Nathaniel wondered suddenly if her husband had given her the book of Keats’ work. If they’d sat by the fire of an evening, discussing Goethe.
And where was that husband now?
“What about this one?” Lucy demanded from across the salon, plucking at the pale lemon-yellow skirts of a walking dress. Mrs. Lister stood back from her with a strained smile and watchful eyes.
Nathaniel studied the lines of the gown. It fit her well, though perhaps the color was ill chosen. Lucy’s bold blue eyes, clear, ivory skin and masses of dark hair were not well suited to the pastels that innocent young ladies were meant to wear.
But she looked like every other debutante now; she would cause no comment.
He nodded briefly, to Mrs. Lister’s great satisfaction and Lucy’s utter despair, if her anguished moan was anything to go by.
Her attire would cause no comment, Nathaniel amended silently. There was little hope her conduct could be brought up to the same standards, though he intended to try.
“Are there any more?” he asked the modiste, who nodded eagerly.
“Your Grace also ordered an evening dress, I have it here, ready for fitting. Girls, quickly now!” She clapped sharply and her assistants ran to fetch an armful of frothy satin in the lightest possible shade of peach.
It was such a light shade of peach, in fact, that when Lucy emerged from behind the screen in the corner wearing the gown, Nathaniel had to blink to make sure she was actually wearing it. Uncanny.
“It’s the exact same color as her skin,” Mrs. Pickford blurted, one hand coming up to cover her lips. Was she laughing?
“Oh, Lord,” said Lucy, who definitely was laughing as she spun in front of the mirror and admired the odd effect of the gown. “I look like a naked baby with no legs!”
This proved too much for the assistant seamstresses, who all broke into giggles and hastily muffled laughter despite Mrs. Lister’s angry, red-faced, and increasingly Cockney shushing.
Nathaniel was aware of a strange sensation in his own chest, but he choked it back and pitched his calm voice to be heard over the hilarity. “The style is fine, but not that fabric, perhaps. Mrs. Pickford, what color would you suggest?”
“Oh!” She went pink once more, but this time the sight filled Nathaniel with a deep, unconquerable sense of satisfaction. “Blue, perhaps?”
“I’ve a nice silk net we could embroider with some blue flowers, and the whole thing to be worn over a silk underdress in the palest sky blue, to set off the handwork?” Mrs. Lister’s poise had suffered somewhat in the last few minutes, but she appeared to be recovering herself.
“Yes, I think that will do.” Nathaniel nodded briskly. “You may fit this one to her and make up the blue from those measurements. We’ll take delivery of the new gowns in a week’s time.”
Mrs. Lister blanched under her rouge at the fast turnaround, but she immediately bobbed her head and said, “Of course, Your Grace!”
Nathaniel leaned over and murmured to Mrs. Pickford, “And that is why I accompanied you today. The presence of a duke guarantees the most prompt and enthusiastic service, and Lady Lucy needs those new gowns as soon as may be. From now on, Mrs. Lister will know that my sister is to be treated with all due deference.”
With that, he stood and strode to the door of the salon. “Ladies, I will await you in the entryway. Mrs. Lister, if you would attend me for a moment.”
He didn’t stop to watch Mrs. Pickford hurry to help Lucy back into her old clothes. He stalked to the door and waited for Mrs. Lister to bustle over to him, smoothing down her sumptuous striped satin skirts and readying a saleswoman’s smile.
Before he could think better of it, Nathaniel settled his hat on his head and began to pull on his gloves. Not in any way so that he had something to be doing while making this request of the modiste, but because it was time to depart, and he needed to put his gloves back on.
“How may I help you, Your Grace?” the dressmaker asked.
He cleared his throat and flexed his fingers inside the skin-tight leather gloves. The knuckles of his right hand were still bruised and swollen from his last fight; the pressure of the soft kid leather was painful. It soothed him.
It might be time for another visit to The Nemesis. But first…
“Indeed, Mrs. Lister, there is one more thing I would ask of you.”
Chapter Seven
Dress shopping. Shoe shopping. Hat shopping. Gloves, chemises, handkerchiefs, drawers, reticules…the list of items required by a young lady making her come out at the height of the London Season appeared to be endless.
And the eye-watering expense of it all! Bess couldn’t help but be aware that the money the duke had laid out for Lucy’s stockings alone would feed a family in Little Kissington for months. Ridiculous.
Bess stuffed down her disapproval; it wasn’t her place to care what the duke spent on fripperies. It was no more than he owed his sisters, anyway, after having declined to care for them as the previous duke had assumed he would.
