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Abbot gave her a squeeze. “Shhh. That is a secret, remember. And it’s none of our business.”
Estelle huffed out an impatient breath, but she let him have his way. She loved him, despite his old-fashioned manners and his failure to understand the ways of the world. Or perhaps she loved him because of it.
The Lacey town house was in Mayfair, and Olivia soon found it was very different from the informality of the Monteith house in Bassingthorpe. When she complained that there were servants everywhere and the housekeeper’s favorite phrase was “Lady Lacey, we have a certain way of doing things here,” Nic laughed at her.
“You’ll win her over,” he reassured her.
The last time she’d been in London was with her parents, and although they’d visited the theater and gone shopping, their tastes and outlook were very different from that of the Laceys. Nic seemed to expect the best of everything, and his name was enough to ensure that he got it, too.
He also seemed determined to take her everywhere.
The first night they went to the ballet and drank champagne in their box, while Olivia was ogled by swells from the stalls and Nic sat possessively close. The next day they rode through Hyde Park and visited the exclusive shops along Bond Street. Then Nic took her to an establishment tucked away nearby, which he said catered to the best-dressed women in London.
Olivia found the shop small and dingy, and it was only when they were shown upstairs that her impressions changed. Here the room was decorated lavishly, with small chairs with spindly legs and brocade-covered sofas, and mirrors. A great many mirrors. The heavy golden curtain at one end of the room was lifted aside and a middle-aged woman in a plain gown, which contrasted starkly with the decor, came to greet them.
“Lord Lacey!” The proprietress seemed to know him well. Her eyes were tired, as if she never had quite enough sleep, and as they fixed on Olivia, her mouth widened into a smile that wasn’t quite genuine. “Ah, you have brought me your latest companion. What is it you are looking for, my lord? Something elegant and yet revealing for your nights in Paris?”
Olivia realized then that she’d been mistaken for a demimondaine. Such an error hadn’t concerned her when she attended the demimonde ball, but today it did. Today it reminded her of all the other women Nic had known in his life.
“Nic, please,” she murmured, leaning close, “let us go.”
“Nonsense, my love.” Nic frowned. “We’ve only just arrived. Madam Esmeralda has made a mistake, that is all. Esmeralda, this lady is my wife, Lady Lacey.”
r /> “Your wife…?” The proprietress gasped. She steadied herself with one hand against a chair back, and then made a dainty curtsy. “Lady Lacey, I do apologize.”
Nic ignored the awkwardness. “Madam Esmeralda, I have brought her here to you because you are the best modiste in London.”
Esmeralda gave an uncomfortable laugh. “You are too kind, my lord.”
Olivia, too, was uncomfortable. She could see now that this was not the sort of dressmaker that the respectable ladies of London patronized. The gaudy furnishings, the opulent mirrors, all bespoke a certain type of clientele. Her fingers tightened on Nic’s arm, trying to gain his attention, but again he pretended not to notice.
“I want my wife to shine, Esmeralda,” he said, making himself comfortable on a bloodred sofa. “I want all of London to see her shine brighter than the duchesses and the countesses, and all the rest. This is important to me.”
Esmeralda looked as if she’d swallowed an egg, whole. “Yes, of course, Lord Lacey,” she said, but it was an effort. She began a slow walk about Olivia, inspecting her figure and her coloring, making notes in a little book that was fastened about her neck with a narrow black ribbon. Olivia knew she should walk out, that was what her mother would do, and certainly what Nic’s mother would have done, but for some reason she stayed.
Perhaps it was the dark shadows under Esmeralda’s eyes, or Nic’s pride in her and the fact that he wanted to share it with such important people as duchesses and countesses…
Madam Esmeralda had finished her inspection. “Your wife is very beautiful, Lord Lacey, but hers is the beauty of the moon. If you will permit me, I will make her shine like the sun.”
Nic unfolded his lean body from the sofa, smiling his pleasure at her words. “Come to my house in Mayfair when you have something to show me, Esmeralda.”
“I will, my lord.” She curtsied again, a little lower this time, as if to ensure the sale. “My lady.”
Olivia was glad to leave, hurrying down the dim stairs and through the shop, and out into the daylight. Their carriage was waiting farther down the narrow street, a group of urchins gathered around it, hoping for a generous toff to provide them with a few coppers.
“I don’t know if I want to shine like the sun,” Olivia said in a chilly voice, as Nic helped her up. “And I don’t like your friend Esmeralda.”
He gave her a lazy smile. “Esmeralda is the best modiste in London. Why would I not take you to the best?”
Olivia reached into her reticule and took out a handful of pennies, giving one to each child, and a smile to go with it. Nic watched her indulgently, and when the ragged crew had vanished back into the streets where they’d come, he helped her into the carriage.
They turned into the busier thoroughfare, moving slowly as the traffic grew heavier. Olivia smoothed a truant lock of hair back under her bonnet, wondering if Nic was really so obtuse or if he was just pretending, and was it for his own amusement or her embarrassment?
“Obviously you’ve taken other women to her. Your mistresses.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Are you jealous, Olivia?”
Of course she was jealous—she was sick with jealousy! But it occurred to Olivia that it might not be wise to show him how jealous of him she had become. A man like Nic, used to his freedom, might feel suffocated by such an emotion.
