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At least Chastity was still here.
“I had better make haste,” Chastity said, easing slowly to her feet whilst Nancy dozed in her mother’s arms. “It will be feeding time before long, and this little woman will ensure we all know it.”
Oliver grinned. “Sounds as though she knows her mind. Just like her mother.” He gave Nancy’s cheek the briefest brush of his finger and now Eleanor found herself envying her niece that gentle touch.
Utterly preposterous. Of course she was not going to envy a baby. Certainly not of that touch. She did not want him anywhere near her.
Chastity bid them both a quick farewell as Nancy began to stir, leaving her and Oliver standing in the drawing room together. The door to the drawing room remained open and Eleanor could think of no excuses to rid herself of him. She could hardly declare his presence scandalous with family nearby and a dozen servants around.
She took a deep breath. She’d simply give a quick dip, bid him a good day and—
“I need to speak with you.” The urgency in his tone made her freeze.
∞∞∞
Under other circumstances, Oliver might have taken the time to admire the slightly mussed Eleanor.
Hell, who was he kidding? He had been admiring her since the moment he’d stepped into the room. Wild curls sprung from her head, and her lips tightened as she held back a yawn. Last night she was elegant, and several sets of eyes had been upon her, but he liked the humanity of this morning. Women were wonderful in their elegance, but he always preferred the next morning, when their hair was loose, and their stays untightened. He could just imagine...
He shook his head to himself. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—imagine Eleanor after a night of vigorous lovemaking. Attractive or not, she was not mistress material.
Besides, he’d accompanied Blake here for other reasons.
“Well, what is it?” Eleanor demanded, her gaze skipping to the footman standing beside the door as though Oliver might be about to say or do something outrageous. She really did think him quite the rogue, did she not?
“Does Demeter know about the gown?”
Furrows appeared between her brows. “Gown? What gown?”
“The wedding dress?” Oliver waved a hand. “I would have to assume not. No woman could look so happy and have heard such news.”
“What news?” She crossed her arms. “Ashford, you are speaking in riddles.”
He eased out a breath. Quite how he’d become muddled in such matters he did not know but Blake was his dearest friend, and he was mightily fond of Demeter. He wanted them to be happy.
Neededthem to be happy, he supposed. One marriage out of the many he’d witnessed had to do well.
“Demeter’s gown has gone missing from the modistes.”
“Missing?”
“It has vanished.”
“How does a dress vanish?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I should imagine you have more knowledge of dresses and dressmakers than I.”
An eyebrow lifted. “I should imagine you have a rather vast experience of dresses.”
Or removing them.He caught the implication with ease. Apparently she still disliked him all thanks to a few lines of text in the scandal sheets. But unless one counted paying his mistresses’ accounts, he knew little else about the fitting and creation of dresses. He stuck to admiring the finished product.
“If you are done being rather irritated with me, I thought we might worry about Demeter.”
Her shoulders dropped. “You are right. Missing, though? When? And how?”
“I know almost as much as you do. The modiste sent word to Blake only yesterday. It seems the gown was stolen that very day.”
“How does Demeter not know?”
