After a Fashion (35 page)

“What if I’ve decided I’m not interested in other young ladies?”

For a second, something almost wistful settled in her eyes, but then they hardened and her lips thinned. She pulled her hand from his right before she got to her feet and began to pace back and forth across the room. Stopping directly in front of him, she blew out a breath. “What are you thinking?”

He reached out and pulled her down beside him, even as his pulse began to quicken. “We don’t have to stop spending time together.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were exactly what he’d wanted to say.

She intrigued him, fascinated him, and made him feel more alive than he’d ever felt in his life.

“You’re talking complete nonsense,” Harriet said.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you and I live in the real world—me more than you, I think—and . . . your world will never accept me. You have to realize that, Oliver, somewhere deep down inside. Look what happened last night with Miss Dixon. She was vile and nasty in her remarks to me, as if she somehow instinctively knew I didn’t belong in her company.”

“We wouldn’t have to associate with Miss Dixon.”

“Would you be so willing to sever ties with everyone, then,
because if you continue spending time with me, that’s exactly what you would have to do.”

“My grandmother was not from society, but she was eventually accepted.”

“I highly doubt your grandmother was illegitimate or had an aunt who earns a living through nefarious means.” Harriet patted his hand. “You know that it wouldn’t work for you to even remain friends with me, because society would eventually come to the conclusion I’m your mistress, and that’s something I’m not willing to allow them to do.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you become my mistress.”

“I know, Oliver, but again, there’s no relationship that would work between us.” Harriet drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “It’s best if we simply continue on with our original plan. I’ll be on your arm at the ball, if there’s still going to be one, but after that, we need to part ways and get on with the rest of our lives.”

“What if that’s not what I want?”

“I don’t believe you truly know what you want, Oliver, but I know what I want.” Harriet’s lips curved ever so slightly at the corners. “I want the fairy tale, complete with a prince on a white charger who’ll carry me away into the sunset.”

“I’m not your idea of a prince on a white charger?” Oliver asked slowly.

“Of course you are, but you’re not the right prince for me.” She smiled. “You need to find yourself a princess much like Lady Victoria, someone who’ll fit into your world and help you achieve your goals.”

Oliver wanted to argue, but deep in his heart, he knew she made perfect sense. “You’re sure about parting ways the night of the ball?”

“I think that would be for the best, as long as you’ve completed your business with the duke by then.”

“I’m really not certain the duke still intends to come to Abigail’s event.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “But . . . Abigail’s been working like mad and . . . what would we tell all the guests if the guest of honor doesn’t show up?”

“He’ll be there.”

Oliver swung his attention to the doorway and found none other than Lady Victoria standing there, biting her lip and looking completely miserable.

“How long have you been listening to us?” Harriet asked as she got to her feet.

“Long enough to realize that the two of you are considering putting an end to your engagement and . . . it’s all my fault.”

With that, Lady Victoria dissolved into a fit of weeping, crossed the room in a flash, and much to Oliver’s surprise, flung herself, not into his arms, but into Harriet’s.

19

A
day and a half later, Harriet’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point, quite like the laces Millie was currently torturing her with.

“I’m not going to be able to breathe, let alone eat, if you pull those any tighter,” Harriet managed to get out in a voice that was barely more than a whisper, given that Millie seemed to have pushed all the air out of her lungs with her last tug of the corset.

“You’re the one who insisted on wearing this refashioned gown of your mother’s. As you remarked more than once while you altered it, your mother had a very small waist. Since you claimed it would ruin the line of the gown if you added additional fabric to the waistline, well, lacing you as tightly as possible is the only way we’ll fit you into it. But at least now I know I can squish your waist to that desirable eighteen inches.” Millie gave one last tug of the laces, tied them in a competent knot, and moved to stand in front of Harriet. “There, how do you feel?”

“Stuffed.”

“Well, your waist looks absolutely tiny now,” Lucetta exclaimed as she walked around Harriet and eyed her for a second, “and your bosom . . . hmmm . . . that might be a cause for con
cern.” She turned to consider the gown that hung on a nearby dress form. “Perhaps we could add some lace to the bodice.”

“I don’t think we have time for that,” Harriet said. “Maybe I should just wear the gold gown from Arnold Constable & Company. The sales lady assured me it was a design straight from Paris, so it would be completely acceptable—and I might even be able to breathe in it.”

“Absolutely not,” Millie argued. “You’ve been dying to have someplace to wear your mother’s gown ever since you managed to get it away from Jane last year on your birthday. This ball is the perfect opportunity for that. Besides, since it was your mother’s, I imagine it’ll give you a little piece of comfort as you take on society tonight.”

“And,” Lucetta continued with a nod, “you told me bright and early this morning that you dreamed you wore your mother’s gown to the ball. Honestly, Harriet, you must realize that could have very well been a little push from God, sending you that piece of comfort Millie just mentioned.”

Harriet grinned. “With reasoning like that, I’d be foolish
not
to wear my mother’s gown. And since Oliver and I will be parting ways after tonight, this might be my one and only chance to wear a ball gown.”

“I noticed Abigail very considerately forgot all about her chaperoning duties when you had Oliver escort you over to the boardinghouse to pick up the gown,” Lucetta said with a curve of her lips.

