All of a sudden, she felt rather exposed, surreptitiously glancing this way and that to see if anyone had noticed her.
This must be why the duke insisted on coming with us.
And it appeared he had roped Hugo into it, for the man’s timely arrival could not be coincidence. Dominic’s cousin was well-liked, well-connected, and rather skilled in the art of distraction: the perfect reinforcements if things should go awry.
Hugo clapped his hands together, commanding everyone’s attention. “Well then, I hear we are to spend an extortionate amount of my cousin’s fortune on gowns and bonnets and jewelry and all the accoutrements a young debutante might need or simply want?”
“We certainly are, Uncle,” Harriet cheered, weaving her arm through Hugo’s. “I should like to visit Milnthorpe’s, then the haberdasher, then Wingate’s millinery, and I simplymustsee what is in the window—and, indeed, the shop—at Madame Jonquille’s!”
“Nothing French!” Dominic barked, as he slid smoothly down from the saddle and passed the reins into the care of the footman.
Hugo grinned back over his shoulder to his cousin. “But that is what everyone is wearing in London, cousin. If she is not dressed like the ladies of Paris, then what is the point? I am thinking capped sleeves, a daring color, a bold neckline, and no fichu!”
“Cousin, I swear upon my life—” Dominic began to argue, but Hugo waved any remark away as he hastily led Harriet toward the curve of a quaint street.
Just like that, Frances and Dominic were alone… aside from Catherine who had suddenly decide to walk toward the lawned square and lean on the wrought-iron fence, her back to the pair. Not much of a chaperone.
“I… trust you have been well?” Dominic asked gruffly.
Frances nodded. “Very well, thank you. Very… um… occupied.”
“Yes. I apologize for not dining with the two of you; I have had other things to attend to,” he said, though she had not asked why he had not been present at the dinner table the past two nights, nor the breakfast table the past two mornings.
“Wrestling sheep?” she offered.
His expression softened for a moment, and she thought he might laugh. But then the look vanished, replaced with a hard frown. “Fixing things that are broken,” he grumbled. “We should hurry along before they lose us, which I am certain is the plan.”
He offered his arm.
Frances hesitated, her gaze searching the nearby citizens for any hint of recognition. No one appeared to be staring in her direction, but she could not risk it.
“I should not,” she said.
“What?”
She gestured to his arm. “I should not walk so close to you. I do not think it would be wise.”
“Oh…” He straightened the arm against his side. “Yes, of course. Understandable. Unwise, indeed.”
His words, though merely a paraphrased version of what she had said, stung with surprising vengeance. And as he walked off without her, that sting burrowed a little deeper. Then again, he had said it on the very first night that they met: he was not going to protect her. She would have been a fool to think that had changed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What of this?” Harriet cooed, running her fingertips along a bolt of amethyst fabric with a luxurious sheen, much to the scowling chagrin of the modiste.
“That is charmeuse satin, made with the finest silk. Please, do not touch it like that,” the modiste chided.
Frances beckoned Catherine over to take a look at the fabric with a more discerning eye. She might have known nothing about fashion or fabrics, but Catherine was something of a dressmaking virtuoso, able to tell the difference between cheap material and lasting material, despite what any shopkeeper might say or the price they thought they could get away with.
“The color becomes you,” Frances said as Catherine inspected. “However, it may be too bold for your first Season. I would say that this is more of a second Season fabric, should you find no one of interest during your debut. It speaks of confidence, of maturity, of?—”
“It is poor quality,” Catherine interrupted, tutting. “Farmer’s satin. Made with cotton, not silk.”
Behind her counter, the modiste turned a rather violent shade of red, her eyes bulging. Her thin, bird-like frame began to shake and Frances sensed that the woman was close to exploding at the insult, even if it was the truth.
“The duke will be very disappointed,” Frances said quickly, directing a pointed gaze out of the shop window to where Dominic and Hugo stood waiting. “He so wished for his only daughter to be seen wearing the very best that Bath has to offer. Never mind, we shall have to settle for what we found at Milnthorpe’s.”
Harriet’s mouth opened in protest, for there had been even less to choose from at the previous modiste, but one sharp look from Frances and the young woman shut her mouth again. A suspicious, somewhat mischievous squint replaced her wide-eyed protest.
