The duke was beside her again. He’d acquired a stool, and he plopped it down next to the shelf and sat.
“Imogene wants to look like a grown woman,” Drew said, forcing their conversation into the realm of the professional. “To be provocative and assured and formidable.”
Drew replaced the green fabric and pulled down another bolt. “She is also daring me to tell herNo.”
“Just to be obstinate,” Lachlan guessed.
“Perhaps. She also wishes to make a point. The task of a new wardrobe is impossible; we’ll never agree.”
“What will you do?”
Drew shrugged. “I’ll work with her. We’ll find appropriate colors that allow her to feel a bit daring and noticed without being garish or too mature. I’ll prove that a new wardrobe is possible. Imogene’s coloring actually lends itself to mauves and tans and muted, mossy colors,” she went on. “She will hate these until she sees how they enhance her beauty.”
“Like your blues,” Lachlan observed, and Drew fumbled the fabric in her hand.
“Careful,” he said, leaning to catch it.
Drew plucked it from his grasp and returned it to the shelf.
“I’m not accustomed to discussing myself with anyone,” she blurted in a whisper. “Least of all a man. Perhaps it’s best that we discuss the girls. Primarily.”
She pivoted and trudged away.
“I thought we were discussing the girls.”
He did?Heart pounding, she crossed to a counter stacked with velvet trays of decorative lace. She leaned over the samples and stared as if she’d never before seen lace.
He was beside her in the next moment, dragging his stool. Her insides ricocheted with a pinging current of energy. She was mad, possibly ill. And breathless.
“But surely we’re keeping you from some important work, Your Grace?” she said to the lace.
“What work?”
“Whatever it is a duke may do on a daily basis?”
“Oh that. Not really. I deal with correspondence from my steward first thing in the mornings. Harvest is over, so traveling to London for a time has been manageable. Oh look,” he finished, tapping the glass with his finger. “Lace. That’s ours. Not that one, this one. The delicate, handmade, frothy bit.” He frowned down at the glass.
“Yours?”
“Well, my tenants’. Many of them are of Flemish descent, going back generations, and lace making is in their blood.”
“Oh, but you mean Honiton lace?” asked Drew.
“I do mean,” he said heavily.
She was confused. “But you just mentioned a harvest. Is Avenelle not primarily supported by farming and sheep?”
“Oh, we do it all at Avenelle. Farming, mining, sheep. Lace making. Whatever the tenants prefer, actually. The estate is a collaboration, and I prefer that each family has some choice in their livelihood.”
“But you’re not in favor of the lace makers?” she surmised.
“Let us just say the lace makers are not in favor of me.”
Drew thought of this, waiting for him to explain. He said nothing, turning his back to the display and leaning against the counter.
She tried again, “Honiton lace is considered among the finest in the world. If you see it in this case, it will be the most expensive and most beautiful trimming in Mrs. Tavertine’s shop.”
“Aye. It’s very precious, indeed. I’ve just as much pride in Honiton lace as the next man. I’ve risked life, limb, and reputation to find a way for my tenants to carry on with it. But it’s becoming a lost art, isn’t it? Labor-intensive, expensive, and takes hours and hours to weave. Meanwhile, mechanized textile mills—several of which arealsoon my land—turn out bolts of cheaper lace, far faster. Most importantly, perhaps, the mill owners can afford the export tax that enables them to sell their lace around the world. My old-world weavers cannot keep pace. As duke, I want all of them to succeed, the mills and the craftsman. It’s a problem with no obvious solution, and the struggle has dominated my life these last three years. It was the impetus for the bloody riot that nearly sent me to Newgate.”
