This garden was small and square, with unruly beds filled with every color of wildflower and herbs mixed in for fragrance’s sake, and as far from the neatly groomed garden of French roses as could be. The walls enclosing this garden were the same gray stone as the Lodge itself, but rough-hewn and haphazard, and settled into place by time. Twisting, gnarled crabapple trees grew in each corner, their boughs bright with new green leaves and filled with the chirps of the songbirds who’d wisely chosen this haven in which to build their nests. In the center of the garden stood a small bronze sundial, and sitting beneath it on a stone was a flat pan of water for birds to bathe in. No matter whether Rivers was here or in London, his orders were that that pan be filled freshly each day, as it had been for all his life and more.
“No roses here, I fear,” he said, wanting to defend this humble garden, and hoping she wouldn’t find it lacking by comparison. “But I much prefer the exuberance of these wildflowers.”
“I do, too, my lord,” she said, sunlight filtering through the straw brim of her hat to dapple her face with tiny freckles of brightness. “I’m more a wildflower than a rose myself.”
“That was what my mother said, too.” The long stems and spreading leaves brushed against the hems of her skirts, reaching out to her as he himself longed to do. “She loved the roses too, of course, but this garden was hers. She’d little interest in the hunting, and this was her private retreat while Father rode off with their friends and guests. Father kept this garden in her honor, and I do the same now that the Lodge is mine.”
She tipped her head to one side. “Your mother is dead?”
“She is,” he said, the sorrow in his voice more for what he’d never had rather than for what he’d remembered and lost. “So long ago that my father has had time to grieve her and remarry, to a lovely, gracious lady who is a joy to have in our family. But she will never replace my mother. She can’t. I was so young when she died that I have only the vaguest of memories of her.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” she said softly, reaching out to touch the tall daisies nodding on their stems beside her. “It’s much the same with me. I can only just recall my mother’s face, but it’s the other things—her laughter, her gentleness, the way she brushed my hair and sang silly songs to me in French—that’s what I remember most. That’s why I wear her necklace, too, to help with my remembering.”
He watched how she touched the little cameo pendant that rested in the hollow of her throat, a pendant she always wore and that, before now, he’d dismissed in his head as some little bit of poor rubbish. Now he understood how the humble necklace must be more valuable to her than any diamonds, because of who had worn it before.
He understood, and her words rang true to him as well. He’d always tried to remember his mother as the beautiful lady in the portrait in Father’s library, dressed in jewels and ermine and red velvet for Court, and not the frighteningly fragile woman, wasted by her final illness, that he’d been forced to kiss on her deathbed.
He looked up at the trees, striving to clear away that last melancholy thought.
“I fear that most of the memories I have of my own mother are based upon what others have told me rather than what I recall for myself,” he said carefully. “She was especially close to my brother Geoffrey.”
“Yet you were her son, too, my lord,” she said. The breeze was toying with the ribbons on her hat, blowing them up into her face, and impatiently she brushed them away. “You are her son.”
“Of course,” he said, agreeing to the obvious. He envied those ribbons, dancing across the curve of her cheek.
“That is why you’ve kept this garden as she left it, my lord,” she said, a statement rather than a question. “Even if you can’t remember her, you can still be with her in a way when you’re here.”
He frowned, taken aback by the notion that the Duchess of Breconridge would be laid to rest beneath an informal garden of wildflowers.
“My mother isn’t buried here,” he said brusquely. “She’s with the rest of my ancestors, in our family’s crypt in St. Andrew’s.”
“But if she loved this place and these flowers so much, my lord, then part of her is still here,” she reasoned. She bent and plucked a deep purple pansy, one of the last of the spring, and traced her fingertips across the velvety black-and-purple petals. “ ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember. And there is pansies; that’s for—’ ”
“For thought.” He smiled with relief, glad she’d turned their conversation back to Hamlet and away from his family. “Knowing the actual flowers in that scene will add richness to your interpretation. They won’t have real ones in any playhouse, of course—they’ll doubtless be some sort of imitation trumpery—but if you can recall the flowers here, you’ll be able to convince your audience that the false ones are every bit as real.”
“That’s my last scene in the play, my lord,” she said softly, twirling the flower’s stem gently in her fingers. “If audiences do not believe in my Ophelia by then, and if they cannot feel for her plight and be ready to weep for her, then it will not matter a whit whether my flowers are real or false.”
