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“Why, Your Grace, this is quite a surprise.” The Baron said smoothly. It was clearly rehearsed. “My Rosaline… well, she is my oldest and dearest child.”
Benedict raised an eyebrow. “Dearest? You have favorites among your children?”
“No, no, nothing like that!” The Baron said, hastily backtracking. “I only mean… well, she means a lot to me. To us.” He corrected, taking his wife’s hand. “We should like to know that your intentions are honorable, and completely serious.”
Benedict crossed one leg over the other, taking his time, examining his nails. His hosts were perched on the ends of their seats, holding their breaths.
Waiting to see what he would say.
“Of course,” Benedict replied. “In fact, I had plans for Miss Wyre and myself today, in fact. I noticed that some of her gowns were rather old-fashioned.”
“Her preference,” the Baroness interjected smoothly.
“Hm. Well, I had planned to take her on a little shopping trip. I thought perhaps a new gown would be a good gift to start our courtship.”
Lady Wyre’s face lit up. “What a kind gesture. I shall accompany you.”
Oh no. No, no. Benedict had no intention of being monopolized by the Baroness today, and no doubt putting up with her endless hints to buy her a new gown, too.
“That won’t be necessary.” Benedict said, with perfect surety and authority. The trick was to leave no hint of doubt that he expected to be obeyed. “Miss Wyre can simply bring along her lady’s maid as a chaperone. She does have a lady’s maid, does she not?”
Benedict would have wagered a lot of money that Miss Wyre did not, in fact, have a lady’s maid; that none of the Wyre brood had a lady’s maid. However, the Baron and Baroness glanced at each other, and mumbled something about “fetching Margaret”.
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were crammed into Benedict’s carriage – him, Rosaline, and a stocky, sour-faced girl who glared at him as if he’d personally wronged her.
Rosaline did not look comfortable. She fidgeted in her seat, staring out of the window, picking at her fraying cuffs, and generally looking anywhere except at Benedict.
It was annoying, but it wasn’t like there would be any privacy here. The wretched maid would be listening to it all. She couldn’thelplistening. Benedict didn’t know whether Margaret was supposed to be the Baroness’ eyes and ears or not, but he wasn’t about to take the risk.
“Is this really necessary, Your Grace?” Rosaline finally said.
“What do you mean? Do you refer to the carriage ride? I’m afraid it’s a little too far to walk.”
Benedict was being deliberately obtuse. He knew exactly what Rosaline meant but didn’t particularly wish to have this discussion.
She looked away, twisting her hands in her lap, and Benedict realized that if he had hoped she would drop the subject, he’d horribly underestimated her.
“Ihave dresses, Your Grace.” She said finally. “I don’t need you to buy me another dress.”
“Buy you another dress? Gracious, that isn’t the plan at all.”
“It isn’t?” Rosaline faltered, a blush springing to her cheeks.
“No. You will need much more than a new gown. You shall need gowns for all occasions, coats, riding-things, hats, bonnets, undergarments, stockings, shoes, and so on. It’s a rather long list, and could not possibly be narrowed down to merelyanother gown.”
Rosaline was blushing even harder now. “But the expense…”
“You are being courted by a duke.” Benedict said firmly. This point must be gotten across once and for all. “All eyes will be on you. You must be flawless. One cannot get away with turned-up cuffs and darned gowns when one is in Society’s eye, Miss Wyre.”
She said nothing else for the rest of the journey.
The carriage rolled to a halt outside an understated, white-painted building which belonged to Madame Contrefacon. She was neither French nor a widow, as she claimed, and Benedict personally thought that choosing her surname from the French word for ‘forgery’ was either very bold or very stupid.
However, it couldn’t be argued that she was the finest modiste in London. Judging by the way Rosaline’s expression tightened as she took in where they were, she knew it too.
“This is Madame Contrefacon’s modiste.” She said, unnecessarily.
“Yes. Out you get.”
