rain-streaked window and tried to piece together whatever it was her mother had been saying while Prudence had been thinking of yesterday’s picnic. Something about . . . fabric, perhaps? Or flowers? The wedding breakfast menu, by chance?
Drat—it could have been anything.
Sending her mother an apologetic cringe, she said, “I’m so sorry. I was just thinking about . . . the squire’s gardens. Do you think there are roses?”
It was the perfect distraction. Mama’s pinched lips instantly eased as she gave the question due consideration. Anything having to do with the squire was always worthy of discussion. “Yes, I believe there are. But as mistress, you may direct the gardener to add more if you like. In fact, it will be an excellent opportunity to establish your authority within the household. Within reason, of course,” she said with a confident nod.
“Of course,” Prudence echoed dutifully.
“As for the topic at hand,” Mama continued, “I was inquiring about whether or not the squire had indicated that you might be visiting London anytime soon.”
Her betrothed’s words from their short time alone together came back to her, heating her cheeks. He wanted her to visit his preferred modiste . It had been a singularly odd thing to speak of, and again she felt the same vague discomfort she had experienced at the time. Looking down to the square of greenish-blue silk closest to her, she ran a hand over it and nodded. “Yes, he did.”
“Very good. In that case, I think you should go with the pink India muslin for a nice day dress, and the willow-green gauze with satin sprig for an evening gown.” She sent Prudence a knowing smile. “I’m sure your new husband will be keen to show you off, and we want for you to put your very best foot forward during your first foray into society.”
The image of Squire Jeffries parading her around like a prize mare didn’t exactly appeal to Prudence. She didn’t want to be a silent decoration for his arm; she wanted to be seen for who she was.
She sat a little straighter, her fingers rumpling the corner of the silk. When had she ever wished for such a thing? For as long as she could remember, she had always wished not to be noticed at all. Wasn’t that the goal of a dutiful daughter? But in that moment, with the phantom taste of illicit lemon cake still fresh on her lips, she wanted to stand tall and proud for the woman she was. The woman she had been these past few days as she pursued the items on her list.
The woman Lord Ashby had noticed.
Clearing her throat, she looked to her mother. “Actually, I think I would prefer the Eton blue silk for evening.” Her confidence solidified, and she added, “And the daffodil jaconet for day. I’ve always felt that color complements my hair.”
She willed her face not to betray her at the mention of the yellow fabric. No one need ever know that the viscount thought she looked very well in the color, or that she very much liked that he thought she looked very well in anything.
Mama reared back an inch or two, her eyes widening with surprise. Prudence could understand her disbelief, as she had never rejected her mother’s suggestions before. But Prudence didn’t back down. She met her mother’s gaze squarely, holding her ground even as her stomach whirled with nerves.
The moment stretched in silence for several heartbeats. She could practically see Mama deciding how to respond. She wanted to disagree—that much was clear in the deepening lines at her forehead—but Prudence was on the cusp of becoming her own mistress. No one would be choosing things like the fabric of her gown for her anymore.
At least she hoped not. The squire did seem terribly keen on her trousseau, though . . .
Tilting her chin up, her mother turned to Mrs. Hedgepeth, who stood nearby with her drawings, pretending not to be eavesdropping on their every word. “I believe we shall go with both the willow-green and the Eton blue for evening,
Drat—it could have been anything.
Sending her mother an apologetic cringe, she said, “I’m so sorry. I was just thinking about . . . the squire’s gardens. Do you think there are roses?”
It was the perfect distraction. Mama’s pinched lips instantly eased as she gave the question due consideration. Anything having to do with the squire was always worthy of discussion. “Yes, I believe there are. But as mistress, you may direct the gardener to add more if you like. In fact, it will be an excellent opportunity to establish your authority within the household. Within reason, of course,” she said with a confident nod.
“Of course,” Prudence echoed dutifully.
“As for the topic at hand,” Mama continued, “I was inquiring about whether or not the squire had indicated that you might be visiting London anytime soon.”
Her betrothed’s words from their short time alone together came back to her, heating her cheeks. He wanted her to visit his preferred modiste . It had been a singularly odd thing to speak of, and again she felt the same vague discomfort she had experienced at the time. Looking down to the square of greenish-blue silk closest to her, she ran a hand over it and nodded. “Yes, he did.”
“Very good. In that case, I think you should go with the pink India muslin for a nice day dress, and the willow-green gauze with satin sprig for an evening gown.” She sent Prudence a knowing smile. “I’m sure your new husband will be keen to show you off, and we want for you to put your very best foot forward during your first foray into society.”
The image of Squire Jeffries parading her around like a prize mare didn’t exactly appeal to Prudence. She didn’t want to be a silent decoration for his arm; she wanted to be seen for who she was.
She sat a little straighter, her fingers rumpling the corner of the silk. When had she ever wished for such a thing? For as long as she could remember, she had always wished not to be noticed at all. Wasn’t that the goal of a dutiful daughter? But in that moment, with the phantom taste of illicit lemon cake still fresh on her lips, she wanted to stand tall and proud for the woman she was. The woman she had been these past few days as she pursued the items on her list.
The woman Lord Ashby had noticed.
Clearing her throat, she looked to her mother. “Actually, I think I would prefer the Eton blue silk for evening.” Her confidence solidified, and she added, “And the daffodil jaconet for day. I’ve always felt that color complements my hair.”
She willed her face not to betray her at the mention of the yellow fabric. No one need ever know that the viscount thought she looked very well in the color, or that she very much liked that he thought she looked very well in anything.
Mama reared back an inch or two, her eyes widening with surprise. Prudence could understand her disbelief, as she had never rejected her mother’s suggestions before. But Prudence didn’t back down. She met her mother’s gaze squarely, holding her ground even as her stomach whirled with nerves.
The moment stretched in silence for several heartbeats. She could practically see Mama deciding how to respond. She wanted to disagree—that much was clear in the deepening lines at her forehead—but Prudence was on the cusp of becoming her own mistress. No one would be choosing things like the fabric of her gown for her anymore.
At least she hoped not. The squire did seem terribly keen on her trousseau, though . . .
Tilting her chin up, her mother turned to Mrs. Hedgepeth, who stood nearby with her drawings, pretending not to be eavesdropping on their every word. “I believe we shall go with both the willow-green and the Eton blue for evening,
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