“That little s-slip of a thing in her new uniform that looks s-stiff enough to stand up without her in it?” he asked. “The one who f-frowned at me when she passed me outside your d-door, as though she did not think me worthy to kiss as much as your little toenail?”
“Oh, dear,” she said, “she seems to like me. She persuaded me to leave my hair long and to aim for elegance instead of youthful prettiness in my appearance. I havepotential, it seems, and I am notold, though I am ten years her senior and therefore tottering on the brink. I really ought not to try competing with all the young girls who will be making their come-out this year, though.”
“She is someone to be f-feared despite appearances, then, is she?” he said. “Especially by a m-mere husband? I shall look h-humble the next time I see her. Perhaps she will stop frowning at me and allow me to keep c-coming to your room.”
Agnes laughed, and he twined his fingers in her hair and drew her to him by the nape of her neck.
“Thank heaven for M-Madeline,” he said against her mouth. “I hope I am paying her a decent wage. I like your hair l-long, Agnes. And you already are elegant. All those young g-girls would be well advised not to try c-competing with you.”
“Absurd.” She laughed again.
And then she abandoned herself to passion.
She could believe in impossible dreams when he made love to her—and when she made love to him. It was always mutual. Who would have expected that a wife could make love to her husband?
And why should dreams be impossible just because theyweredreams? Didn’t dreams sometimes come true?
***
Agnes did indeed return to Madame Martin’s the next morning. After three days of unrelenting shopping, her mother-in-law had announced her intention of lying abed until a decent hour of the morning or early afternoon, and it was easy to slip out of the house alone with just Madeline walking decently—and proudly—beside her. Flavian had gone off after breakfast to indulge in some masculine pursuits that included various clubs, and a boxing and fencing saloon, and Tattersall’s.
Adjustments—most of them minor, a few rather more major—were made to the massive order Agnes had left with the modiste two days before. Two of the designs—one for a ball gown, the other for a walking dress—were tossed out altogether and replaced with simpler, more classic designs. Flounces were sacrificed quite ruthlessly and replaced with delicate embroideries and laces and scallops. Madame Martin, who had looked askance at Madeline at the start and suggested tactfully that perhaps “my lady” ought to bring the dowager viscountess back with her to discuss any proposed changes, ended up regarding the maid with something like respect.
“My sister-in-law mentioned yesterday,” Agnes said as they were leaving the salon, “that I really ought to take out a subscription at Hookham’s Library. I have taken a look in the book room at home, but the volumes there all seem very ancient and dry of topic. They lean heavily toward sermons and moral treatises.”
They had surely been purchased by a former viscount.
“Well, I ask you, my lady,” Madeline commented in some disgust. “Why bother learning your letters if you can’t find something more cheerful to read than sermons? It’s bad enough that you have to sit on them hard pews at church and listen to them once a week. And don’t some vicars go on and on and on?”
They found the library without any trouble, and Agnes paid her subscription and spent some time happily browsing among the shelves. There were books of poetry here, and novels and plays, and the main problem was going to be choosing just one or two to take with her. Though she could come back anytime, of course, to exchange them for other books. What a wonderful invention a library was. There was a positive wealth of knowledge and entertainment here.
“Lady Ponsonby?” a light, sweet voice asked. “Yes, itisyou.”
Agnes turned her head in surprise. No one knew her, and she knew no one.
Ah, but yes, of course she did.
“Lady Hazeltine,” she said, taking the gloved hand that was being offered.
The countess was dressed in varying light shades of blue and in what Agnes already recognized as the first stare of fashion. Shining waves of her blond hair curled on her forehead, and trailed over her ears and along her neck beneath her fetching poke bonnet. Her blue eyes smiled, her cheeks were pink tinged, her teeth were pearly white, and her chin was ever so slightly dimpled. She was the very picture of beauty and warm amiability.
“I am so glad you spoke to me,” Agnes said. “I was absorbed in the books and did not see you; I am sorry. How do you do?”
“I am very well, I thank you,” Lady Hazeltine said. “And all the better for seeing you again. I was disappointed that you did not come with Flavian when he called yesterday.”
Agnes clasped her two chosen books to her bosom and somehow held her smile.
“I am sorry to have missed the visit too,” she said. “I was out shopping with my mother-in-law and Lady Shields for the third day in a row. I had no idea I needed so much, but they have both insisted that this is just the start.”
The countess’s eyes flicked down her person, and her eyes danced with merriment.
“I have only recently left off my widow’s weeds,” she said. “I know all about feeling dowdy.”
Flavian had called upon the countess yesterday—and presumably upon Sir Winston and Lady Frome too—withouther. And without even mentioning it to her when she had asked about his day last night.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she said, “even if it was more than a year ago. I know that grieving does not end as soon as the mourning clothes are put off.”
“Thank you.” Lady Hazeltine’s smile was tinged with melancholy. “You need not be sorry for me, however. Hazeltine and I lived virtually apart for the last two years of our marriage. We entered into it with unconsidered haste, in order to comfort each other for a mutual grief, and we lived to regret it. I ought to have waited longer to see what would happen with—well, with my first and only true love. But I did not, alas, and it is forever too late now.”