“But they will care for you, Lucia, I am sure of it,” he said. He was sure of it because he cared about her—though he hadn’t realized until this moment exactly how much. “In a way it’s a shame that your death is offstage, and only related to the audience. Of course not even the most clever of stage wizards could contrive a drowning death on the stage, but even if there were some way you could be seen on the farthest branch of the willow, over the deep currents, so that the audience could share the trepidation of Ophelia’s danger.”
“No, my lord,” she said firmly. “To do that would be to meddle too much with Master Shakespeare’s play. You’ve said yourself his words are sacred.”
“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly, chagrined that she’d recall that, and chagrined, too, because she was right to remind him. “It’s a shame that it cannot be done. But you must admit how poignant such a scene would be, and how affecting to every sensibility.”
“I will be carried out on my bier,” she said. “That will be sorrowful, or it shall be if I can manage to lie still as death.”
“I trust you will,” he said. “The crowds on the benches like nothing better than to shed a tear for a doomed lady, not a restless corpse. As I have explained before, my studies have discovered that every expert in theatrics declares that it’s the task of the entire playhouse, from the lowest stage-sweeper to the highest actor, to indulge the crowd’s pleasure.”
He’d expected her to smile and nod and agree with him, the way she usually did. But today she wasn’t smiling, and he suspected she wasn’t going to agree with him, either, and he wasn’t sure which was more unsettling. Instead she continued to study the pansy’s fierce little face as if it were the most fascinating thing in nature, and certainly more fascinating than him.
“Surely you agree with what those experts have written,” he said doggedly. He’d grown so accustomed to her usual attentiveness and conversation that now, when they were absent, he missed them more than he’d like to admit. “Surely you must think similarly, that the desires and entertainment of the audience must always come first. Surely you can’t think otherwise, after all we’ve discussed.”
She turned to stand directly before him and reached up to tuck the pansy into the top buttonhole of his coat.
“ ‘Pansies for thoughts,’ ” she said, quoting the play again as she snugged the little blossom into place. “That’s what matters most to you, my lord, isn’t it? Banish that idle, sentimental rosemary! Thinking this, thinking that, and what’s been written in a book is always better than everything else.”
“That’s not true,” he said defensively, looking down at the purple flower and with it her little hand still lingering on his chest. “Not of me anyway.”
“Forgive me for speaking plain, my lord,” she said, taking back her hand, “but it is true. As true as can be, and being in this place only makes it truer.”
He was sorry she’d taken her hand away, and somehow he felt as if the imprint of her palm remained on his chest like a subtle brand. She’d said much the same thing earlier, when she’d accused him of relying too much on reason. Books had always been his comfort, their knowledge the one sure thing in an often uncertain world. He’d always believed he could learn anything he desired from the right book, and prove whatever he wanted as well. He’d been proud of it, too.
But what if Lucia was right? What if he’d been using his library not as a sanctuary, but to keep the rest of the world at bay? Perhaps he had relied too much on the words and thoughts of others, and hadn’t dared to trust his own.
And ever since that night when they’d kissed, perhaps he’d been trying so hard not to say too much that instead he’d said too little.
“I’m most grateful for what you’ve taught me, my lord,” she continued, “and I’d never wish not to know all I’ve learned from you, about acting and history and life among grand folk like yours. But there’s still so many things in life that cannot be learned from books and scholars, things that must be enjoyed and remembered for their own sakes.”
“I know that,” he said, unsettled by how close she’d come to reading his thoughts. Damnation, how could she? Spot dropped a stick on the toes of his boots, and Rivers snatched it up and hurled it so hard it struck the garden’s far wall. “I know that.”
She gazed up at him, her face solemn but clearly not believing him.
“Very well, my lord,” she said with maddening evenness. “It is as you say. You know it. You know everything.”
She turned away to follow the dog, but Rivers grabbed her arm to pull her back toward him.
“My lord!” she gasped, startled and struggling to pull her arm free. “My lord, please, let me go!”
“How can you call me unfeeling, Lucia?” he demanded, emotion turning his voice rougher than he’d intended. “How can you say I care for nothing in life beyond what I’ve learned in books? That’s not a fair judgment, and you of all others must be aware of it.”
She stopped struggling, her eyes wide. “What are you saying, my lord?”
“I’m saying what you must know for yourself,” he said. “That these last weeks here with you have been among the best and most enjoyable of my life. That I regret how swiftly the days have passed, and dread the time when the last of them will be done. That I have enjoyed your company more than I would ever have imagined. So do not tell me that I care for nothing beyond books, Lucia, because damnation, it is not true.”
