“Too short for me, more’s the pity, but it would be perfect on you, Bess.”
Lucy thrust the dress at her, and Bess took it automatically. The feel of the fine muslin beneath her fingers was silkier than a dusting of flour across the top of her wooden bread board.
“It's beautiful,” she said blankly. “They’re all beautiful.”
But where did they come from?
“Did you…order yourself some dresses?” Lucy asked tentatively.
“I could never afford even one of these dresses,” Bess choked out. “Let alone half a dozen. Before this trip when we made over that old dress of Gemma’s, the last new dress I had was two years ago. I'm handy with a needle and I can keep my clothes serviceable for years at a stretch. I don’t need new frocks. Not like a lady would.”
“Of course, that makes sense.” Lucy ran a finger along a row of scalloped lace trimming the hem of a cobalt blue walking dress.
Bess’s mind was awhirl. She sank down upon the mattress, no longer certain her legs would hold her.
“But Bess, if you didn’t order these gowns, who did? Gemma, or maybe Hal?” Lucy suggested.
Bess, who had known Hal Deveril since he was merely the despised younger son of the Duke of Havilocke, shook her head. “I love Hal dearly, but he would never think of doing something like this. Nor should he! It’s not his responsibility to clothe me…” Bess trailed off.
“Then do you think...it must have been my brother who ordered them?”
Of course, she must be right. But Bess could hardly credit it. Deeply discomfited, she began bundling the dresses back in their boxes. “There was no need. I’m perfectly fine as I am.”
“Oh, let him pay for some dresses, what does it matter?” Lucy said. “Perhaps he’s finally feeling guilty for how mean he’s been up until now.”
“Well, he can exorcise his guilt some other way,” Bess declared, shoving the lid back on the last box.
“You’re not going to accept them?”
Embarrassment scorched Bess’s cheeks. That he’d judged her wardrobe, her appearance, and found it so lacking that he’d felt the need to do this. Holding her head high, she marched to the door. “I will certainly not accept them. And I’m going to tell him so, at once.”
Nathaniel sighed deeply and contemplated the crystal decanter on the bar cart in the corner of his study. It was entirely too early in the day to indulge—but at the moment, a stiff brandy was sounding less like an indulgence and more like a medical necessity.
Another day, another recalcitrant lord who had to be brought to heel.
Nathaniel shoved his padded leather chair back from the imposing mahogany desk his father had never used.
No sooner had he brought round Marsden than Lord Romby began to raise objections. Maddening. Nathaniel would suspect the other members of the House of Lords of making a concerted effort to block him, but he’d met them.
If they could form a coalition to do anything more complicated than a quadrille, Nathaniel would be amazed.
Now Nathaniel would have to attend the Devensham ball this evening to run Rumby to ground in the card room. What a waste of time.
But this bill was worth the effort, Nathaniel reminded himself. Matters had been left in the hands of men like his father for far too long. Men who cared more for their own comfort, convenience, and enjoyment than anything else.
Nathaniel had his flaws, but he had at least broken himself of the habit of expecting any comfort or enjoyment out of life.
And perhaps the evening could be made to do double duty. The Devenshams were good Ton, above reproach—Lady Devensham, in particular, was known to be a stickler for propriety who curated her guest lists with a very sharp paring knife. Especially this year when she had a daughter of her own to marry off.
For the chance to introduce her daughter to an eligible duke, Lady Devensham would gladly add Lucy to her guest list.
She would do very well as hostess for Lucy’s first ball of the Season. And where Lady Devensham led, other hostesses would soon follow. Perhaps even a voucher for Almack’s.
Into these contemplations, the door of his study banged open like a rifle shot. Nathaniel looked up to see Bess Pickford in full sail. She entered the room all but crackling with barely suppressed emotion of some kind or other. Nathaniel laced his fingers over his waistcoat and savored a secret curl of anticipation.
“My lord,” she said loudly, forgetting for once to call him Your Grace in that faintly mocking way she had. “I cannot think what you are about, but you must know I cannot—I will not—accept it.”
Here was enjoyment, unlooked for and unexpected, but highly pleasurable nonetheless. Nathaniel did not smile. “To what are you referring, madame?”
