“Pippin, sit,” she commanded, pointing firmly at the pavement. “You can’t come. You’d eat all the ribbons.”
The dog barked once, then slumped onto his haunches with a sigh. His ears drooped, his eyes fixed on Cassie with an expression of such patent betrayal that Hudson had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
The carriage pulled up, the coachman nodding respectfully as he opened the door. Cassie clambered in with the grace of a girl who had been climbing into carriages since she could walk, followed more sedately by Augusta. Hudson took the rear-facing seat, settling down with the ease of long practice.
The drive to Bond Street was brief but pleasant, Cassie chattering happily about the various styles she had been studying in the fashion plates Augusta had brought from the library.
They reached Madame LeClair’s establishment within a few minutes. The bell above the door jingled as they entered, and a small, dark-haired woman emerged from the rear of the shop, her hands full of pins and measuring tape.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, inclining her head. “Lady Cassandra. And Miss…” She paused, her professional smile faltering slightly as she took in Augusta’s plainly cut dress.
“Miss Norton,” Hudson supplied. “Lady Cassandra’s governess.”
“Of course.” Madame LeClair recovered smoothly. “And how may I assist you today?”
“We’re here to buy ballgowns,” Cassie announced. “For the spring ball at Oakhart House. I’ve brought sketches.” She produced a folded sheet of paper from her reticule. “For me and Miss Norton.”
Hudson’s eyebrows rose. “Miss Norton?”
“Of course,” Cassie said, as though the question were absurd. “She can’t attend the ball in her day dress. It wouldn’t be proper.” She turned to Augusta. “Would it?”
Augusta’s cheeks colored slightly. “Cassie, I’m not?—”
“You’ll need a dress,” Hudson cut in, the words coming out before he could stop them. “You’re attending as Cassie’scompanion. It would be… inappropriate for you to appear in anything less than proper evening attire.”
He was aware of Madame LeClair’s sharp gaze darting between them, of the small furrow that had appeared between Augusta’s eyebrows, of Cassie’s suddenly speculative expression.
He cleared his throat. “I believe we should begin with Lady Cassandra’s fitting. Miss Norton can decide on her requirements while we’re occupied.”
Madame LeClair nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. If you’ll follow me?”
She led them to a small room at the rear of the shop, where a low dais stood before a tall mirror. Bolts of fabric lined the walls, silks and satins and muslins in every shade from palest cream to deepest burgundy.
“I’ve brought several styles that might suit,” she said, turning her attention to Cassie. “White, of course, for a young lady’s first ball, but perhaps with a colored sash? Or an embroidered hem?”
Cassie was already flipping through the pattern books, her expression intent. “This one,” she said, pointing to an illustration of a dress with a high waist and gathered sleeves. “In white, with a blue sash. And perhaps a little lace at the neck? Not too much,” she added quickly. “Just enough to be pretty.”
“An excellent choice.” Madame LeClair nodded. “And the fabric?”
“Something that moves,” Cassie said decisively. “I want to be able to dance properly.”
The next quarter-hour passed in a blur of fabric samples and measurements, Cassie standing perfectly still on the dais while Madame LeClair and her assistant circled her with pins and tape measures.
“She’s grown so much,” Hudson murmured, the words escaping before he could consider them.
“She’ll grow more,” Augusta said softly. “One day you’ll look up, and she’ll be a grown woman, with a household of her own and opinions on everything from politics to poultry.” Her smile held a hint of sadness. “It happens in the blink of an eye.”
“I’m not ready for it,” Hudson admitted. “Any of it.”
“Few parents are.” Augusta’s hand moved, as if to touch his arm, then settled back in her lap. “But readiness isn’t required. Only presence.”
The moment stretched between them, taut with possibility.
Hudson was aware of her breath, which was slightly faster than it had been a moment before. Of the small pulse beating at thebase of her throat, of the way her lips parted as if in unconscious invitation.
“Miss Norton,” Cassie called from the dais, breaking the spell. “What do you think of the white one?”
Augusta turned, her attention shifting with the ease of long practice. “I think it’s perfect,” she said.