He hadn’t intended to say so much or to say it so freely, and he could tell from the expression on Lucia’s face that she clearly thought him to be a madman for it. He couldn’t blame her if she did. He was raving like a lunatic, and he could not help himself.
And then, like a lunatic, he drew her closer, and into his arms, and kissed her.
She didn’t fight, but melted against him as warm as the sun, her hands sliding over his shoulders and along his arms. The tiny part of his brain that was still capable of thought was vaguely aware of the songbirds in the trees around them and the breeze still blowing the ribbons on her hat, and of how there really couldn’t be anything he’d rather be doing than kissing Lucia here among his mother’s wildflowers.
The brim of his hat knocked hers back off her head and to the path and she didn’t seem to notice and neither did he, and when he deepened the kiss, she instantly parted her own lips and drew him deeper into her warmth. She’d accused him of not feeling, yet he’d never felt anything more certainly than the desire he was feeling for her now. He kissed her with feverish intensity, and with a certain desperation, too.
How could she not understand what she’d become to him? What would he do if she didn’t feel the same?
He pulled her closer, one arm tight around her waist while his other hand found that temptingly round bottom that had so tormented him this morning, and his fingers spread to cup her and pull her more closely against him. She not only yielded, but pressed shamelessly to him so that he was sure she must have realized how aroused he’d become. His cock was hard as iron, and because she wore no hoops, there was only the linen of his breeches and her petticoats between them. She wore no hoops because she wasn’t a lady—a tiny, sharp dagger to niggle at his conscience.
She wasn’t a lady, but she was Lucia, yet instead of that being a balm to his irritated conscience, it only served to remind him again of how she trusted him not to behave like this. He’d sworn not to dishonor her, not to take advantage of her station, not to do anything beyond what they’d both agreed.
And because she was Lucia, he couldn’t bend that agreement to suit the other argument raging in his breeches. He couldn’t. He’d given her his word. Because she trusted him, she deserved better from him, and reluctantly he broke his mouth away from hers, his heart drumming in his chest. Yet he couldn’t part with her entirely, not yet, and he kept his arms still linked around her waist.
“Oh, my lord,” she said softly, pushing back but remaining in the circle of his arms. She looked up at him without raising her chin, her eyes filled with uncertainty and her breathing rapid. “This wasn’t part of our agreement, not at all.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he said. Loose strands of hair were tossing across her forehead in the breeze, and he lightly smoothed them away, not wanting even a single hair to hide her face from him. “But when you called me unfeeling—”
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, and eased herself free of his arms. She didn’t go far—only a step away—but she made it clear that she wished to be apart from him. He felt her separation keenly, a blow he hadn’t expected nor wanted.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said gruffly, wondering what in blazes he was supposed to do now. His arms hung at his sides, empty and useless. “At least not for you.”
“But there is, my lord,” she insisted. She bent to retrieve her hat from where it had fallen on the path and settled it on her head, reaching to tie the ribbons at the back of her neck: small, brisk, ordinary gestures that seemed only to emphasize how awkward he now felt, and how great a fool he’d made of himself.
It was at once the most wonderful, and the most awful, moment of Lucia’s life. To have Rivers say such things to her, such beautiful, important things about what she meant to him, and then to kiss her in a way that proved he believed those things, was more than she’d ever dreamed.
But that was exactly why it had been so awful as well. Even asleep, she knew better than to dream something as impossible as this. She’d never met another man who came as close to perfection as Rivers, or another who could leave her breathless and quivering like this with a single kiss. Despite how hard she tried to pretend that everything was as it should be, fussing with her hat and retying her ribbons, she was sure he must see what he’d done to her. No, what he did to her, because the effects wouldn’t end, her heart beating far too swiftly and her lips still burning from his, and her entire being yearning to return once again to his embrace.
Yet how could any of it matter? Along with being nearly perfect, Rivers was also the son of a duke, while she was far, far less in every possible way. She didn’t doubt that he’d meant those lovely words when he’d spoken them, but she doubted very much that he’d mean them even next week. He couldn’t, not when he’d spoken them to a woman of her station. Words like those could only mean misery to her if she believed them, and now it was up to her to remind him of that fact.
Unsure of where to begin, she gazed up at him with tears in her eyes. She’d never wish to hurt him, but the confused and wounded expression now on his face was undeniably her doing.
