Page 58 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Adeline felt herself flush. “That is hardly accurate!”

The countess’s lips twitched. “I never said it was.”

“I didn’t speak with Lord Bowen to make the duke jealous,” she insisted. “If Warwick had arrived on time, none of this would have occurred.”

“As I said, you need not defend yourself to me, my dear.” She glanced outside the carriage window. “Look. We have arrived.”

The coach rolled to a stop on Bond Street, and Adeline spotted Mademoiselle Helene’s Dress Shop. A wooden sign with a large H and a silhouette of a lady in a gown swung in a slight breeze. A large bay window displayed two mannequins, one with a day gown of lavender lace and the other with a navy riding habit. Any chance she had to explain what had happened was gone. Moments later, the door opened, and the driver lowered the step. Lady Heywood descended, followed by Adeline. The little bell above the shop chimed as they opened the door.

Adeline had accompanied her mother and Mary here when her sister had prepared for her debut. The Bond Street dressmaker was a favorite with the ladies of the beau monde.

Today, she was shopping for herself. Adeline needed a gown for the upcoming Kirkland ball, and the countess had insisted on accompanying her.

The shop was a feast of color and texture and Adeline stepped forward to run her fingers over various fabrics—brocade, damask, velvet, muslin, chintz, sarcenet, and bombazine. Lady Heywood joined her. “Which is your favorite?” Adeline asked her.

“Anything but the heavy brocade. After Lord Heywood died, I wore black brocade mourning gowns for a full year. I wish never to wear anything like it again.”

Adeline admired Lady Heywood for her honesty and courage. It must have been very difficult after his loss. The countess was still a beautiful woman, and Adeline wondered why she’d never remarried. Had she not wanted to give up her freedom? As a widow, she didn’t need a companion to accompany her everywhere she went and she could live independently.

A middle-aged lady with dyed auburn hair, dressed fashionably in a pale green dress with a heart-shaped bodice and ruffled hem, greeted them.

“Bonjour, Lady Heywood. I received your note.”

“Hello, Mademoiselle Helene. This is Lady Adeline, my houseguest.”

The dressmaker’s gaze swept over Adeline from head to toe in a professional appraisal. “Is this the young lady who needs a gown for the ball?”

“It is.”

“Oui, oui! You make my task easy. With that dark hair, bronze skin, and blue eyes, sapphire will look exquisite. I have sketches to choose from, but I must first take your measurements. Come along.”

Adeline was led into a private room and stripped of her dress and left in her chemise. She stepped upon a pedestal as the dressmaker took her measurements. “Raise your arms. Stand still. Turn.” The dressmaker had the efficiency of a headmistress of a finishing school.

Once she was done, Mademoiselle Helene led her to the back of the shop where three separate areas had been created with curtained partitions. “You may dress here.” She gestured toward one. “My assistant will arrive to help with your stays and buttons. Then we can pick out the fabric.”

The curtain was closed, and Adeline was left in the dimly lit space. She reached for her dress on a hook on the wall just as she heard female voices enter the room. Two ladies stepped into the partitioned area to her right.

“Did you witness the spectacle at Lady Drake’s garden party yesterday?” a woman with a high-pitched voice asked.

“Sadly, I was not there,” a second woman said.

“Lady Adeline Cameron has returned from only God knows where in the country, and she has two men vying for her attention—one of them is a duke.”

“I read the Scandal Sheet. He’s not just any duke, but the Duke of Warwick! He hasn’t attended a function in almost a year.”

“Mamma says he’s half mad.”

“Who cares? He’s bloody rich. And gorgeous.”

“Maybe he has a string of women who visit his mansion under cover of darkness.”

“I wouldn’t mind being one of them.”

“Don’t bother! He has eyes for the Earl of Foster’s sister, remember?”

“Half sister. She’s not a pure Englishwoman. Her mother was from the Middle East, an Arab foreigner. God only knows what heathen religion or traditions she practiced behind closed doors.”

“Maybe the duke prefers the exotic. Her skin is darker, her hair is black as pitch.”