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18
Romy sipped her tea, watching as Daisy bustled about the room, packing the trunks to be loaded on the Averell coach for their departure tomorrow morning. The only items of clothing left out were her ensemble for tonight and the traveling dress she would wear back to London tomorrow.
The ball, finally putting an end to their intolerable stay at The Barrow, was tonight. A shame Romy couldn’t find it in her heart to enjoy all of Lady Molsin’s efforts, especially since four of the guests, including herself, would be wearing creations of Romy’s own design. One of those spectacular gowns would be draped over Lady Beatrice Howard as she eagerly anticipated a proposal from the Duke of Granby.
Sticking a finger into her tea, Romy stirred the liquid about in her cup, thinking of Granby and her feelings for him, all of which were destined to remain unresolved. She refused to regret one moment of their time together. Not the kiss by the stream and certainly not yesterday as she had climaxed with him looking down upon her.
Her finger trembled, and she pulled it abruptly out of the tepid tea.
Romy didn’t blame Granby for what happened. She’d wanted him to touch her. If such a thing made her unacceptable to him, so be it.
Lady Beatrice, on the other hand, was a perfect example of English womanhood. Sheneverwould have rolled about in the grass with Granby or allowed him to stick his hands up her skirt. The very thought would make her faint.
Her maid paused in her packing. “Are you well, my lady? Its nearly time to dress.”
“I’m quite well, Daisy. Just not looking forward to the journey back to London. I detest being confined to a coach for any length of time.”
Daisy nodded. “I quite agree.”
Beatrice, if she were Granby, made much more sense as a wife. Her sense of superiority was firmly in place. She doubted Beatrice knew the names of her servants either and would never think of thanking a footman or maid for their assistance. Beatrice kept her true nature hidden beneath a veneer of modesty and ladylike decorum. She didn’t stride about trading insults with Granby. Beatrice would welcome Granby’s incredibly rigid existence in ways Romy could not.
When Granby had spoken of Italy, with more than a bit of longing, the complicated pieces of his life had started to come together for her. By all accounts, Granby’s father had been a bitter, controlling man. Granby hadn’t so much as traveled to Italy as he’descaped. Romy suspected the man he’d been in Italy was very different from the Duke of Granby. Bits of that man had followed him back to England, but not been allowed to flourish or take root.
A pity, since Granby’s current existence was choking him, as evidenced by the way he absently tugged at his collar, unaware of the habit. The gardens. His hair. The coat. Even Estwood was testament to a different existence. And yet, his duty kept him from embracing the truer version of himself.
Her eyes fluttered shut to keep the gathering tears from falling down her cheeks. How attuned she’d become to him in such a short time. The discomfort Romy caused Granby was real. The man he’d been in Italy wanted Romy, but the Duke of Granby did not. It was actually very simple once she accepted the truth.
Simple, indeed. But it brought her no peace.
* * *
“My lady, you look smashing.”Daisy’s pretty features smiled back at Romy in the oval of the mirror before bending to fluff out the bottom of the gown.
“I do, don’t I?” Romy touched a finger to one of the clips strategically placed in her coiffure.
“I am amazed by the things you create.” Daisy studied her hair. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think them alive and caught between your curls. Each butterfly is different.”
“I can’t take all the credit for the clips completely. I designed them, but Theo did the painting for me.” She turned sideways in the mirror, admiring the way the indigo-shot silk with butterflies embroidered along the hem, floated about her ankles. The skirts parted smoothly to reveal an underskirt also patterned with their beautiful wings. Every time Romy took a step, the gown gave the impression that butterflies were floating out from beneath her skirts.
There was a sharp knock at the door before Theo came through, stunning in a gown of palest pink. Romy had designed the gown so that the color faded from a light cream tinged with just a hint of color to a deep pink as it wrapped around Theo’s waist and bodice. The silk hugged her shoulders, showing a modest swath of skin. At each shoulder, the silk had been gathered to form a facsimile of a rose with a tiny bit of embroidery in green to represent a stem. Fresh roses dotted Theo’s hair.
“Lady Theo,” Daisy exclaimed. “You look like the bud of a rose about to open.”
“Don’t I?” Theo spun, letting her skirts flutter about her ankles. “Wait until Blythe sees my display of bosom.” She frowned a bit in Romy’s direction. “I thought we discussed cutting the bodice a bit deeper.”
“It wasn’t necessary.” Her sister was generously endowed, and a lower neckline would have been problematic. “I didn’t wish you to fall out at an inopportune moment.” Romy gazed down at her own less than generous bosom. There was little chance of such a thing happening to her.
“You’re a very talented artist, Theo. Daisy is amazed at how lifelike the butterflies appear. Perhaps you should showcase your artistic talent to Blythe rather than trying to entice him with only your bosom.”
Theo’s mouth parted, a calculating look crossing her face. “That’s brilliant. Oh, Romy. You are a genius.”
“I am?”
“You’ve just given me an idea of how I might entice Blythe into eventually offering for me. Thank you.”
Romy waited for an explanation, but Theo only smiled to herself and deftly changed the subject.
“Beatrice is going to hate it when the Barrington sisters outshine her, as we are certain to do,” Theo said. “Having made the acquaintance of Lord and Lady Foxwood, it is not hard to see where Beatrice’s manner stems from. I am grateful Mama is not thrustingustoward every eligible title.”