Tell him, her conscience ordered sternly as the silence stretched longer and longer between them. You’ve told him before. Tell him again, now, so he understands how it must be between you. Remind him of your agreement, and of the wager. Remind him of who he is, and who you are.
Unaware of her thoughts, he nodded curtly. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mrs. Willow. Rest assured that I will not bother you further, nor—”
“No!” she cried, and every good intention vanished. “Do not say that, my lord, I beg of you! What you’ve said—how you feel about these last weeks together—it is the same for me as well, only more.”
He stared at her warily, not trusting. “I do not believe that is possible.”
“Not possible, my lord?” She stepped forward, closing the short distance between them to stare up into his face. “How could it not be possible when it is the truth? I cannot begin to explain what you have come to mean to me, my lord, and the very thought of parting from your company when this wager is done grieves me beyond measure. How could that not be possible?”
“You do not say this from a sense of obligation?” he asked slowly, his expression unchanged. “Mind that you owe me nothing. I have never forced my attentions on any woman, and by God, I would not begin now with you.”
“But you haven’t, my lord, not a bit,” she said fervently, searching his face. “When you gave me your word, you kept it, even to me.”
“Because you deserved that from me, Lucia,” he said, and finally smiled. “Because of who and what you are to me, I could do nothing less.”
Something squeezed tight in her chest. “Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “My lord!”
“Rivers,” he said, cupping her jaw in the palm of his hand. “I wish you to call me by my name, not my title.”
“Yes, Rivers,” she said shyly, realizing what an enormous freedom that was. Not even her cousin had been permitted to be so informal. “Rivers.”
His smiled warmed, and he rubbed his thumb lightly over her cheek. “How fine that sounds to me.”
“Rivers,” she repeated, her own smile tremulous with emotion. “You even left my vowels alone.”
“My name contains only short vowels, which you pronounce without difficulty,” he said. “It’s the long vowels that tax you so. What will be next for us, Lucia?”
“Next?” she echoed. Part of her wished she could stop time and keep this moment forever as it was, but a man like Rivers would not be satisfied with that, nor would she. What better definition of temptation could there be than this man before her?
Lightly she laid her hands on his chest, her hands pale against the soft woolen superfine of his coat. He’d been right; without the rough toil that she’d been accustomed to and with the sweet-smelling balm that he’d ordered from the apothecary for her, her hands had become as smooth as any lady’s. Only three weeks, and yet in how many ways she’d changed!
“Next,” he said more firmly. “What do you wish it to be?”
What she truly wished, she could never have. She was sure of that. But there was another possibility that, until this moment and this temptation, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider. Even if Rivers could never be hers for life, she could still be his for a day, a week, a month. Joy, and pleasure, and love that she would never forget would become a memory that would be hers forever: that was what she could have, if she dared. The pain when he inevitably left—like every other gentleman had left every other woman like her—would be agonizing, but she would survive, and she would have the memory of his love always.
That was her choice. She wasn’t a fine lady, expecting an offer of marriage. She was a Di Rossi, and Di Rossis knew how to seize whatever chance was offered to them, whether in Naples or Paris or London, or here at Breconridge Lodge. Fate had already brought her to Lord Rivers Fitzroy, and this moment. The rest was up to her.
She took a deep breath.
“I wish for things to fall as they will between us,” she said with fierce determination, her fingers spreading over his chest. “No plans, no regrets, for whatever time we have together. If you say you can care for more than books, Rivers, then show me. Be less a Fitzroy, and more a Di Rossi. Show me you can simply live instead.”
He turned his head slightly to one side, intrigued. “Live,” he said, “and love?”
She nodded, her cheeks hot with excitement. “Minute by minute, day by day, whatever fate and the stars decree.”
“Trusting to fate can be full of risk, Lucia,” he said, his voice seductively low. “Most women wouldn’t wish it.”
“I am no ordinary woman,” she declared with a little flip of her wrist. “But you know that of me by now.”
“Indeed,” he said, touching his thumb to her lower lip. “You are most extraordinary. Have you the courage for such a course?”
“You know that I do,” she said fervently. “ ‘My fate cries out, / And makes each petty artery in this body / As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.’ ”
He chuckled. “That’s not your line, Ophelia. It’s Hamlet’s.”
She turned her mouth against his hand and playfully nipped at his palm. “It is mine now.”
He laughed, and finally kissed her, a kiss that was both rough and sweet, mingled with promise and desire.
