Lady Brimsey’s face was illuminated with the pure, uncomplicated joy of a woman who had just been offered an afternoon of shopping funded by a Duke. “Your Grace, that is extraordinarily generous.”
“Not at all. A fiancé should take an interest in these things.”
Margaret’s expression remained flat.
“A new wardrobe,” she said. “For a fake engagement.”
Lady Brimsey’s joy faltered. Hugo did not miss a step.
“For a house party, Lady Oldbarrow. Every guest at Thornwaite Hall will be watching Lady Lily, evaluating whether the engagement is genuine. If she arrives wearing last Season’s gowns, thetonwill read it as indifference, and indifference invites suspicion.” He held Margaret’s gaze. “The fiction must be convincing in every detail. Including the wardrobe.”
Margaret studied him for a long moment. Then she turned to Lily.
“He is either very thorough or very extravagant. I have not yet decided which.”
“Both, Lady Oldbarrow,” Hugo said. “I find they complement each other.”
Margaret’s mouth twitched. It was not a smile. It was the acknowledgment that the Duke had provided a reasonable answer, and she would allow him to proceed, for now.
Lady Brimsey’s joy reignited. Lord Brimsey looked as though he had just been handed a reprieve from the gallows. Hugo turned to him with the easy camaraderie of a man who understood the suffering of gentlemen trapped in feminine pursuits.
“Lord Brimsey, I would not dream of subjecting you to an afternoon at the modiste. Might I suggest White’s? I will ensure the ladies are well attended and returned home safely.”
Lord Brimsey clasped Hugo’s hand with a gratitude that bordered on emotion. “Your Grace, you are a credit to your title.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Lily walked beside Hugo and said nothing. His arm was warm beneath her hand, and the May sunlight filtered through the elms, and somewhere behind them, her mother was planning an afternoon that would involve Hugo selecting fabrics that would make Lord Wilfrey look at her the way Hugo had looked at her on a balcony two nights ago.
The irony was not lost on her.
None of it was lost on her.
CHAPTER 13
“The blue one. Third from the left.” Hugo stood in the center of Madame Dupont’s establishment on Bond Street and pointed to a gown displayed on a dressmaker’s form near the window.
The fabric was a deep sapphire silk that caught the afternoon light and held it, and the cut was fitted through the bodice with a neckline that would sit just below the collarbone.
Elegant. Tasteful. And designed to make every man in a room forget what he had been saying.
Lily did not look at the blue gown. She had positioned herself beside a rack of sage and dove-gray muslins with high necklines and modest sleeves, running her fingers along the fabrics with the careful attention of a woman selecting armor for a battlefield she refused to acknowledge.
“This one is lovely,” she said, holding up a gown the color of cold oatmeal. “The stitching is excellent.”
“The stitching is irrelevant if the gown makes you invisible.”
“I do not wish to be visible. I wish to be appropriate.”
“You wish to be overlooked, and that is not the same thing.” Hugo crossed to the rack and gently removed the oatmeal gown from her hands. He replaced it on the rail with the careful deliberateness of a man disarming someone who did not yet realize they were armed. “Appropriate is what you have been wearing for three Seasons. Appropriate has not captured Lord Wilfrey’s sustained attention. We are here to try something different.”
Lady Brimsey appeared from behind a partition with a bolt of lavender silk draped across her arms and an expression of pure, luminous happiness.
“Your Grace, Madame Dupont says this fabric arrived from Lyon only last week. Is it not exquisite?”
“It is magnificent, Lady Brimsey. You should have it made up.”
Lady Brimsey clutched the silk to her chest as though Hugo had handed her a newborn. She disappeared back behind the partition, and the muffled sound of animated French carried through the shop as she and Madame Dupont discussed sleeves.
