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The bell above the door rang just as Romy straightened from behind the counter, her mind already on the gown she meant to concoct for Miss Waterstone.
“Madame Dupree.” A young lady entered the shop, her eyes sweeping over Romy and instantly dismissing her.
Romy smiled to herself. There was anonymity in clothing at times. It would save her from having to make pleasant conversation. The young lady looked vaguely familiar, but Romy certainly didn’t want to renew any acquaintance dressed in this hideous frock. Shawl hastily draped over her shoulders, Romy started toward the door.
“You, there. Where is Madame Dupree?”
Romy ignored the haughty command, instantly recognizing the dulcet, spoiled tone, for it was much more memorable than Lady Beatrice Howard herself.
At least in Romy’s estimation.
The daughter of the Earl of Foxwood had sounded just as imperious while gossiping at the last ball Romy’s mother had given at the Averell mansion. Beatrice had been whispering with Rebecca Turnbull, now Lady Carstairs, about Romy’s sister-in-law.
I believe I threatened both young ladies with bodily harm if they didn’t cease their disparagement of Maggie.
“Madame is closing for the day.” Romy averted her gaze hoping the ugly dress would disguise her.
Beatrice tapped her foot. “I must speak to her.”
“You are free to wait.” Romy could have offered to fetch Madame Dupree, but she wasn’t feeling charitable toward the spoiled young lady before her. Madame would eventually return to lock the front door and secure the counter. Beatrice could only benefit from a lesson in patience.
Romy’s anger flared, remembering only too well the ugly gossip Beatrice had helped spread the night her brother had compromised Maggie, now the Duchess of Averell. While everything had worked out for the best eventually, Beatrice and her friend Rebecca had been unnecessarily unkind.
The door to the shop was flung open again, but this time, the bell vibrated violently as if it were in danger of being torn from its perch.
“Lady Beatrice,” a low irritated voice intoned. “You promised your errand would take barely a moment which is theonlyreason I agreed to stop. Lady Foxwood grows impatient in the carriage. As do I.”
A tall, imposing form strode into Madame Dupree’s, contrasting starkly against the feminine bolts of fabric, ribbons, and other fripperies. The gentleman, with boredom etched across his features, was memorable not only for his immense height and build, but also for the scowl fixed on his lips.
A tiny prick of awareness slid up Romy’s spine, though she didn’t care for the man stomping about Madame Dupree’s in the least.
“Your Grace, I apologize,” Beatrice said, all modesty and fluttering lashes. “I was dealing with a most impertinent employee”—she gestured helplessly in Romy’s direction—“who refuses to assist me.”
The Duke of Granby swept further into the modiste’s shop, his presence sucking up all the available air in the small space. A thick wave of ebony hair fell forward over his left eye and he pushed it back with a flick of his wrist.
Errant wave of hair. One wonders why he didn’t just order it to obey him.
She hadn’t seen him in close to two years, not since they’d traded insults at Lady Masterson’s garden party. Much like that occasion, Granby appeared to be annoyed with everything around him, which, at the moment, included her. He hadn’t changed one whit, except he was now frequenting dress shops with Lady Beatrice Howard.
Would he recognize her? It had been quite a long time ago, and she’d barely merited his attention.
He called me a shrub.
“Your Grace.” Romy dipped politely though they’d never been properly introduced. “As I explained to Lady Beatrice—” She lifted her eyes slightly, taking in the hem of his coat. It was perfect. Exactly the correct length. That, at least, was pleasing. He’d taken her advice and found a better tailor. “Madame Dupree is closed for the day.”
His eyes, like bits of onyx, gleamed at her, peeling away the sack of a dress with one look. Gaze roaming over her carefully, he examined Romy, mouth softening slightly in appreciation.
The oddest sensation rippled over her skin, pleasant and vaguely sensual.
“You know who I am?” Beatrice seemed not to notice Granby’s attention was fixed on Romy. “Then you know how important I am to Madame Dupree.”
“Of course, you are.” Madame Dupree swept into the room with a deep curtsy. “Lady Beatrice, my apologies. I was not expecting you and was about to close for the day. Your Grace, what a pleasure it is to welcome you to my shop.”
“Your assistant is insolent.” Granby snorted in annoyance. “You should have her sacked.” The dark eyes lingered on Romy’s mouth before dismissing her with a tick of his chin.
Romy swallowed the insult hovering at her lips, though she dearly wished to fling it at him.
Madame Dupree’s crimson painted mouth opened with an audible pop, clearly horrified at his assumption that Romy worked for her.
