Page 10 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

“Well, spit it out, gel,” the dowager said, thumping her cane on the floor imperiously. “We’ve not got all day.”

Darting another glance at Mr Bramwell, whose jaw was still set in an uncompromising line, Hetty put up her chin. If he couldn’t take a little criticism, he was in the wrong profession.

“Mr Bramwell, where is the ladies retiring room?”

He shot her a keen glance that made her stomach give an anxious flip before indicating the room. Hetty bent her head over the plan once more, her concerns validated as he confirmed its placement. Steeling her nerve, she placed her finger on the plan to illustrate her words as she spoke.

“I’m afraid the ladies’ retiring room is far too small and poorly placed. See here, this leads to the refreshments room, and one must cross the busy thoroughfare to access it. It will cause chaos with men and servants spilling drinks upon ladies hurrying to…to see to their needs,” she finished coolly.

Hetty glanced up, noting that Mr Bramwell was frowning at the plans. Encouraged that he might not dismiss her advice out of hand, she continued.

“If you truly want the hotel to be everything that is refined and elegant, then this room needs to be as lavish as the rest of it. There ought to be a space set aside for repairing gowns, a seating area where ladies can enjoy a moment of quiet or escape unwanted attention. There should be enough mirrors so that ladies need not elbow each other out of the way to check their hair. I cannot tell you how many grand balls I have been to where the ladies requirements seem to be little more than an afterthought. It makes the entire experience most disagreeable and can colour a woman’s view of an evening if her comfort is not adequately provided for. You do not want your female guests to find disfavour because you have not sufficiently considered their needs. Your ballroom may be magnificent, Mr Bramwell, but if the ladies have nowhere to recover themselves in comfort after hours of dancing and a crush at supper, they will pronounce the establishment barbarous.”

There was an intense silence during which Hetty could not bring herself to look at Mr Bramwell again.

Then, clapping.

“Bravo, my lady,” Mrs King said, looking utterly delighted and rather triumphant.

Mr King snorted. “My wife had also raised similar concerns,” he admitted to Mr Bramwell. “Though I confess, she did not explain them with such eloquence and specificity as Lady Henrietta.”

“There, see. I told you she was a clever chit, did I not?” the dowager said with satisfaction. “That’s exactly right, though I didn’t see it myself, even though the problem is obvious in hindsight.”

An odd combination of pleasure and embarrassment ran up the back of Hetty’s neck, and she allowed herself to glance at Mr Bramwell. He was still staring at the plan, his expression forbidding, and her stomach dropped. Lord. He was furious.

Yet then he looked up and met her eyes. “You raise a valid point, my lady,” he said, and to her surprise there was not an iota of resentment behind the words. Indeed, he seemed… impressed.

“Can it be mended?” Mr King asked.

Hetty watched with interest as Mr Bramwell leaned over the plans. She found the intense way he studied the drawing, his absolute attention, perfectly riveting, and wondered what it might feel like to be the subject of such attention. An unsettling flood of heat pooled low in her belly.

“I think so. If we move this wall here and enlarge this space, and this area becomes the refreshments room…” Mr Bramwell took out a pencil and began drawing upon the plan, remodelling the initial design.

“Oh!” she said, impressed at how easily he had solved the problem.

“Does that meet with your approval, my lady?” he asked, and she supposed she could not blame him if there was just a hint of sardonic amusement behind the question.

“It does. Nicely done, Mr Bramwell.”

He met her gaze, his grey eyes as cool as ever, but she thought she saw storm clouds there, a warning of distant thunder. It told her to watch her step, for he would not always be so accommodating.

Hetty smiled her sweetest smile and batted her eyelashes at him, like the silly young lady she wasn’t.

Chapter 4

Private Correspondence

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 16th July 1816

Alexander Seymour, his grace, The Duke of Hawkney, made his way down to the library. He was uncertain why he had remained at Hatherley House. His presence had been necessary for the wedding his grandmother had insisted on hosting, but he was at liberty now to go about his business.

The ducal estates were vast and needed much of his attention, and he preferred spending time in each of them rather than relying solely upon reports from his stewards, capable as they were. He had expected to take himself off immediately after the wedding, and yet he was still here. Every time he opened his mouth to instruct his valet to pack his things, he’d get this odd, unsettling sensation in his guts that told him to stay put.

He wondered if it was his grandmother he fretted over, for he had not been comfortable with her retiring here, so far from her doctor and from him. But he was not so stubborn as not to see what was before his eyes. Gee-Gee was thriving. The local doctor was a young man who seemed well able to deal with her intractable ways if she required medical attention, so he had no cause to worry over that. More to the point, the appalling club she had insisted on joining, and allowing his sister to join too, seemed to have the most invigorating effect on her health. It didn’t have the same effect on Alex, who worried about what the wretched woman might get involved in next, sedition and the overthrowing of the government would not have surprised him.

Striding to the library, he opened the door, only to discover the room was occupied.

“We’re busy,” his grandmother said, waving a hand at him as he noted the owners of The Mermaid, Lady Henrietta, and a fellow he thought he had noticed attending the wedding breakfast. “Come back later, my dear.”