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He had forgotten her sense of the ridiculous. It had always amused him and it did now. ‘I suspect that all men snore.’
‘That is a blow.’ She wrinkled her nose in thought. ‘I know the answer—separate bedrooms for us, my lord.’
‘We will see about that, my lady,’ Giles said with an exaggerated leer that made her laugh out loud.
Hell, but I want her.
Even as he thought it he saw the dark smudges under her eyes, the way she had leaned back into the support of the chair, the way the laugh faded away to a smile. Laurel was bone weary with travelling and with the emotional impact of what they had agreed to do. What he felt and what he wanted did not matter, Giles realised, only what was best for Laurel.
‘And you are going to your chaste and lonely, but very comfortable, bed just as soon as you have finished that tartlet.’
‘As my lord commands.’ There it was again, that flash of mischief, the way she had always teased him, never allowing him to take himself too seriously.
‘Are you going to be a disobedient wife, Laurel?’ He got to his feet and rang the bell.
‘I believe I will be. I have had nine years of being so very good, you see. I think I am long overdue my rebellion,’ she said as he pulled out her chair for her to rise. As the door opened to admit Michael, the footman, her wicked smile vanished to be replaced with one that was perfectly demure. ‘Goodnight, my lord.’
‘Michael, escort Lady Laurel to her suite. Is her woman there? If not, send her up.’
‘Yes, my lord. I believe that all is in readiness for her ladyship.’
‘Goodnight, my dear.’ He permitted himself a chaste kiss on her cheek, tried not to notice the fleeting caress of her hand on his shoulder, the scent of lily of the valley, the way her eyelashes curled on her cheek when she closed her eyes for a second. When had his skinny little friend become this beautiful, disconcerting woman?
* * *
‘It is exceedingly difficult not having any acquaintances to make recommendations for shops,’ Laurel observed as the carriage made its way through Mayfair side streets. They were in search of one of the modistes whose name she and Binham had gleaned from scouring through the pile of fashion magazines that Peter, the footman, had produced that morning. ‘I assume that if a particular dressmaker has a design featured in La Belle Assemblée or the Repository then she must be fashionable, but for all one knows she could have paid the publishers to be included.’
‘These gowns do seem to be in the first stare, my lady.’ Binham passed her a print of a ball gown worn by a willowy brunette with improbably tiny feet, who was posed against a broken pillar in the Tuscan style, one hand dramatically raised to her brow.
‘Tomorrow for the wedding I shall wear my new rose-pink
morning dress with the dark green pelisse and kid shoes,’ Laurel said, looking askance at the pose in the print. If ladies were supposed to throw themselves into attitudes she was going to feel very self-conscious. ‘There is no hope of getting anything ready to wear and I do not want to reveal the fact that I need a gown to be married in. Have you the list? I think this must be Madame Ranier’s shop.’
The double-fronted shop was painted a tasteful mint green with touches of gilt and the windows displayed single gowns, draped over velvet stands and accessorised with a few well-chosen items. ‘This looks acceptable, my lady.’
‘I agree.’ Laurel gathered up her reticule and descended on to the pavement. Fashionable dressmakers could be as snobbish as the grandest dowager, she had heard. She fixed a faint, aloof smile on her lips and swept into the shop.
‘Madame?’ The smart assistant was certainly promising. At the rear of the shop a curtain moved. Laurel assumed she was being assessed.
‘I am Lady Laurel Knighton. I require an extensive new wardrobe and as I am unfamiliar with London I am hoping to find a modiste to suit me.’
The curtains parted and a middle-aged woman with dyed black hair and a figure that suggested the most rigorous corseting emerged. ‘My lady. I am Madame Ranier. I would be most happy to show your ladyship some of our work.’ Sharp black eyes flickered over Laurel’s face and figure.
She could almost read the thoughts. Not in the first blush of youth, no ingénue. Well-made outfit, superior maid. Private carriage with a team of four.
‘Hortense, a chair for Lady Laurel.’
‘Thank you. I trust I may count upon your discretion, madame?’ She lowered her voice and the modiste came closer. ‘I am to be married very shortly. My future husband and I wish to avoid the vulgar display of a public wedding, you understand. In his position...’ She let her voice trial off suggestively. ‘My wedding gown is, naturally, already made, but I require morning dresses, walking dresses, a riding habit and, perhaps, at this stage, two evening gowns. And I need them as soon as possible.’
‘A ball gown, my lady?’ Laurel could almost hear the clink of guineas being added up in the dressmaker’s head.
‘Later, perhaps. And I would be most obliged for your recommendations for milliners, cordwainers and haberdashers.’
* * *
It was nearly two when Laurel arrived back at St James’s Square, hungry and weary, but very pleased with her morning’s work. Most of the items she had bought would be delivered that afternoon, but Binham was guarding one magnificent striped hatbox containing the bonnet to be worn at the wedding.
As they were getting out of the carriage a young lady came down the steps of a house three doors down. She turned north towards them, her maid on her heels, and seemed to be scrutinising the numbers on the doors. It took only a moment to bring her level with Laurel and she came to a stop, her way blocked by the open carriage door, Binham disputing the carrying of the hatbox with the footman and Laurel herself.
