paste into place. His mind went to places it shouldn’t.
She went up on her tiptoes, straining to reach the top of the wall. Then, setting the brush between her teeth, she used both hands to ease the paper up, smoothing it into place with firm strokes.
“There,” she said, looking up at her handiwork in satisfaction.
Indeed. It was certainly up.
He took a step back as she stooped once more, putting the brush in its pot. Then she turned to face him, gathering her skirts in one hand, preparing to climb down. He did what he’d been struggling not to do and took her by the waist.
“What—” Her protest cut off as he lifted her down. Her waist was slim, with the firmness of muscle warm under his palms. He let go, but he didn’t step back. The sideboard was behind her. There were three inches between their chests.
“Sir.” Colour painted her cheeks, her expression furious. “I insist you never touch me again without my permission.”
He smiled slightly. “Very well. Next time I’ll ask.”
Her eyes widened with shock. She whirled herself away, slipping out of the small space between them and taking hasty steps down the room.
He predicted she’d walk to the window, and she did, crossing her arms once more over her indignant breast and fastening her eyes on the sky.
Sebastian went to the small sofa and sat down, one elbow propped on the gilded scroll of its back. The giltwork was faded and scratched, the white paste showing beneath. He toyed at the relief pattern with a fingertip. He looked at Mrs Ardingly.
“Have you received the first of the dresses?”
Very stiffly, still watching the sky, “Yes. Thank you.”
“And they fit? They look well?”
“My aunt is delighted. Thank you.”
“And your dresses, do they fit?”
She said nothing.
“You haven’t tried them on.”
“There seems little point.” She turned from the window but didn’t seem to know what to do after that. She looked at the clock. She toyed with the curtain. In a moment, she would ring for tea. “I’m sure such a renowned modiste knows how to sew with absolute precision.”
“Undoubtedly. But you must still try them on. Measurements aren’t infallible. Cloths and cuts all have their quirks. But you know all that.”
“I haven’t had time.”
“The picnic is in two days.”
“Let me ring for some tea.”
He watched her cross the room.
“Try on the dresses, Mrs Ardingly.”
She paused, hand on the bell cord. “Yes. I will.”
“Now, if you please. I need to see you in them.”
She gave him a startled look, hand dropping from the cord. Then her brows gathered, a little storm held between them.
“I don’t know what impression you have of me, Lord Cotereigh, but I am not to be ordered around. If you think your donation gives you the right to…to make demands—”
“I merely wish to make sure they suit you and fit well. There’s no point otherwise. The finest gown in the world is of no help to you if it clashes with your eyes or gapes at the back or sags at the waist.”
Her smile was sharp and flat. “With you choosing them, how could they fail to suit me?”
“I make mistakes, Mrs Ardingly. Not often. But I do make them.”
“Gosh. I feel there should be someone to bear witness to this moment.”
His eyes narrowed in amusement, an irresistible smile tugging his lips. “I’ll have the admission carved in stone, shall I?”
“Better embroidered onto a pillow. You can look at it every night before you fall asleep.”
“I’ll leave that task to your capable hands. No doubt you wield a needle just as proficiently as a brush.”
She almost smiled back; a sharp, glinting smile, but a smile nonetheless. He saw it dance in her eyes for a moment before she sought refuge in glancing away. An entirely unremarkable corner of the room got the benefit of her focus.
“Do try the dresses on,” he said. “It’s better that I see any deficiencies now, here, with time for alterations to be made, than that you turn up at Richmond looking not quite the thing.
You think I am exacting and preoccupied with trivial fashion, but I can assure you there is no stricter judge of a woman’s attire than another woman. Us men…we tend to get distracted.”
That last made her flush. Her recently re-papered portion of wall became the object of her attention. But she was torn, doubting, distrustful. He wondered if her heart beat as quickly as his own.
“Do it for the children,” he breathed, the devil of a smile twisting the corner of his mouth.
Her own mouth quirked—but downward. “You,” she stated, “are an awful person.”
He lifted one shoulder. “I am what I need to be. And right now…I’m also what you need. How fortunate for you. Go and try on the clothes, Mrs Ardingly.”
A breath of exasperation escaped her. But her chin came up. “Very well. I will wear a dress, and you can tell me what’s wrong with it. It’ll be just like old times.”
He was surprised into a laugh. She was whip smart, this woman. Sharp enough to take on the best of society’s wits. If she ever cared to.
“But you will stay there,” she added.
“Of course.” He schooled his grin to a look of great innocence. “I’m hardly going to follow you to your boudoir.”
She left him with another scathing look, and he sat back, smiling to himself.
Handley and all the friends involved in the wager were mad with curiosity to know how Sebastian fared.
He hadn’t breathed a word. The Richmond picnic would be his grand unveiling.
He’d made sure Handley would be there to see the Pretty Pariah transformed—no pariah anymore, but Lady Frances’s guest—and all exquisite grace in her heavenly blues and whites…
She walked into the room, and his eyebrows went up at the sight. Soft, white gauze floated from bust to floor, sweetly moulded around her chest and shoulders. Heavenly indeed!
And then his brows lowered as she stomped towards him and stood there, hands on hips, her mulish expression saying, “Well?”
“A hairdresser,” he murmured, getting to his feet. “I’ll send a hairdresser to you on Wednesday morning.”
“Well, of course. They’ll need to polish my halo.”
He laughed, stepping towards her then walking a circle, examining her from every angle.
She stood stiffly, blushing faintly, eyes on the wall opposite.
If she hadn’t been worried about creasing the fine fabrics, no doubt she would’ve crossed her arms again, but her hands stayed at her sides, closed into fists.
“May I touch you?”
Her head whipped around at the question.
“You said I needed to ask,” he reminded her.
“But…why…whatever…”
“Your posture.” He came closer, reaching out, a question in his eyes.
She nodded, a jerk of her head, gaze once more fastened to the wall. But as he gently set his fingertips to her chin, a shudder went through her and her chest expanded in a sudden inhale.
He tilted her jaw up. “Hold your head a little higher. Like so.” Moving to stand behind her, he set his hands lightly on the bare slope of shoulders. She stiffened, hunching them up.