She was no Forsythia Pennyroyal, foolish enough to set her cap for him, but being with him was a danger to her reputation and her sensibilities, no matter what credit he thought he might gain with Sir Pelton by running her errands.
Darien swung himself easily into the whisky and shook out the ribbons, tossing a coin to the sweep. “I drive myself, imp,” he said to James, “but you may ride behind as my tiger.”
With a broad grin, James scrambled to the perch, puffing out his chest. “Miss Hetty needs friends around her,” he said. “It’s been a lowerin’ morn. She’s taking the lad’s loss deep.”
“I know something about funeral arrangements for young boys,” Darien said in a low, rough voice, and Henrietta’s throat clamped shut as he glanced at the white armband on her sleeve.She tucked her hands and feet close to her body, on dangerous ground. She could shake off a careless roué who wanted to take advantage of her, but she could not deny a fellow creature in pain.
To her surprise, Darien proved more than helpful. He possessed taste for more than just his coats. He selected a modest coffin, burial clothes for Elijah, and mourning dress for Mary Ann. He found a lovely memorial locket to hold the tiny curl of baby hair. And when he spoke of his nephew, Lucretius, Henrietta wanted to weep and take him into her arms. He wore the expression of a man who had taken a knife to the belly, astonished by the pain and outraged at the injustice.
At St. Marylebone Church, he did little but lean against a stone wall, examining his watch on its gold chain jingling with seals. He then took out an enameled toothpick case and proceeded to clean his teeth. But Henrietta suspected that the expensive look of him induced Reverend Dingley to agree to bury a baby not of his parish. When the Reverend led them through the cemetery to show her the tiny plot of land reserved for paupers’ graves, Darien took her arm, and Henrietta leaned gratefully on him. It was indeed useful to have an expensive, well-born man about.
“And now, the modiste,” Darien said when they emerged from the church. He gave himself a shake, throwing off the gloom of their business. “I have someone to recommend.”
“I have my own modiste,” Henrietta replied.
He folded his arms. “Madame Beaudoin dresses the most fashionable ladies in London.”
“And so has no need of my custom,” Henrietta retorted. “Alywen grew up at the Benevolence Hospital and was apprenticed to a dressmaker. She needs clients to make a success of her new shop.”
The small smile playing about those sinfully well-shaped lips of his told her he wasn’t accustomed to opposition from women. Well, she didn’t intend to let him command her. She’d sensed his awareness of her body after he had redesigned her gown at dinner, leaving her practically naked. She might still be tingling from that kiss, but she wasn’t going to risk her acceptance into the Minerva Society, no matter how delicious or warm or intimidating Lord Darien Bales could be.
Nevertheless, Lord Daring caused a sensation when he stepped into the small shop on Holles Street. Henrietta had helped Alywen find and refurbish her premises, so all the girls, even those in the back, hurried out to welcome her but also, Henrietta suspected, get a look at her notorious escort.
“Have you come for a visit, Miss Hetty?” Alywen was working to hide her Welsh accent under a French one. “Or are you finally going to let me make you some new gowns?”
“Can you provide her with an entirely new wardrobe?” Darien inquired. “It’s as though she didn’t prepare for her Season at all.”
He took possession of a pattern book as if he visited dress shops every day. Perhaps he did, Henrietta thought, to clothe all his mistresses. In a moment, Darien was deep in discussion with Alywen over styles and silhouettes, while the girls unrolled bolts of luscious, gleaming fabrics and began swooping about Henrietta with tapes and trims.
“I was too busy with other preparations to consider gowns,” Henrietta said. “And I see no need to bother now.”
Darien overrode her protests with a wave of his hand. “You are in desperate need of an update. Or do you wish for the likes of Forsythia Pennyroyal to continue to make sport of you?”
That stung. “Forsythia Pennyroyal may concern herself with matters of dress, but I have other matters to attend to. Like my debate.”
“I have just the gown for that.” Alywen held up a handful of filmy white ruffles. “Marie Antoinette made thechemise de reineall the craze across Paris. The Duchess of Devonshire was painted in hers.”
It was for Alywen, not Darien, that she tried on the dress, Henrietta told herself. But the look in Darien’s eyes when she emerged from the dressing chamber wearing the delicate muslin sent tingles to every extremity. He’d worn that heated, appreciative look in the garden, and like a ninny she’d let him kiss her, only to find he was merely amusing himself. A Henrietta Wardley-Hines did not fascinate an experienced rakehell like Lord Darien Bales.
Uncaring of this fact, butterflies flitted about her middle. “I look like an opera dancer,” Henrietta said, gaping at herself in the full-length glass. That couldn’t beher, that graceful, long-limbed creature with glowing cheeks and bright eyes.
“You wish to make an impression, do you not?” said Darien, a man who could not help but make an impression.
“With my ideas, sir, not my appearance! No one will credit me with any seriousness in this gown.”
“She’ll take it,” Darien told Alywen. He flipped through the pattern book and pointed to a plate. “And this for the Bicclesfield ball. It is her first Season, so nothing too bold yet, though she could carry it off with that hair. The robe in that buttery duchesse satin, with the petticoat in that lavender taffeta and a matching stomacher trimmed with a few gauze ruffles. Mind you, only a few.”
“I am not attending the Bicclesfield ball,” Henrietta said, then signed with her hands as she addressed the little seamstress crawling about her hem. “No, Peony, you didn’t stick me, only my shoe. You’re doing a fine job, dear.”
Peony blew a sigh of relief around the pins in her mouth. She had been left deaf due to a childhood illness, and for her sake,the Sisters of Benevolence had developed a signing language based on that developed by Abbé Charles-Michael de l’Epée in France. Henrietta was slowly becoming fluent.
“Of course you are going to the ball,” Darien said. “Clarinda wants to show off her new Sir Jasper, and your aunt and uncle are attending. I shall reserve a dance.”
A streak of perversity Henrietta would have sworn was not in her character suddenly reared its head. She was risking her reputation, becoming a subject of lampoons, all because he wanted to be close to Sir Pelton. Not her.
“Are you endeavoring to put me in your debt so I might approach Lady Celeste on your behalf?” He’d admitted he had no one to ask. “Because I cannot see what influence I would have.” Henrietta waved away little Mary, approaching with a bolt of violet silk. “Shall I quiz her on her intentions? Ask her to name the father?”
Darien maintained a stony face, turning pages in the pattern book, but a muscle in his cheek flickered. Remorse filled Henrietta. She was being unutterably cruel, all because she did not want to be thought his mistress.
