"I'm paying," the duchess huffed. "The least you can do is let me have my way."
But even if Madame Victoire was a trifle odd,
Florence
could not betray her trust.
"If I marry," she said, "I shall be able to pay you back. Perhaps not at once," she added, thinking of
the possible tradesman, "but eventually."
She held her ground even in the face of the duchess's glare. Finally, her benefactress gave in with a
snort of annoyance. "Next you'll
be wanting
to pay room and board."
"If your Grace wishes,"
Florence
agreed.
"Cheek," muttered the duchess. "Don't know what girls are coming to these days."
Happily, when Madame Victoire arrived, the duchess's feathers were quickly smoothed.
Florence
had feared the dressmaker's manner would be too familiar, but her treatment of the duchess was impeccable, almost obsequious— though the duchess didn't seem to mind.
Their taste was in perfect accord. As a result,
Florence
had no say whatsoever. She was to have three new corsets, all French, four carriage dresses, six dinner dresses, another six suitable for dancing, and
the Lord only knew how many petticoats, chemises, and shoes. A single pair of satin slippers would
have strained
Florence
's purse, but Aunt Hypatia did not intend for the madness to stop there.
"If you take, we'll buy more," she said. "Since people will remember what you've worn."
"I feel as if I'm taking enough already,"
Florence
mourned. "I begin to pity my poor husband. His wife will be shockingly in debt."
Aunt Hypatia laughed and kissed her brow, but
Florence
had not spoken in jest.
* * *
On Saturday, Her cards went out; or, rather, Duchess Carlisle's cards went out with
Florence
's name written underneath.
Florence
and the duchess did not accompany the cards. One of her more ordinary footmen drove them around on his own.
"I
have only sent out thirty," said Aunt Hypatia. "We are being
select
."
Thirty sounded like a great number to
Florence
, but she nodded as if she thought it small. It was the peaceful hour before bedtime. She sat at the duchess's feet in her boudoir, with her new muslin skirts spread around her, idly helping to roll a skein of cashmere yarn. It seemed odd to have no chores. The Fairleighs, even at their most flush, had never possessed sufficient servants to excuse
Florence
from the nightly round of dishes and water-carrying and stoking or banking of fires. Now she had only to listen to Aunt Hypatia's voice, to admire the Oriental carpets and the lovely watercolors and the flicker of a fire someone else had built to keep the cool May night at bay. She was growing comfortable here; too comfortable, truth be told.
"What," she said, picking up the thread of conversation, "are we selecting for?"
"For those who are powerful," said the duchess, "and those who are so interesting we cannot resist.
Alas, those circles very seldom overlap."
"Except in your case, Aunt Hypatia."
The duchess rewarded her teasing with a sharp rap from her fan. "I have not taught you to be so flattering."
"No,
your
Grace," she dared to say. "You have not had the time."
Aunt Hypatia chuckled. "Ah, child, it's good to see you smile. When you are frightened you tend to
look very prim."
"That is preferable to showing terror, I believe."
"Yes," said the duchess with a quiet sigh. "It is."
She stroked
Florence
's cheek where the fire had not warmed it. It was a brief caress and when it ended, the duchess subsided into thought.
Florence
watched her regal, time-worn face: the nose haughty and sharp, the eyes wise and heavy. She did not know this woman and yet she felt as if she did. Despite
her suspicions, she could not hold out against the tugging on her heart.
Florence
did not remember her mother. Sarah Fairleigh had died too young. She thought, however, that the tender spot beneath her breast must be the shadow of a daughter's love.
In that moment, her resistance wavered. The most hardened cynic—and
Florence
was hardly that—
could not doubt Hypatia's affection. It was offered too wistfully to be shammed. If the duchess wished
to use
Florence
in some fashion, well, so be it.
Florence
judged her patroness had more than earned it.
* * *
On Sunday morning,
the duchess thumped into Florence's room while Lizzie was struggling with the
laces of her corset The new ones would not arrive for weeks, but Lizzie was determined her mistress's waist would come up to London's mark.
"Reach up and grab the bedpost," the duchess instructed, "and let Lizzie give a heave."
Florence
squeaked at how well this succeeded, but the duchess showed no pity.
"You'll get used to it" she said, "and if you faint, we'll let the laces out."
Certain she did not welcome the prospect of
fainting,
Florence
vowed she'd somehow learn to breathe. "Do you require my assistance?" she gasped through the constriction around her ribs. "You know I'd
be happy to help in any way."
"No, I don't require your assistance," the duchess huffed. "I require your presence at breakfast
In
the cream tarlatan with the green velvet bows. The boys will be joining us. You can have your first
dry run."