“She’s still trying her very best to plot, but I’m afraid her efforts are for naught. Oliver and I agreed that after tonight we’ll part ways. Even though I realize Abigail wishes things were different, they’re not. Oliver is, and will always be, one of the wealthiest gentlemen in the country. I’ll always be a woman with questionable parentage who makes her living as a seamstress. It would never work.”

“But Oliver insinuated he might like to try to make it work,” Lucetta argued.

“Oliver didn’t know what he was insinuating,” Harriet argued right back. “He certainly didn’t mention a word about love.”

Lucetta blew out a breath. “He didn’t mention love because he’s a gentleman, and they’re rarely proficient with expressing their feelings. You also have to take into account that the two of you haven’t exactly known each other for very long.”

“Which is why it won’t be all that difficult to continue on without him.”

Lucetta’s expression turned decidedly grouchy. “I wonder what more would have been said between the two of you if Lady Victoria hadn’t interrupted.”

“I was thankful she interrupted because, quite frankly, there really was nothing else to be said.” Harriet shook her head. “I felt simply horrible for the girl. It couldn’t have been easy for her to come and apologize to me for trying to abscond with my fiancé.”

“I have a hard time sympathizing with a lady who was born to wealth and coddled her whole life—that coddling leaving her to believe that whatever she wants, she’s entitled to get,” Lucetta said.

Harriet drew in a breath, stopping midway when she realized her chest had no more room to expand. “It’s not her fault she’s been coddled, Lucetta. Why, after she finished apologizing to me, profusely at that, we ending up meeting with her father who was waiting in Abigail’s drawing room. The poor man was completely appalled by what his daughter had done to Oliver, but he did hint that there’s a reason behind Lady Victoria’s sense of entitlement. Something to do with indulging her far too much throughout her youth because of . . . well, he never really explained properly, except to mention he was beginning to see there were going to be definite repercussions from that indulgence.”

“Lady Victoria admitted to you she knocked Oliver down and then tried to kiss him.” Lucetta let out a snort. “Honestly, if someone ever tries to kiss my fiancé, if I ever get around to even entertaining the thought of finding one, well, I’m certainly not going to pat that someone on the back and try to soothe away their guilt with kind words.”

“If Oliver truly was my fiancé, I doubt I would have been as forgiving, but again, he’s not.”

“You hold him in affection,” Lucetta countered.

“Perhaps, but there’s no possible future for us. I’m simply going to take any affection I hold for the man and wrap it away much like I did with my mother’s gown. Maybe, when I’m feeling sentimental, I’ll pull out my memories of Oliver and sigh over them before I pack them away again.”

“That’s a bit of a maudlin thought,” Lucetta mumbled.

Harriet laughed. “I don’t intend on sighing over the gentleman very often, Lucetta. Starting up my own business is going to occupy most of my time.”

“True,” Millie said, “but enough about business and the relationship with Oliver that was destined to be doomed from the start. You have a ball to attend, and you need to keep your wits about you. You know you don’t have all the uses for that silverware down, and you certainly didn’t get much practice at Delmonico’s since you almost burned the place to the ground. And don’t even get me started on all the dance steps you’re going to have to remember from clear back in the day when your aunt made you take lessons. How long ago was that anyway?”

“Far too long, and thank you for reminding me,” Harriet muttered. “I forgot all about the dancing.”

“Which is somewhat odd, considering you’re going to a ball,” Lucetta said before she whipped the gown off the dress form, gave it a good shake and smiled. “You’ve done wonders in the small amount of time you had to redesign this.”

“I could hardly wear a gown tonight that was originally equipped to handle hoops—although, looking at it now, I probably should have used some of the excess fabric to shore up that bodice.”

“No sense worrying about it now,” Millie said, taking the dress from Lucetta and moving to Harriet’s side. “We’re losing track of time, and revealing bodice or not, we need to get you into this.”

Two hours later, Harriet stared at the reflection in the mirror, hardly able to believe the elegant and well-coifed lady staring back at her had recently worked as a milliner.

Her black hair had been swept to the top of her head and anchored in place with pins covered in tiny pearls. Soft tendrils of curls teased her cheek, and her face was slightly flushed, the color highlighting the fact her eyes had taken to twinkling.

She raised her hand and tugged up her neckline the best she could, the diamond bracelet Abigail had lent her sparkling in the reflection of the mirror. Abigail had also lent her the use of the matching necklace, and while the diamonds glittering back at her gave her a very regal appearance, Harriet knew it was simply an illusion.

She wouldn’t belong tonight—of that she was quite certain—but honor demanded she see the deal she’d struck with Oliver through to the end. Wearing the gown of her long-dead mother would also honor that mother, if only in Harriet’s mind. Perhaps, in the process, she could finally lay to rest all the resentment she’d unconsciously been holding against her mother, that resentment stemming from leaving Harriet all alone—except for Jane, a poor excuse for an aunt.

Maybe it was as Lucetta had suggested and God had sent her that odd dream where she saw herself wearing her mother’s
gown. Perhaps He’d known she’d been harboring a hurt for most of her life, and by having her wear her mother’s gown, had given her a means to heal that hurt.