She remembered a time when a seamstress wouldn’t have finished up with anyone. Althea had garnered all the attention once she entered a shop, and she’d gloried in the singular devotion. Looking back on it from where she stood these days made her feel as though she’d been unjustifiably spoiled. Whatever had she done to deserve special treatment, other than having the good fortune of being born into a particular family? A good fortune that had not lasted, as it turned out.
“We’re in no hurry, so take your time,” Benedict said. “I do have some other matters to attend to. Will an hour be sufficient?”
“More than enough,” Beth said before hastening over to assist Mrs. Welch.
“You’re not leaving me,” Althea said, not at all happy with the thought of being abandoned.
“I assumed you’d be comfortable here, would know your way around a dressmaker’s shop.”
Of course she was. She’d had a wardrobe stuffed with satin, silk, and lace. One of her favorite gowns had looked as though the skirt had been created from peacock feathers, the embroidery so exquisite it never failed to snag attention whenever she wore it. “Do you suppose she thinks I’m... your paramour?”
“What does it matter how she perceives you? Do you believe once you’ve achieved your objective that you’ll be looked upon favorably anywhere?”
Not favorably perhaps, but she would surround herself with so much haughtiness that no one would dare turn their back on her. She would gain the attention of a prince who was known for enjoying wicked widows, and once she curried his favor, she would have power. “You sound cross.”
“What reason have I to be cross? And Beth doesn’t judge. I’ll return for you when I’ve completed my affairs.”
She watched as he strode out into what had morphed into a downpour that threatened to flood streets. Did he find getting drenched preferable to her company? How was it that everything had changed so drastically from the comfortable visit in the library last night to the awkwardness that seemed to latch on to them with the steadfastness of a harness to a horse? Was it because he’d rethought what she’d revealed about her family and discovered the truth of it left a nasty taste in his mouth? Or was it the kiss he’d found distasteful?
“Miss Stanwick?”
She swung around to face the seamstress whose eyes were filled with understanding, as though she recognized the look of the lovelorn when she saw it. Although Althea wasn’t in love. At the moment she wasn’t even certain she was in like. “Miss Beth.”
“Beth will suffice. For the day dresses, I have some fabrics, the shade of which I think will complement your complexion nicely. Shall we have a look?”
“The gown. I’d like it to be red as well, a bright red that is impossible to miss, with a low neckline that leaves no doubt regarding my endowments.” She was hoping for an evening when she might assess its allure before ever attending a ball by testing it on Benedict Trewlove.
Chapter 13
Hewascross. Cross that she thought herself deserving of being a lightskirt. Because of something her dunderhead of a father, her idiot of a betrothed, and a host of unappreciative friends, had done. He’d never suffered a cut direct but knew what it was to be made to feel less—less than deserving of breath or kindness or acceptance. It all came with the circumstances of his birth, something over which he’d had not one iota of control just as she’d had no power over her sire’s decision to become embroiled in a plot to change who sat upon a throne.
But in both cases innocents were made to suffer.
It angered him that he was angry. In his youth he’d fought inner demons to ensure he maintained control of his emotions. He’d always been big but hadn’t grown elegantly into his size. He’d seemed out of proportion with legs too long, arms too short and beefy. Hands three times too big. His torso had been bulky, stout, rotund. Eventually, he’d evened out, grown into a mighty oak that could move without clumsiness. But he’d often struck out at those who’d laughed at him, mocked him, called him unflattering names.
Whenever his mum had tended to his cuts and scrapes, she would admonish him to ignore the cruel barbs slung at him—“One cannot throw horse dung without getting his own hands covered in muck.”—to exercise patience, whichin the end would elevate him above those who thought making sport of others somehow made them better. Eventually, he’d sought out Gillie to see to his hurts because, like him, she’d been abandoned, having been left in a wicker basket on Ettie Trewlove’s doorstep. Also, like him, she hadn’t an inkling as to who might be her parents. So their common ignorance regarding why they’d been given away and by whom had formed a strong bond between them.
He wasn’t even certain the woman who’d handed him over was, in fact, his mother. She’d never claimed to be. He suspected she’d told Ettie Trewlove she’d return for him because she hadn’t sufficient coins to pay her required fee, and had given a lie so he wouldn’t be turned away. Perhaps that meant she’d cared for him a bit. But even caring didn’t prove she was his mother.
Not that it mattered, not any longer. Having recently turned thirty-three, he’d accepted what he didn’t know wasn’t nearly as important as what he did. He knew his temper could be a frightful thing, which was the reason he kept it on a tight leash, but he might untether it if he ever encountered Chadbourne. He most certainly would have given it free rein should his path have crossed Thea’s father’s. Especially as it seemed a hanged duke could continue to do damage. Could make his daughter feel unworthy of the dreams she’d once held.
By the time he reached his destination, rainwater flowed off the brim of his beaver hat, flowed in rivulets down the length of his heavy greatcoat. He jerked open the door and strode into the foyer where most gents were escorted right back out of the exclusive club for ladies, but then he wasn’t most gents. “Aiden about?”
“You’ll find him in the garret, Mr. Trewlove,” the young woman behind the counter said as she held out her hands expectantly to receive his hat and greatcoat. It always unsettled him when someone referred to him as mister, as though he was a civilized bloke, and hadn’t banged a few heads in his day. He was nearly grown before he’d recognized the wisdom of his mum’s admonishments and had begun working to curb his temper, but it easily flared when needed, and his fists were always ready to deliver justice in order to douse the flames.
With reluctance, he removed his hat and shrugged out of his coat. “They’re quite wet.”
Taking them from him, she smiled. “As we have few clientele about at the moment who are in need of me, I’ll see what I can do to remedy that before you go out again.”
It wasn’t only the fact that it was late morning, but also the time of year that resulted in the dearth of customers. Most of the women who visited the club were aristocratic and presently in the country. But Aiden and his family resided in rooms on a floor above, so he was usually found here. “I’ll just head up.”
He took the stairs two at a time, following the familiar path up a few flights until he reached the floor where a narrower set of stairs led to the attic. At the top of them, he discovered the door was ajar, no doubt because the rain prevented the window from being opened in order to let some of the fumes from the paint escape the small area where his brother worked. Pressing a shoulder to the jamb, he studied what Aiden was committing to oils. “Do you paint only your wife these days?”
His brother didn’t seem startled by his words, but then the stairs had echoed Beast’s footsteps and he’d been told on more than one occasion that his presence stirred the air in a room so he couldn’t go unnoticed. On the other hand, when necessary, he could sneak up on a bloke and not be detected until it was too late.
“Why would I bother with anything else?” Aidenasked, stepping back to study his own work, which Beast always found ethereal in nature, as though the subject was being viewed through gossamer. In this instance it was a mother holding her infant son. “One should paint what brings joy.”
Swinging around, Aiden tilted his head toward the canvas. “These two bring me joy. It’s to be my gift to Lena for Christmas so if you see my wife before then, please don’t mention it.”
