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She flipped the skirt down before he'd even withdrawn his hands, but her modesty left Hart with the sight of his arms disappearing under her skirts. A far more intriguing image than the reality of her injured leg. He would have let his hands linger, but she kicked him.
"Well then." He stood with a nod. "Was it worth the fifty pounds?"
"Suffering your arrogance? Not really."
He sighed, surprised that his pique was mostly feigned. "Then I'll take pity on you and leave you to exercise that razor wit on an empty room, shall I?"
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Hart wanted to stay, which was ridiculous really, so he spun around and let himself out the door. She was decidedly unpleasant, so why did he find her sharp tongue entertaining? Perhaps the boredom of winter had finally overwhelmed him. Or the undying boredom of having too much. Too much money, too much power, too much say over who came to his bed and when. And far too much time spent alone.
Chapter 3
"Bess!" Emma shut her front door behind her as she heard Matherton's carriage pull away. Her back protested when she crouched down to pop the latch of her traveling chest. She'd stayed up too late the night before, and the long carriage ride from Matherton's Wembley estate had left her spine aching, but she had work to do.
Bess hurried in, wiping her hands on her dingy apron.
"Help me carry these back. I'll be leaving for Moulter's in less than a week. The dye will hardly be dry."
Emma scooped up as many dresses as she could hold. As she turned to move toward the kitchen, Bess held up a midnight blue dress.
"What of this one?"
"Too dark. Anyway, if we dye it one more time it will likely fall apart. If we can't rework it I'll trade it for another."
Bess nodded and followed behind with the rest of the dresses.
"I think if we change the bodice on that gray one, it will do. It's a fairly unnoticeable skirt, and the color is even less memorable."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do we have more indigo? That turned out nicely."
"Yes, ma'am."
Emma hid a smile against the mound of silk and satin. Bess was hard-working, unassuming, and definitely not chatty. And she didn't care a whit that her employer was an impoverished fraud, she was simply glad to be away from her brute of a husband. She was the perfect housekeeper for a scoundrel.
Emma dropped the pile of dresses on the spotless kitchen table and watched Bess do the same. Then her housekeeper hurried to the stove to stoke the coals and start a large pot of water boiling. Emma began examining each garment. "I've only worn this once," she murmured and shifted a dark green dress to the side. "But Osbourne has admired the lilac dress twice now. It will take the indigo dye well."
"I'll take apart the gray one, ma'am, while we wait for the water."
"Thank you, Bess. Give me a moment to change into something more serviceable and I'll help. I can rip out seams, at least."
Bess was, thankfully, a serviceable seamstress, because Emma had never sewn a straight line in her life and couldn't afford to send the dresses out. It was all she could do to afford Bess, but this scheme would have been impossible without the woman's help. Emma felt selfishly thankful that Bess had finally decided to flee her husband just as the London coach passed by her tiny hamlet. As soon as the woman had boarded, eyes bruised black and mouth set in a determined line, Emma had started to plan. There is a woman who needs a new life even more than I, she'd thought. And so she had offered it, and Bess had quietly accepted.
"Long as you're not staying in London long. I was planning to pass through."
"No," Emma had agreed. "Just long enough."
They had only two months left before Emma lost her lease on the town house. She couldn't afford the jump in rent, and the Season didn't interest her anyway. Two more months to round out her coffers, then she'd leave forever.
She finished her sorting just as a tap sounded at the kitchen door.
"Let me," Emma said, as Bess began to set aside her work. She opened the door to find a scrawny boy waiting in the dank stairwell. "Yes?"
The boy looked her up and down with hostile confusion. "Who're you?"
"Pardon me? Can I help you with something?"