“Lucia,” he said. “My Lucia.”
“And now?” she asked, her voice a breathless whisper. For all her bold talk, she was still a virgin, and unsure of exactly how these things transpired. “What now?”
He smiled, all mysterious. Perhaps he was already being more like a Di Rossi, just as she’d hoped he could be.
“We’ll go to Newbury, Mrs. Willow.”
“And after that?” she asked, her anticipation growing.
“Minute by minute, madam,” he said, kissing her again. “Minute by minute.”
Since Newbury was the nearest town of any size to both Breconridge Hall and Breconridge Lodge, Rivers had traveled the way to it countless times since he’d been a boy. The road had not changed in that time, either, remaining a seldom-journeyed path through green fields and a few small woods, all of it belonging to the Fitzroy family. Despite this lack of traffic, the road itself was in excellent condition, due to his father having invested a sizable amount in its annual upkeep. True, it made for an easier ride for the Fitzroys and their guests, but his father also believed firmly that his position as the highest-ranking landowner (and the only duke) in the county meant that he’d a duty to the others who lived there as well. His father had made improvements to the local roads, arranged for a new roof for the small parish church, supported the local charity school for young children and orphans, and allocated a substantial sum each Christmas to the largest public house in Newbury for the express purpose of having Newburians raise a seasonal tankard to His Grace’s health.
It all contributed to the Fitzroys being regarded with great favor in the town, and as Rivers’s carriage with its Fitzroy crest painted on the side rolled through the streets, townspeople bowed and curtseyed and raised their hats, and he nodded and smiled in return through the open window. He was accustomed to the attention, but for Lucia, nestled beside him, it was a stunning experience.
“I cannot believe it, Rivers,” she said, staring past him out the window. “I know your father’s His Grace the Duke of Breconridge, but dio buono, the folk in this town treat you as if you were His Majesty himself!”
He laughed, his arm comfortably around her shoulder. If he’d been the true rake she’d accused him of being, he would have hurried her off to his bed this morning, as soon as they’d agreed that their agreement was to be no more, or perhaps even tossed up her petticoats and tumbled her there in his mother’s garden.
But because he wasn’t that rake, he wanted to seduce her properly so that it would be as enjoyable for her as it would be for him. Even though he’d said he’d live minute by minute, he wanted to make plans for a memorable evening, one that neither of them would forget, and so in the meantime he’d brought her here to Newbury. Not that the anticipation wasn’t pleasurable in itself, because it was. He was so happy this afternoon that she could have said the sky was black with horned toads descending from the heavens, and he would have laughed, too.
“We do have royal blood, you know,” he said. “My great-great-great-grandfather was in fact the King of England.”
“No!” she gasped in awe. “You don’t mean it, not truly.”
“I do so mean it, because it’s true,” he said, relishing her response. “Of course, my great-great-great-grandmother was only his mistress, not his queen or his wife, but he did give her a dukedom for their bastard son, and declared the boy legitimate so he could inherit the title and the lands and estates with it.”
She fell back against the squabs with an extravagant show of shock. “Royal blood, Rivers! Oh, I cannot fathom it, even if you’re only your father’s third son. Don’t you wish you’d been born first, so you’d be the duke, too?”
“Not in the least,” he said without hesitation. Many people had asked him that throughout his life, and the answer he now gave her had always been the same. “If I were to inherit the dukedom, it would mean that my father and both my brothers were dead before me, and no title under Heaven is worth that price. Their wives would also need to have borne no sons, which thus far is sadly the case. Three daughters for Harry and Gus, and one for Geoffrey and Serena, and though they are lovely little creatures, every one of them, the fact that none of them is male has distressed my father no end.”
She twisted around to face him, as fascinated as if he’d been telling her a fairy story.
“Daughters are always welcome among the Di Rossis, because daughters will always earn more than sons as dancers,” she said. “Unless they’re me. But what if your wife has a son? Could he become Duke of Breconridge?”
“He would,” Rivers said. “As heir, he’d jump right over all those little lady cousins of his, and claim the coronet for himself. But since I have neither a wife nor a son, it is all moot for me.”
“Doesn’t your father press you to marry?” she asked. “I’d think he would, just to better his odds of a grandson.”
Rivers sighed, some of his enjoyment in the afternoon fading at that unwelcome reminder. “Oh, he does, he does. That mythical parade of doxies is nothing compared to the very real legion of eligible and presumably fertile young ladies of good families that are trotted beneath my nose on a regular basis. I am a long odds ever to be a duke, but there’s plenty of mamas ready to roll the dice that I will, and push their darlings toward me for a match.”
