“Regardless, it’s not safe for you to go to the spa,” James insisted. “Even chaperoned by Xenia.”
Her frustration boiling over, Gigi opened her mouth, but Owen spoke first.
“I’ll escort Gigi and Xenia,” he said.
Everyone stared at him, including Gigi. While Owen did occasionally venture into the village, he didn’t stay long. He preferred the solitude of Ethan’s estate.
Gigi drew her brows together. “Are you certain you are up to it?”
“It is not as if I have anything better to do.” Shrugging, Owen bit into a jam tart.
After tea, Gigi and Xenia stopped at Mrs. Sommers’s small but tidy dress shop. Gigi had an appointment for a fitting of the gown she was to wear to the spa’s gala. Along the way, they collected Duffy, whose opinion was invaluable in such matters.
Exiting the dressing room, Gigi twirled to show off her new dress.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“That ball gown is perfect on you,” Xenia declared.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Sommers.” Duffy circled Gigi with a critical eye. “The design is exquisite. The embroidery at the hem mimicking waves of water is an inspired touch. Brava, madam.”
“Your suggestion of the pale-blue satin gave me the idea, Mr. Duffield.” Mrs. Sommers, a petite lady whose manner and appearance were as neat as her shop, bowed her head. “We both deserve credit.”
“If I may make a further suggestion?” Duffy asked.
“Please do,” Gigi said.
“What do you think about lowering the slope of the bodice by half an inch?”
Mrs. Sommers pursed her lips. “A bit more dashing but demure, nonetheless. An improvement, I think. Lady Gigi?”
“I put myself entirely in your and Duffy’s capable hands,” Gigi said happily.
When Mrs. Sommers went to show Xenia some gloves that had just arrived, Gigi had a moment alone with Duffy.
“Any news from Godwin?” he asked quietly.
During her last visit to the draper’s shop, Gigi had disclosed most of her dealings with Conrad. Duffy hadn’t been too surprised when she admitted her attraction. His exact response had been, “Well, look at the man. Who could blame you?”
“No,” she said. “And I’ve decided not to spare him another thought.”
“Good for you, darling. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“How about you? Any developments?”
“As a matter of fact.”
Seeing Duffy’s hazel eyes light up, Gigi had to squelch an excited squeak.
“You spoke to him?” she said in hushed tones.
“When Oscar threw a shoe”—Oscar was Duffy’s dappled stallion—“I took it as a sign that I should give things one last chance. I went to the smithy, and it was just me and Mr. Keane. I made chitchat while he worked on the shoe. He didn’t say a word, of course, and I was despairing that I’d made a mistake when out of nowhere, he said, ‘Patrick.’”
“I don’t follow.”
“Neither did I. Until he clarified.” Duffy’s chiseled features glowed with elation. “He wanted me to call him by his given name—Patrick.”
“Oh my stars.”
