elegant gown. "I must say, a pretty dress always does wonders for one's disposition."
"My feeling exactly. Do try the apple-green silk next. The cashmere shawl is a delicious contrast."
"I don't plan on stepping out just yet," Isabella playfully noted, although the delectable fabric was alluring. Napoleon had introduced cashmere shawls to Europe after his Egyptian campaign only a few years past, and they were the height of fashion. And very dear.
"For when you do, then. I kept two of them for myself." Mrs. Crocker waved to have the green silk brought over. "Humor me. That color is going to be adorable with your coloring."
Before long, a half dozen dresses had been tried on and the room had the air of a dressmaker's salon, piles of colorful silks and gauzes scattered about the room, shoes and shawls and bonnets adding to the flower-garden effect. Mrs. Crocker had had a bottle of iced champagne brought in to add to the festivities. After having put on a rose-colored silk afternoon dress awash with ruffles they'd both agreed were overdone, Isabella and Molly were giggling over the ostentatious confection and casting on eye on the next possibility in their private fashion show.
"You're a trifle young for black lace, but try that one on anyway."
"It has the air of seduction."
"The point, I'm sure. Let's see it—just for fun."
Dermott had spent the morning at Tattersall's adding to his racing stable and had taken lunch at Brooks's afterward. He'd gone home for a time, intent on discussing some business affairs with his secretary and steward. But he found himself unable to concentrate on the ledgers and correspondence, and his employees exchanged speculative glances after he said "Would you repeat that" for the tenth time. They politely repeated their statement, only to find the earl indifferent to the crop figures he normally followed with great enthusiasm. After returning from India, he'd had the means to see to enormous improvements at Alworth. And until that day, he'd taken a detailed interest in each rick of hay and bushel of wheat, every head of cattle and sheep his acres produced.
"If you'd prefer discussing the crop projections some other time," Shelby, his secretary, suggested.
A small silence fell.
The young man was about to repeat himself, when the earl pushed away from the desk and stood. "Some other day would be preferable," he said, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
Both men came to their feet.
Another awkward silence filled the large study. The earl seemed not to take notice of them, his dark eyes shadowed by his lowered lashes, his mouth pursed.
The steward cleared his throat and Dermott's lashes lifted. "Thank you very much." His smile was distant. "We'll do this another day."
He remained standing for several moments after the door closed on his employees, his large frame immobile, even his breathing difficult to perceive in the stillness of his pose. "I shouldn't go," he murmured into the hushed room.
He raised his hands to his fashionably windswept hair and raked his fingers through the heavy waves. Softly swearing, he held his head between his palms for a transient moment and then, exhaling, dropped his hands. "How the hell can it matter," he muttered, and strode toward the door.
But he resisted still, and once arriving at Molly's, he strolled into the card room and joined a game. He lost, and the rarity of the occurrence caused him to give in to his impulses. Excusing himself to the wide-eyed group of men who speculated once he'd gone that he was surely ill to have overlooked a straight flush, the earl took the stairs to the main floor in a run and walked into Molly's apartments without knocking.
He heard the giggling from the bedchamber immediately on entering the sitting room, recognizing the women's voices. He knew Molly's as well as his own. The other trilling tone was the reason he was there.
Against his better judgment.
Against every principle of disinterest he'd nurtured since
"My feeling exactly. Do try the apple-green silk next. The cashmere shawl is a delicious contrast."
"I don't plan on stepping out just yet," Isabella playfully noted, although the delectable fabric was alluring. Napoleon had introduced cashmere shawls to Europe after his Egyptian campaign only a few years past, and they were the height of fashion. And very dear.
"For when you do, then. I kept two of them for myself." Mrs. Crocker waved to have the green silk brought over. "Humor me. That color is going to be adorable with your coloring."
Before long, a half dozen dresses had been tried on and the room had the air of a dressmaker's salon, piles of colorful silks and gauzes scattered about the room, shoes and shawls and bonnets adding to the flower-garden effect. Mrs. Crocker had had a bottle of iced champagne brought in to add to the festivities. After having put on a rose-colored silk afternoon dress awash with ruffles they'd both agreed were overdone, Isabella and Molly were giggling over the ostentatious confection and casting on eye on the next possibility in their private fashion show.
"You're a trifle young for black lace, but try that one on anyway."
"It has the air of seduction."
"The point, I'm sure. Let's see it—just for fun."
Dermott had spent the morning at Tattersall's adding to his racing stable and had taken lunch at Brooks's afterward. He'd gone home for a time, intent on discussing some business affairs with his secretary and steward. But he found himself unable to concentrate on the ledgers and correspondence, and his employees exchanged speculative glances after he said "Would you repeat that" for the tenth time. They politely repeated their statement, only to find the earl indifferent to the crop figures he normally followed with great enthusiasm. After returning from India, he'd had the means to see to enormous improvements at Alworth. And until that day, he'd taken a detailed interest in each rick of hay and bushel of wheat, every head of cattle and sheep his acres produced.
"If you'd prefer discussing the crop projections some other time," Shelby, his secretary, suggested.
A small silence fell.
The young man was about to repeat himself, when the earl pushed away from the desk and stood. "Some other day would be preferable," he said, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
Both men came to their feet.
Another awkward silence filled the large study. The earl seemed not to take notice of them, his dark eyes shadowed by his lowered lashes, his mouth pursed.
The steward cleared his throat and Dermott's lashes lifted. "Thank you very much." His smile was distant. "We'll do this another day."
He remained standing for several moments after the door closed on his employees, his large frame immobile, even his breathing difficult to perceive in the stillness of his pose. "I shouldn't go," he murmured into the hushed room.
He raised his hands to his fashionably windswept hair and raked his fingers through the heavy waves. Softly swearing, he held his head between his palms for a transient moment and then, exhaling, dropped his hands. "How the hell can it matter," he muttered, and strode toward the door.
But he resisted still, and once arriving at Molly's, he strolled into the card room and joined a game. He lost, and the rarity of the occurrence caused him to give in to his impulses. Excusing himself to the wide-eyed group of men who speculated once he'd gone that he was surely ill to have overlooked a straight flush, the earl took the stairs to the main floor in a run and walked into Molly's apartments without knocking.
He heard the giggling from the bedchamber immediately on entering the sitting room, recognizing the women's voices. He knew Molly's as well as his own. The other trilling tone was the reason he was there.
Against his better judgment.
Against every principle of disinterest he'd nurtured since
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