“But you won’t be pushed, will you?” she asked, with more than a tinge of hope in her voice that was very much in sympathy with his own wishes.
“No, Mrs. Willow, I shall not,” he said, “no matter how firmly my father pushes his hands upon my back. Besides, I’ve perfect faith in my brothers and sisters-in-law that they will eventually produce the heir between them. Gus is with child again, and by every law of nature and averages she must be carrying a boy.”
“Poor lady!” she said, sighing in commiseration for the unfortunate Countess of Hargreave. “That would be dreadful, having everyone staring at your belly and laying wagers about whether it would be another daughter.”
He nodded, not really wanting to discuss this further. Lucia was right: the lack of a male heir was a great stress within his family, leading to short tempers, raised voices, and general ill-feeling whenever they gathered together.
He glanced from the window, noting that they were only a few streets away from Mrs. Currie’s shop. “Are you willing to carry our lessons into the mantua-maker’s?”
“How?” she asked curiously. “So you wish me to play at Ophelia there for the seamstresses?”
“Not quite,” he said. “But I do want you to be Mrs. Willow in all her glory whilst you are being served and fitted.”
She nodded eagerly, ready for the challenge. “Oh, yes, Rivers,” she said. “If the mantua-maker asks who I am, might I tell her my story of Mrs. Willow’s adventures?”
“What, with the tiger and all?” He couldn’t begin to imagine what Mrs. Currie would make of that. “Perhaps a less, ah, dramatic tale. You are a longtime friend of mine whose coach was attacked by a highwayman. Your trunks were stolen, and you lost all your belongings, reducing you to wearing clothes borrowed from one of my servants.”
“I like that!” she exclaimed with relish. “I was stripped naked by a rapacious highwayman, and left to wander, naked as Eve, on the public road until you in your great kindness rescued me from my peril.”
“You needn’t go into such detail,” he said quickly. Perhaps they’d been better off with the man-eating tiger after all. “If you spin too lurid a tale, then it’s sure to sound false.”
“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “Could not the highwayman at least be a handsome rogue?”
“Let us do away with the highwayman altogether,” Rivers said. “We’ll say you were returning to Dover from Calais, and your trunks were mislaid by the boatmen.”
She sighed mightily. “How boring,” she said. “But if that is what you believe they will believe, then I shall give up my dashing highwayman.”
“It is for the best,” he said, thinking of how narrowly they’d again avoided her overreaching imagination. “But there’s one other thing. No one is a better judge of a lady’s true rank than her milliner and her mantua-maker.”
“That is true,” she said quickly. “It vexed Magdalena no end that they always knew what she was, no matter how she tried to impress them.”
That was true enough; even when he’d escorted her cousin to one of the London shops, the women had smirked and simpered, recognizing Magdalena as his mistress.
“Well, then, you will understand,” he said. “I want you to speak as you did this morning, copying me, and see if you can convince Mrs. Currie into believing you are as we wish you to be: a genteel young lady, tossed cruelly about by the vagaries of life, who has turned to the stage to earn her living. There cannot be so much as a breath of Madame Adelaide, or of your cousin, either. Can you do that?”
She nodded so eagerly her hat nearly slipped from her head. “You’ll see, Rivers. I can do this. I’ll trick them all, the cullies.”
“Act, don’t trick,” he said firmly, trying to ignore his misgivings. “And don’t you dare call anyone in the shop a cully.”
He wouldn’t have suggested this if they’d been in London, where the mantua-makers were as sharp as the needles they wielded when it came to appraising their customers. But here in Newbury, he was counting on the favor his family and the occasional custom that his stepmother brought to Mrs. Currie to help convince her to see Lucia as a member of the gentry of the middling sort who’d fallen on unlucky times.
Unless she began calling the shop women cant names.
“I shall prove it to you, my lord,” she promised. She’d already adapted his accent, and she was also sitting straighter, her shoulders back and pressed inward in the manner of a true lady’s posture, her ankles neatly together, and her hands folded, not clasped, on her lap. “You shall be amazed.”
Even those long AYs were perfect. Damnation, perhaps she really was going to amaze him, and the rest of the world besides.
“Then come, Mrs. Willow,” he said as the carriage came to a stop before the mantua-maker’s shop. He smiled, and offered her his hand. “Amaze me.”