father Elliot would be, too. You didn’t buckle.”
“But he’s threatened to take his accounts elsewhere.”
“Don’t worry about that. He always threatened Elliot, too. He’s simply testing you.”
“Do you think so?”
Lionel nodded his graying head. “He’ll be back in a couple of days, ready to sign anything you want. He may be bull-headed, but he’s not stupid. You’ll see.”
But Grace wasn’t so sure. All the way home in the hired hack, her worry about having driven away one of the bank’s wealthiest depositors warred with her anger over his insulting attitude. How in the world were women to succeed if they were expected to pick up their skirts and run every time a man bellowed?
Now, up in her bedroom, looking through her wardrobe for something to wear to dinner, she had yet another trial to face: Jackson Blake. Upon her arrival home, the aunts had ordered her to change out of the brown walking suit she’d worn to work, and to put on something a bit more suitable for hostessing before Blake arrived. Grace’s arguments that she didn’t need to dress for dinner in order to entertain him fell on deaf ears. Tulip informed her that no well-raised woman greeted guests dressed in her work clothes, be she washerwoman, seamstress, or bank owner. Of course Dahlia had agreed wholeheartedly, so a disgruntled Grace hadtrudged up to her bedroom like a sullen adolescent to change clothes.
The bath she’d taken after coming upstairs had helped to melt away the day’s tension, leaving her less wound up and angry, but as Grace continued to search through her dresses, she dearly wished her aunts had spent last evening with their new beaus, the Henderson twins instead of coming to her meeting at the church. Had they done so, they’d’ve never met Blake, and none of this would be necessary.
Grace finally made a decision and slipped the choice on. She then studied herself in the large standing mirror. The dress, made of grosgrain silk, was charcoal gray and had a line of tiny jet buttons up the front of the close-fitting high-collared bodice. It had long sleeves edged delicately with lace and an upswept skirt. The dress was one of her best, and as she adjusted the fall of the skirt, she approved of her reflection. The black Fedora slippers on her feet were made of the finest Curaçao leather and sported a hand-beaded coxcomb bow across the slightly pointed toe. The little Louis XV heel raised her height by an inch or two. For tonight, she’d abandoned her pulled-back no-nonsense hairstyle in favor of a more femininely curled upsweep, and she let trail two soft curls down her temples. She looked fashionable and self-assured, and vowed that the handsome Jackson Blake would hold no power over her tonight. They’d eat, they’d talk, and that would be that.
Grace leaned closer to the mirror to apply a touch of rouge to her brown cheeks and a dab of paint to her lips. What was it about him that made her feel so at odds with herself? She reasoned that it might be because most of the men in her circle were docile, mannerly gentlemen who didn’t dare step on a woman’s tender sensibilities, but Blake didn’t seem to be cut from that cloth. She stillcouldn’t believe how he’d marched into the church last night and declared himself the wagon master without saying a word to her about it beforehand. He was going to be trouble—handsome trouble, but trouble just the same.
Grace took one last look at herself and headed toward her bedroom door. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her aunts were playing matchmaker, but she was certain they knew she’d sworn off men. The liaison with Garth had proven to be a terrible mistake, and Grace never made the same mistake twice. Blake’s visit was nothing more than a business meeting. There would be no murmuring kisses, no tumbles on the bed, and no broad, distracting ebony shoulders. She didn’t want or need a man in her life. Not now—not ever.
While the aunts saw
“But he’s threatened to take his accounts elsewhere.”
“Don’t worry about that. He always threatened Elliot, too. He’s simply testing you.”
“Do you think so?”
Lionel nodded his graying head. “He’ll be back in a couple of days, ready to sign anything you want. He may be bull-headed, but he’s not stupid. You’ll see.”
But Grace wasn’t so sure. All the way home in the hired hack, her worry about having driven away one of the bank’s wealthiest depositors warred with her anger over his insulting attitude. How in the world were women to succeed if they were expected to pick up their skirts and run every time a man bellowed?
Now, up in her bedroom, looking through her wardrobe for something to wear to dinner, she had yet another trial to face: Jackson Blake. Upon her arrival home, the aunts had ordered her to change out of the brown walking suit she’d worn to work, and to put on something a bit more suitable for hostessing before Blake arrived. Grace’s arguments that she didn’t need to dress for dinner in order to entertain him fell on deaf ears. Tulip informed her that no well-raised woman greeted guests dressed in her work clothes, be she washerwoman, seamstress, or bank owner. Of course Dahlia had agreed wholeheartedly, so a disgruntled Grace hadtrudged up to her bedroom like a sullen adolescent to change clothes.
The bath she’d taken after coming upstairs had helped to melt away the day’s tension, leaving her less wound up and angry, but as Grace continued to search through her dresses, she dearly wished her aunts had spent last evening with their new beaus, the Henderson twins instead of coming to her meeting at the church. Had they done so, they’d’ve never met Blake, and none of this would be necessary.
Grace finally made a decision and slipped the choice on. She then studied herself in the large standing mirror. The dress, made of grosgrain silk, was charcoal gray and had a line of tiny jet buttons up the front of the close-fitting high-collared bodice. It had long sleeves edged delicately with lace and an upswept skirt. The dress was one of her best, and as she adjusted the fall of the skirt, she approved of her reflection. The black Fedora slippers on her feet were made of the finest Curaçao leather and sported a hand-beaded coxcomb bow across the slightly pointed toe. The little Louis XV heel raised her height by an inch or two. For tonight, she’d abandoned her pulled-back no-nonsense hairstyle in favor of a more femininely curled upsweep, and she let trail two soft curls down her temples. She looked fashionable and self-assured, and vowed that the handsome Jackson Blake would hold no power over her tonight. They’d eat, they’d talk, and that would be that.
Grace leaned closer to the mirror to apply a touch of rouge to her brown cheeks and a dab of paint to her lips. What was it about him that made her feel so at odds with herself? She reasoned that it might be because most of the men in her circle were docile, mannerly gentlemen who didn’t dare step on a woman’s tender sensibilities, but Blake didn’t seem to be cut from that cloth. She stillcouldn’t believe how he’d marched into the church last night and declared himself the wagon master without saying a word to her about it beforehand. He was going to be trouble—handsome trouble, but trouble just the same.
Grace took one last look at herself and headed toward her bedroom door. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her aunts were playing matchmaker, but she was certain they knew she’d sworn off men. The liaison with Garth had proven to be a terrible mistake, and Grace never made the same mistake twice. Blake’s visit was nothing more than a business meeting. There would be no murmuring kisses, no tumbles on the bed, and no broad, distracting ebony shoulders. She didn’t want or need a man in her life. Not now—not ever.
While the aunts saw
Similar Books
