“Then what are you doing here?”
“To find a blue gown. For the Edgemont Ball,” Bridget explained, hiding a smile with a delicate cough. She had a sneaking suspicion why Lenora’s memory–usually sharp as the point of a pin–had gone a tad foggy as of late, but she wasn’t going to say anything. Not until Lenora did, at any rate. “I had the majority of my wardrobe shipped ahead to Clarenmore Park, including my navy dress with the–”
“Tangerine piping,” Lenora interrupted. She waved her arm in the air. “Yes, of course. I remember now. Did you find a suitable replacement? If not, I’m sure that Madame Berchard can alter something that she already has on hand. I’m headed to her shop tomorrow for my final fitting. It would be no trouble for you to accompany me.”
“Your armoireisa dress maker’s shop.” Bridget gave a slight, disbelieving shake of her head. “I’ve never seen so many gowns in one place. The trouble won’t be finding one, but deciding onwhichone.”
“There are a lot, aren’t there?” Lenora cheeks pinkened. “I admit that I’ve lost count, and those are only the half of it, as there’s even more at Clarenmore Park. It’s…it’s silly, really. The extravagance. I keep telling Perth that I don’t need anything else, and he’ll still come home with a new emerald necklace or a shawl or, ah, attire of a more intimate nature.”
“You deserve every extravagance in the world,” Bridget said loyally. “You held us together when we were falling apart, Nora. If not for you, I don’t know where we’d be.”
“You were never a problem. It’s Eloise that will have me sprouting gray hairs before my next birthday.” Lenora’s head fell back as she gaze forlornly at the painted ceiling. “What am I going todowith her?”
“Is she attending the Edgemont Ball?”
“Against her will.”
“Then we’ll start there. Perhaps she’ll meet a dashing stranger that’ll sweep her off her feet and make her fall madly in love with him.”
“Yes, and maybe pigs will fly.”
Bridget’s eyes twinkled. “You never know. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this family, it’s thatanythingis possible.”
4
The Greatest F-ing Beauty
Adam entered his townhouse, slapped his gloves on the circular receiving table, poured himself a drink from the brandy sitting on the very same table in a crystal decanter, and stalked into the front parlor that he’d changed to a private study.
Most men preferred to have their offices in a more sequestered location, but he liked to keep him thumb on the pulse of the city as it passed him by outside the double-hung windows framed in Luxfer glass tile.
The rest of the room was decorated in heavy strips of mahogany paneling that he’d had put up to cover the garishly floral pink wallpaper rather than going through the time and trouble of having it stripped. The previous tenant of the townhouse, an aging widow with a penchant for furs, had insisted that Adam promise not to alter a single square inch before she’d agreed to sell him the home that had been in her family for three generations. He’d graciously waited twelve hours before bringing in an architect to knock down the walls and rip up the floors to make way for updated plumbing, as well as a designer to convert the overtly feminine residence into a bachelor’s domain complete with sturdy leather furniture, ceiling-high bookshelves, and a room devoted entirely to darts, billiards, and similar masculine amusements.
Adam felt no guilt for going back on his word. As far as he was concerned, once money exchanged hands, the deal was done and there was no more space for sentiment. The old widow had let her fool of a son run rampant through his inheritance before the stupid sap had gotten himself killed in a phaeton race in Hyde Park. If not for Adam stepping in and purchasing the townhouse for a quarter above its value–pure business; he’d not wanted the hassle of a bidding war–the widow would have frozen to death come winter when she found herself in a home far bigger than she required with no money to fuel the furnace.
Winners made the terms and the losers abided by them, not the other way around.
A lesson he’d learned firsthand.
Another lesson he had learned–just today, in fact–was that if he ever came upon a titian-haired hellion with blue fire in her eyes, he’d be doing himself a favor by staying as far away as possible.
Blast and damn, but he was hard pressed to recall the last time a woman–or anyone, for that matter–had burrowed so quickly under his skin and clawed at the box of rage that he kept carefully locked away. A box that Dr. Evans, in all of his infinite wisdom, had helped Adam to construct.
“You cannot be angry with everyone every minute of day,”he’d told his charge kindly after Adam had returned late one night, his knuckles bruised and his face bloody from another fight where he had let his temper get the best of him.“A good fighter knows when to punch…but he also knows when to hold back. You need to control your rage, Adam. Or else it will control you. Now pass me that bottle, and brace yourself. This is going to sting.”
Ithadstung, he recalled as he brought the brandy to his lips and took a sip. The words as much as the alcohol used to disinfect his wounds.
He hadn’t wanted to hear them.
Headstrong and bullish, he hadn’t wanted to hear anything.
But Dr. Evans had been patient, as well as persistent, and some of his wisdom had eventually found itself into Adam’s ear and left its mark. While he hadn’t wanted to rid himself of his rage, he did find a way to use it to his advantage.
Ale was cheaper than brandy because it was half water and far more of it was required to make a man forget his worries and his woes. But brandy…brandy was potent, and powerful, and while more expense, was worth every dollar spent.
By turning his fury into brandy, he needed only a single tumbler to accomplish what had previously taken a dozen pints of ale.
He became cold.
