And wanted to do it again.
“It matters not what you think, Lord Cotereigh,” she said, with studied dignity. “It is not within my power to dress in the manner you see fit.”
“Because of the expense?” He gave a shrug. “There will be none. Not to you, or your aunt. Yes, Lady Pemberthy, my transformation will not neglect you. I mean to outfit the pair of you.”
Both women stared at him.
“You mean tobuyour clothing?” There was a squeak of horrified indignation in Mrs Ardingly’s voice.
He supposed it was untoward, a man buying a woman’s clothing. Exactly the sort of thing one did for one’s mistress, in fact. Grimly amused and trying very hard to keep any sign of it from his face, he imagined anyone making mistresses of this pair. Good Lord.
“I mean to make a significant donation to your cause, for you to use for this purpose.”
Neither looked much less scandalised.
“If you need to consult with your husband, Mrs Ardingly,” he said, still subject to stray, unhelpful thoughts of mistresses, “then by all means do so. I would do nothing without his permission. Perhaps I might explain the situation to him myself?”
The blush of indignation dropped from both their faces. Something pale and hollow replaced it.
“My…my husband…” Mrs Ardingly looked away. “My husband died some time ago.”
Ah.
“Nine years,” said her aunt, squeezing her niece’s knee in great sympathy, as though nine years was no time at all and the rattle of the funeral procession still echoed in the street outside.
He shouldn’t be glad. What an awful thing to be glad about. And he wasn’t, not really, not when she looked back at him, eyes empty and an expression in them far older than any a woman her age ought to know.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thank you.”
There was a moment or two of silence, as there often was when the mood of a room suddenly shifted, everyone searching for something appropriate to say. Mrs Ardingly—the widow—looked towards the window, where the passing sounds of carts and carriages echoed dimly from the street. A hackney driver shouted his fares to a prospective customer. Very faintly, a dog barked.
Nine years,mused Sebastian, eyeing the decade old dress again. It made sense. A heartbroken widow still wearing the clothes her husband had once known, unable or unwilling to move forward, feeling guilty, perhaps, at the thought of adorning herself—of making herself attractive to other men. It made sense. But it was still a damn waste of a beautiful woman.
“Select three or four outfits apiece,” he said, picking up the book from where Lady Pemberthy had discarded it on the table. He flicked idly through it himself. “Two morning dresses, an evening gown, a walking dress, to begin with. Pelisses and coats… Really, whatever you need. Send your instructions, and I will foot the bill.”
“Lord Cotereigh…” protested Lady Pemberthy. Mrs Ardingly was silent, still looking at the window.
“It’s a mere trifle compared to the twelve thousand I stand to lose.” He gave her a reassuring smile, glancing again at Mrs Ardingly. “There is to be a picnic at Richmond next Wednesday.You’ll easily have a suitable garment made in time if you send the instructions by tomorrow.”
Mrs Ardingly turned her head. “A picnic?”
“Hosted by Lady Frances Elston and attended by a great many of my friends. It will be an easy, informal place to make introductions. It is you who have been invited, Mrs Ardingly.” He gave Lady Pemberthy an apologetic look. “Lady Frances’s set…”
“Oh, all spritely young things, I know! Never fear! I’ll not squash your fun with my ancient old bones.”
Her niece gave her a sorrowful look. “I’d much rather you be there, Aunt.” She glanced at him. “I won’t know anyone. And won’t it seem strange, me turning up, when I have no mutual acquaintance?”
“Ah.” He smiled. “This is why it’s so very helpful that Lady Frances has acquired a sudden interest in charity work. She is eager to make your acquaintance and quite willing to sponsor you into society.”
Mrs Ardingly narrowed her eyes. “She’s in on your wager.”
“She is indeed.”
“And has backed you to win?”
“The lady has great sense.”
