“I’ll escort my sister to Gunther’s. We wouldn’t think of depriving you two of this outing,” Lady Dahlia said, clasping her sister’s elbow and turning her back the way they came.
“It is a beautiful day, isn’t it,” Catherine said doubtfully. Susannah leaned toward a shop window, ostensibly reading a shop placard.
“I’m sure I would feel worse if I knew you all returned to Harth House on my account,” Lady Iris said faintly. “Please, continue.”
Catherine looked doubtful. “Well, if you are sure,” she said hesitantly.
“We insist,” Lady Dahlia said, beginning to hasten her pace.
“All right,” Catherine said with a show of reluctance.
“I hope you feel better soon,” Susannah said, finally turning around, her lips pursed in a struggle to hide a smile and contain her mirth.
Susannah and Catherine watched the twins and their maid hurry down the street. When they were out of sight, the cousins and Bethie began to giggle.
“You are so naughty, Catherine!” Susannah said as she attempted to recover her composure.
“I’d be willing to lay odds that I know the real reason they are headed for Berkeley Square.”
“I would not give you an argument there. They have more than a passion for Gunther’s ices.”
“Yes, a passion for all the young bucks who stroll the area,” Catherine said drily. “But enough of them. At least we have achieved our goal. Freedom!”
The cousins linked arms. “Well, where to now?” Susannah asked.
“Now we discover a dressmaker, someone fashionable who the Countess of Seaverness does not patronize,” Catherine said, scanning the shop windows and noting the type of people who went in and out of the various shops along the street.
“No one fashionable is patronized by Lady Harth,” offered Susannah.
Catherine laughed. “Then that should make our task all the easier. Do you know anything about that shop across the way?” she asked, pointing to a neat establishment fronted by a green-and-gold sign proclaiming the services of one Madame Vaussard.
“Only that it is not patronized by Aunt Alicia.”
“Then that is where we shall begin,” Catherine said decisively.
“Oh,please, Oliver, buy me a gown from this silver net. It will go a long way toward appeasing my sadness at the cruel way you deserted me last week,” Lady Welville wheedled, a pretty pout emphasizing her full, ruby-red stained lips. She draped the material across her chest in the suggestion of a low-cut bodice. Her long dark lashes drooped seductively over her blue eyes and a catlike smile emerged from the pout as she looked sideways up at him through the veil of lashes. “It could make a most enticing gown.”
The Marquis of Stefton leaned back on one elbow against the small counter used to display selections of feathers and flowers and crossed one leg negligently before the other as he studied the posturing woman before him.
He intended to sever the relationship. During their outing, he thought to discover some bauble or other that she was enamored of that could serve as a parting gift, not a ridiculous gown in which she could advertise to the world her abundant charms. He didn’t know why he let himself be talked into accompanying Panthea to the dressmaker.
He watched her cup the fabric to her full breasts while suggestively running her tongue across her lips.
Perhaps, he considered, his actions stemmed from a twinge of pity for the woman who tried so hard to wield feminine charms to her advantage. Such girlish posturings were a caricature on a woman her age. Her actions lacked grace and elegance, he thought distastefully. She was no better than the coarse-mouthed ladybirds of the theater.
“Yes, enticing.” He watched her preen and smiled archly at him. “Very suitable for the Cyprians’ Ball,” he drawled.
“Oliver!”
The Marquis straightened and languidly removed a stray piece of feather from his black jacket. “Really, Panthea, your taste is degenerating. While it may land you in a man’s bed, it will not land you with a man’s name.” His words were spoken softly, though an undercurrent of cold steel ran through them.
Panthea blanched, feeling the steel slicing through her. For the past two weeks or more, she had felt the Marquis slipping away from her. She desperately wanted to revive his flagging interest, but now it seemed she’d erred badly. The silver net slipped through her fingers.
“You’re right, of course. This fabric is just too gauche.” She laughed shrilly. “You have such exquisite taste. I was right to bring you with me.” She reached out one long, milky-white hand toward the Marquis.
He ignored her. Picking up his hat from the counter, he placed it rakishly on his head, running his hand along the brim as he checked its position through one of the long gilt-framed mirrors on the wall. When he turned back toward Panthea, she was still staring at him, dumbfounded by his actions.
“Why don’t you allow Madame Vaussard to guide you in fabric and style,” he suggested, a slight smile playing upon his lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall stroll down to Jackson’s to see if I can get in a few healthy rounds of sparring.”
