The Duke of Marchmont did not notice anything out of the way among his staff. He scarcely noticed his staff except when, as at the present moment, they were annoying him.
A full quarter hour after he’d left Zoe in Harrison’s care, the duke stood in his dressing room in his pantaloons and shirtsleeves, watching his valet take up and reject yet another coat and waistcoat.
“Hoare, we shallnotdrive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour,” said His Grace. “No one will be taking any notice of me but the lady—and that will not last long. The fashion plates and fabric swatches will soon absorb all her attention.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but the lady—what is she wearing?”
“Ye gods, you don’t mean for us tomatch?”
“Certainly not, sir. But it is necessary to achieve the correct tone.”
Marchmont silently cursed Beau Brummell. Valets used to be sensible fellows before the Beau came along and turned dress into a religion. “Carriage dress,” he said impatiently. “Pale yellow with green trim. A year out of date, she informed me.”
The valet regarded him with a panic-stricken expression.
Marchmont did not know or care what had thrown the man into a panic. He only wished he had not hired the most high-strung valet in London.
They would be at this all afternoon and into the evening if the master didn’t take matters in hand.
“That coat,” he snapped, pointing. “That and the green waistcoat.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “Thegreen, sir?”
“The green,” Marchmont said firmly. “It will amuse Miss Lexham.”
“Oh, dear. Yes, Your Grace.”
“When the lady is bored, appalling things happen. We must strive for a little inconsistency, perhaps a hint of originality. We do not wish to be thought dull, do we?”
“Good heavens, Your Grace. Certainly not.”
And at last, Hoare began to bustle.
Six
The duke made Jarvis ride with Filby the groom in the seat behind the carriage.
Neither servant was happy with the arrangement. This was perfectly plain to Zoe.
But she knew it was not Marchmont’s business to make servants happy. It was their job to make him happy, and judging by the set of his jaw, they were making a hash of it.
The groom, plainly, was mortified to be seen sharing his seat with a female. Jarvis, equally plainly, was terrified of the curricle and her high perch thereupon. But there was no room for her inside the carriage. It was built to hold the driver and a companion.
Zoe was not sure what the proper procedure was for a maid in such cases. She only understood that Jarvis must accompany her to the dressmaker’s, and this was the simplest way to do it.
In any event, it was Marchmont’s curricle, he was the master, and everyone else must like it or lump it.
If he did not want to keep his restive horses waiting, then everyone had better move quickly—or be moved quickly, as Zoe discovered.
His way of helping her into the high vehicle was to wrap his gloved hands round her waist, lift her straight up off the pavement, and toss her onto the seat.
She was still tingling from the contact when his big body settled next to hers. He muttered something about “damned finical servants.” Then, more clearly, he addressed the horses: “Walk on, my lads.”
Though they seemed as eager to be gone as he was, the beautifully matched horses set out slowly from St. James’s Square and proceeded calmly through the narrower and more crowded streets.
This sedate pace did not last for long, though.
The driver, Zoe was aware, was as restive as the horses. She had been taught to be keenly sensitive to a man’s moods. She was acutely aware of tension. The impatience or restlessness or whatever it was throbbed along the side of her body nearest his.
