Sir Markwasa good man. Eliza imagined few employers would not only look after their staff, but their staff’s families, as well.
When Jenny had combed, dried, and pinned up Eliza’s hair, they set their sights on the wardrobe. The two girls sorted through the most practical items, repacking the furs, ballgowns, and whatever else she’d never get a chance to wear in the storage trunks.
They kept the soft, summery frocks since the weather was turning warm. She hung blouses, skirts, dresses, and jackets. Jenny folded drawers, chemises, petticoats, and nightdresses in the cupboards.
There were corsets wrapped in tissue paper and delicate silk stockings, too.
Eliza traced the embroidery as she rolled a pair up her bruised legs. “Blimey! Look at these.” She held her legs out to Jenny. “Flowers stitched on silk when plain ones cost half as much. Bloody wasteful—who’ll be looking up my skirts to see them?”
The maid tossed her a set of garters. “Sir Mark, I reckon…”
“Oh, no. That’s not why I’m here.”
Jenny almost laughed.
“Truly, it’s not.” She grinned up at the maid. “Believe me, I already tried.”
“More fool him, says I.” She helped Eliza into a chemise and drawers, and then reached for a corset. “You’ve got a pretty face and a trim figure. Once them bruises heal, Sir Mark will be sorry he passed you up.”
Eliza studied her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table. Shedidhave a nice figure, and her face had certainly turned a few heads. Likely, Sir Mark van Bergen had declined her offer for other reasons.
“He’s accustomed to fine ladies,” she said.
“Aye, all men are ’till they get a taste of a real woman. Why do you think so many toffs go lookin’ for bedmates elsewhere? The ladies of Sir Mark’s set are brought up to dislike physical intimacy. They hate liftin’ their petticoats.”
Eliza pondered that for a moment. Men like Mark wanted virginal wives. The lads that she and Jenny met didn’t mind so much, as long as their girls kept a clean house and supper on the table.
“It’s a different world than ours,” she said. “Different aims, I imagine. At any rate, I won’t be embarrassing myself in front of Sir Mark anymore.”
Jenny nodded, finishing up her lacing. She gave everything a solid tug. “Let him start askin’ for it. Make him beg you. That’ll teach him.”
Both girls laughed. The idea of Sir Mark van Bergen panting after poor Eliza Summersby was too silly to imagine.
“Now, which frock do you want to wear? I recommend somethin’ with a high collar so he don’t see your battle wounds.”
Eliza thumbed through the selection. There were so many dresses that she couldn’t decide. She picked one at random—copper-colored silk, trimmed in velvet, with long sleeves, and a full skirt. The shade suited her, and the cut was modest enough to hide her bruises.
When, at last, she glimpsed herself in the mirror, Eliza hardly recognized the girl smiling back at her. Injuries aside, she looked like a fine lady.
“Is that me!?”
Jenny grinned, too. “Aye, it is, miss. What’d I tell you? A true beauty! Sir Mark will come to heel in no time.”
Eliza didn’t care a fig what Mark did. She was too pleased to see herself lookingwell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He heard her footsteps in the hall—not the clicking of boot heels upon marble, but a gentletap, tap, tappingof slippers accompanied by the tell-tale swish of silk skirts.
A lady approached.
Mark could not help but lean forward. He craned his neck to see her, both curious about her transformation and eager to greet his guest.
She’d endured a lot in her short life, not to mention the trials of the past few hours. The last thing he wanted was to upset her or put pressure on her. He hoped to make her feel safe and comfortable. He wanted her to heal, to thrive.
She turned the corner and limped into the drawing room.
Eliza—at least, hethoughtit was Eliza—wore a dinner dress the color of rich, iridescent copper. Her hair had been washed and combed, and then pinned upon her head in a fashionable knot. Little brown tendrils swept down her temples and along the back of her neck.