Florence
stepped into the first of many petticoats.
" 'The
boys'?"
The duchess thumped her cane. "My
nephews,
and your cousins. So no 'my lord' this and 'viscount'
that. It's Freddie and Edward to you and don't forget it."
"Oh," said
Florence
, her heart beating very fast. She was going to take breakfast with men, titled men,
the dowager duchess's relatives. Her nerves being what they were, she sincerely hoped the meal
wouldn't end up on her dress.
She worried for nothing, though, because the duchess's nephew Freddie immediately made her comfortable.
"Hullo, cuz," he said, rising as she entered the breakfast parlor. He was the handsomest man she'd ever seen, like a hero out of a novel, with wavy, golden brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile as sunny
as the day outside.
"How do you do?"
Florence
responded shyly, unable to resist smiling back.
His brother was a tall broad shadow beside the window.
Florence
wouldn't have taken much note of
him if her fingers hadn't tingled strangely in his grip.
"How do you do?" he said, bowing over her hand. His eyes were the same bright blue as his brother's,
but his lashes were black as coal. Within that brooding frame, his stare was remarkably penetrating. A peculiar heat curled through
Florence
's chest. Embarrassment, she thought, but it wasn't precisely that.
"Oh, kiss her knuckles." Impatience incarnate, the duchess waved him on. "The girl needs to get used
to gallantry."
With great solemnity, her nephew obeyed. He was graceful but stiff, and when his lips pressed briefly
to her skin, she could not suppress a shiver. His mouth had been warm, almost hot. When he straightened, two spots of color flew on his cheeks.
"Enough of that," chuckled his brother. "Edward
don't
do the pretty like I do."
He took
Florence
's arm to lead her to the sideboard, where an astonishing array of food was laid out
in silver dishes.
Florence
goggled at the deviled kidneys and eggs, at
the kedgeree and kippers, at the porridge and toast and rolls and the pots of jelly that gleamed like jewels. She doubted four people
could eat this much in a week, even if two of them were men.
"Shall I serve you,
Florence
?" Freddie suggested, grinning to soften his use of her Christian name.
"Yes ... Freddie," she responded and was rewarded with a boyish laugh.
"We'll get on," he said with a friendly wink. "I can see you're a sensible girl."
He could not have picked a better compliment and the meal proceeded with amazing ease. Freddie was
a witty raconteur, a bit naughty perhaps, but never over the line.
"My brother," he confided, as that stern fellow cut his kidneys with methodical care, "is the despair of
all the mamas in
London
."
"Is he?" she said, though she wasn't sure she ought to encourage Freddie at his brother's expense. Edward, as she forced herself to think of him, did not seem the type to relish teasing.
"Yes," said Freddie and bumped her shoulder compan-ionably with his own. "They try to snare him for their daughters, but he won't go.
Can't even get him to flirt."
Edward frowned at his plate, but did not scold.
"Not all men were born to flirt,"
Florence
said, feeling oddly as if she should defend him. "Perhaps he—
I mean you—oh, dear. Forgive me, Lord Greystowe. I ought
not
speak for you."
"Edward," he said with a chill authority that proved he was Hypatia's nephew.
"Edward," she
said,
her cheeks aflame beneath his strange, measuring gaze. "I'm sure your reasons for not flirting with the mamas' daughters are very wise."
"Hah!" said Freddie, apparently in no fear of his brother's ire. "He's married to his responsibilities.
To
his corn and his sheep and his cotton mill in
Manchester
."
Edward set down his knife and fork. "Now, Freddie," he said with a perfectly sober face, "it isn't nice
to say a man is married to his sheep."
Florence
almost choked on a piece of toast. One of the footmen had to thump her on the back until she stopped.
"Come, come," Edward chided. "Surely a country girl like
yourself
is familiar with the animal side of life."
Florence
was almost certain he was teasing. Some emotion curled the corner of his surprisingly sensual mouth. His tone, however, was completely serious.
Her nerves in hopeless confusion, she crumpled her napkin in her lap. Whatever this family's reasons for taking her in, she did not want them to think her common, or that her father had not sheltered her as he should. If she'd heard the village lads joking about such things, it was purely by accident! "I know n-nothing of it at all," she stammered. "Why, when Father carved the turkey, he always asked if I'd take
a slice of bosom."
She'd meant this to prove the vicar's propriety, but the declaration caused Freddie to cough loudly into
his fist. As for Edward, though he did not succumb to humor, a definite glint shone in his eye.