The shop was frequented by opera singers, ballet dancers, diplomats’ wives, wealthy bourgeoisie, and (if they were brave enough to leave the hallowed halls of Bond Street) ladies of the ton. Mrs. Tavertine welcomed everyone with only one condition: ability to pay.
The Duke of Lachlan, by all accounts, should meet this condition, but Drew knew the invoice would come as less of a shock if the duke witnessed the commissioning of the girls’ wardrobes firsthand.
That is why, when he entered the carriage three days later, her stomach had flipped like a cake in a pan—and not because she was thrilled by the mere sight of him. Or the prospect of spending more time with him. Not because she’d lain awake these last two nights, buzzing and fizzing with the memory of their time on the balcony. Not becauseher heart had taken flight with every fleeting encounter in the light of day.
She was also gratified because Lady Tribble had declined to come, and the girls should have some family present to sanction this day and share in the fresh start it represented.
“I shouldn’t have come.” This was Lachlan’s first statement a quarter hour later. He said it, rather pointlessly, as they stepped through the deceptively modest door of Tavertine’s.
Jericka Tavertine stood proudly in the center of the showroom, scissors and measuring tape in hand, flanked on either side by six seamstresses and tailors, each bearing their own instruments of the trade. Collectively, they had the voracious look of eager surgeons, prepared to save someone’s life.
While the duke grumbled, the twins froze in the doorway. Drew ushed them in with cheerful encouragement and gentle pats. She had told them about her own experience of being overlooked and dismissed by established dressmakers who found Drew’s height daunting and her red hair impossible. No patron at Tavertine’s, she assured them, was ever reduced to second-best. They would not have to jockey for attention or hound the staff to assist them. Jericka gave every client her full attention.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tavertine,” called Drew. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. May I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Lachlan, and his nieces, Miss Imogene Starry and Miss Ivy Starry. Lachlan, girls,this...is Mrs. Tavertine and her very talented coterie of artisans. They’ll work with us to create your new wardrobes.”
Moving as one, Jericka and her staff dropped into a head-ducked bow. Drew, who had devoted an hour after breakfast to proper introductions, cleared her throat and stepped back.
Reluctantly, the girls dipped into a wobbly bow. “How do you do?” they mumbled. The expression on Imogene’sface said,I’m not a dancing bear, while Ivy’s face said,Do me no harm.
Drew accepted both. Anything was preferable to the blank staring.
“Lovely,” said Drew. “Right. Mrs. Tavertine, if you are amenable, I should like the girls to peruse the showroom, taking in fabrics and patterns. It may help them to ease into the process and set their minds to the task at hand. If you have any commissions that you’re willing to share, we would welcome a peek.
“And, oh,” she added, “perhaps some tea and a comfortable chair for His Grace?”
“Absolutely,” said the dressmaker, dispersing the assembled staff with a silent twitch of her head. “I agree completely. And if I might say, how beautiful your clients are. A dozen fabrics spring to mind that would suit each of them. But do make yourselves at home. Explore, touch, drape, or set aside anything that sparks your fancy.”
Drew shot her a grateful smile and turned to the girls. “Now, as I said at breakfast, Mrs. Tavertine procures fabrics from around the world. There is a mind-boggling array, but do not be daunted. Think of favorite colors, think of textures that feel comfortable and easy to wear—warm for winter or cool and light in the spring sun. The Season will extend from February until May.
“Think also of what I told you about the robin, and why I, personally, choose to wear so much blue. Think of what beautiful things you have seen in the countryside or garden, what fabrics you’ve noticed on pretty ladies in London. Or simply go where the eye draws you.”
“But will you help us?” whispered Ivy. She looked like a girl set to walk home in a dark wood.
“I will help you,” said Drew, “but I’ll want to see your first impressions. If you must, follow Imogene for a time. She’s got the hang of it already. It’s meant to be enjoyable, Ivy.”
Imogene had drifted to the open shelves of fabric like a sleepwalker wading into a pond.
From across the room, the duke called, “But do not feel guilty, Ivy, if you do not enjoy it. Scrutinizing your wardrobe is, surely, anoptionalpart of anyone’s day, even for females. My valet selects all of my clothes and we’re both happier for it.”
Drew’s heart squeezed at his protectiveness. “Lachlan is correct,” she said. “If the task grows tiresome, we’ll bid Mrs. Tavertine to select the lot. But I should like you totry.”
Ivy nodded dutifully and turned in a slow circle, eyes wide at the shelves and shelves of colorful fabrics.
“Is it necessary to force her?” the duke asked lowly, causing Drew to jump. He had materialized beside her like a ghost.
“Force her to select fabric?” she asked. “No. But to manage a new situation? Yes. We cannot release her into the world with a look of anticipatory fear on her face.”
“No,” he said, “I suppose we cannot.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, watching the girls. He sighed, but did not move away.
Drew forced a professional smile and compelled herself to drift. He would settle somewhere. A footman had pushed a chair beneath a sunny window and wheeled in tea. A broadsheet had been folded beside the pot.
Drew came to a stack of fabric on a nearby shelf and stared at it. She sighed. The fabrics, formerly a favorite indulgence, might as well have been a pile of bricks. Instead, her mind’s eye conjured up memories of the balcony and the song thrush. And Lachlan—standing on the railing, lying on the railing, telling her about Avenelle.
You’ve run mad, she thought.Stark, raving.
“You’re not wearing blue,” said Lachlan, suddenly beside her again. Not in the chair, not taking tea, not reading the papers. Not... settled.
