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31
Romy pulled a pin from the tiny cushion attached to her wrist, tacking it on the hem of the gown she worked on. The storeroom had once been used for fittings before Madame Dupree had enlarged her establishment, but Romy now used the area as her workspace. It was good to be back at the modiste’s shop, surrounded by so many of the things she loved. Her sketches were strewn across a table in the middle of the room, while the remainder were tacked on the wall along with corresponding swatches of fabric.
The muted sounds of Madame and her assistants filtered through the walls, but Romy kept well out of sight. The talk about her plying a needle as modiste had ceased to circulate, and she’d returned to Madame Dupree’s, albeit discreetly. She no longer roamed the front of the shop, offering her advice to young ladies. It was deemed too risky by both the modiste and Romy’s brother.
After the Ralston ball, the gossip about her and Granby had slowed to a trickle. According to Theo, who heard it from Rosalind, Beatrice had finally confessedshehad refused Granby during the house party but had been too fearful to tell Lord and Lady Foxwood of her decision. She dismissed Romy as nothing more than an attempt on Granby’s part to make her jealous.
Now, instead of gossip, Romy was the subject of sympathetic looks and unwanted pity.
While it wasn’t flattering to be thought of as a consolation prize in Granby’s pursuit of Beatrice, Romy dared not contradict any of the talk. Her reputation was battered enough for now. The entire affair left her with an oily feeling in her stomach, as if she’d eaten too much cream sauce. Granby had been adamant he would not marry Beatrice, but maybe not for the reasons Romy had originally assumed. She meant to ask Granby if he ever returned to London.
He’d told her he wished to talk to her. He’d be gone at most a fortnight, he’d said.
Notan entire month.
No one, not even Haven, who called on her with strange regularity, though she suspected he was really looking for Theo, or Estwood, who had taken her to view a collection of Egyptian mummies, had spoken to Granby.
It doesn’t matter. He finds me too flawed for him. Unsuitable. He is an icy giant incapable of love.
Unfortunately, repeating those lines every time she thought of Granby, which was far too often, didn’t make thelackof him any easier to bear. He’d broken her heart and stomped upon it, yet still, she longed for him, even knowing he couldn’t return her feelings. Not really. Physical desire was certainly wonderful, as she’d recently found out, but it could not replace love.
I want him to love me for me. Drawbacks and all.
She breathed out, rubbing the patch of skin over her heart. Before Granby, Romy would have scoffed at the notion that she, a duke’s daughter, was considered remotely unsuitable. But the Barrington Bubble, as she liked to refer to the protection her parents had encased her and her sisters in for so many years, had popped.
It was amazing the things one learned about the Barringtons if you only listened.
Ruffling the lace on the bodice of the gown she worked on, Romy took a bit of ribbon, trying it against the shoulder. She hadn’t quite forgiven Granby for his view of her. It chafed against her heart. Was it worse to be unloved because she was unsuitable? Or preferable to be unloved because Granby wasn’t capable of the emotion?
She leaned back against the table, indescribably sad, thoughts of him taking all the wind from her sails. The dress before her no longer held any interest. Nor did her sketches. What she really wanted to do was go home, sit on a chair before the fire in her room, and wallow in self-pity. Maybe cry. She’d done so last night, but it hadn’t helped.
“I thought I might find you here, though I didn’t expect you to be so distressed, especially when surrounded by mounds of fabric and fripperies. Did someone steal your pins? Destroy a bolt of tulle? I know, someone unraveled your ribbons.” The words rumbled from directly behind her.
Romy turned, hiding her surprise and happiness at his appearance. He’d been gone for amonth. Not that he owed her a note or any bloody sign he was still alive but—
“I’m out of feathers. The peacocks have been most uncooperative. I’m quite despondent.”
Granby stooped a bit as he made his way through the doorway, his hat dangling from one hand. “I was hoping your melancholy was brought on by missing me.”
Romy’s skin prickled in the most delicious manner, warming as he drew near. “Perish the thought, Your Grace.” Didn’t Granby know she carried a piece of him in her soul? Stolen from him that night in the study?
His ebony hair looked a bit longer, curling around his ears and collar in a wild manner. The savage slash of cheekbone and nose were pinked as if he’d been out in the sun for hours without a proper hat. All that sun must have melted the icecaps he usually wore on his massive shoulders, for there was only a hint of chill when he spoke.
Most unusual.
Romy had to grab the edge of the table with her fingers to keep from throwing her arms around him. She’d missed him that much.
Granby came forward, cocking his head at the dressmaker’s dummy along with the sketches strewn about the room. “You’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been gone,” she finally croaked.
“You noticed. But I did mention I’d be gone when last we spoke.”
“For a week, possibly two,” she said, cringing at the needy sound of her words. “How did you know I was here?”
“Youdidmiss me.” Warmth lay banked in the darkness of his eyes. “I’ve missed you too. And Madame Dupree let me know of your whereabouts.”
She sniffed the air, catching leather and horses. “You’re rather dusty,” she said, noting the state of his coat and boots.
