Not His Duchess (The Gentlemen’s Club #1)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“ A nd why, pray tell, are we suddenly ending our afternoon of revels to peruse such places as these?” Lionel asked pointedly, arching an eyebrow at the fine gowns displayed in the windows of the most famous modiste in London, Madame Versailles.

Edmund brushed his friend’s remark away. “Vincent asked me to ensure that his sister was well-attired for the Season’s events. I have been remiss in that duty, but I was reminded by the Dowager’s presence. I shall not be long.”

“Yes, well, you will excuse me if I take myself down the street to the tailor,” Lionel said, his voice tight. “I have no cause to be in a shop for ladies.”

Edmund smirked. “You mean, you have no inclination to be in a shop where there might be ladies. Honestly, for someone so intent on chiding me for not wanting to entertain the prospect of marriage, you are rather reticent yourself.”

“I have nothing to say to women,” Lionel said stiffly. “I certainly have nothing to say to a dressmaker. And let us not pretend that Vincent has anything to do with this abrupt notion to purchase a gown for Lady Isolde.”

He hurried off before Edmund could defend himself, leaving Edmund alone on a rather busy street, where several people were already looking at him strangely. Or, perhaps, they were simply looking at him with interest, wondering if they ought to shove their daughters into his path. It would not have been the first time, and he never had the heart to tell them that it was a fruitless endeavor.

I ought to wear a sign that says ‘Unwilling to Wed. Not a Prospect.’ But he had the most awful feeling that that would only encourage the desperate mothers of society, their determined minds deciding that the opposite must be true.

Pulling the peak of his top hat lower over his face and bowing his head, Edmund headed into the dressmaker’s shop.

There were only four other customers inside the shop: a young lady and her mother mulling over the respective beauty of a roll of purple silk and a roll of the finest, yellow-hued muslin; and two older ladies who appeared to be making fashion judgments for a woman who was not there.

At the counter, the famous Madame Versailles watched Edmund with interest, her intense brown-eyed gaze making him feel twice as awkward about being in the shop in the first place. She was, perhaps, fifty or so, with a severe bun that seemed to pull her eyebrows halfway up her forehead, and of such small stature that her shoulders barely rose above the counter. But woe betide anyone who thought that her smallness was any indication of a small personality.

“Wife, mother, or sister?” the little woman barked in a broad, northern accent that had never so much as glimpsed France, crushing any hope Edmund might have had of remaining unnoticed.

He moved quickly to the counter, praying his face had not been seen. “It is for the sister of a dear friend,” he whispered, suddenly wishing he had followed Lionel to the tailor instead.

This is stupid. It is not my place to choose a gown for Isolde. She will not wear it, no matter what I pick. He hesitated, tempted to turn around and walk right out of the shop without another word.

Madame Versailles nodded with a smile. “Ah, so a lady you hope will be your wife. Say no more.”

She disappeared into a back room, giving him no opportunity to protest. Truly, he was becoming rather frustrated with everyone scarpering before he could insist that he had no feelings for Isolde and had no desire for her to become his wife. And the more those words were left unexpressed, the more they lodged in his chest and his mind, muddling his thoughts until they were one tangled ball of yarn with Isolde at the center.

A few stressful minutes later, Edmund entirely aware of eyes on him, Madame Versailles reappeared with three rolls of the most extraordinary material he had ever seen: midnight blue silk embroidered with pearls and gleaming silver spangles; olive green silk overlaid with intricate, lighter green lace; and a roll of that dusky rose material that Isolde must have been talking about, the fabric having an ethereal sheen that made it turn almost bronze when the light hit it.

Madame Versailles dropped the rolls onto the counter with an almighty thud, flashing a wink. “Only the best for the Duke of Davenport,” she said, shocking him for a second time.

How does she know who I am?

“This must be for Lady Isolde, yes?” Madame Versailles continued, though she had the decency to quieten her voice.

Edmund nodded, mustering his confidence. “Her brother asked me to undertake this task on his behalf. I do not know what he had in mind, but as long as it is fit for an Earl’s sister, it will suffice.”

He touched the midnight blue fabric, tilting it this way and that, noting how it seemed to sparkle in the light. “This one.”

“I thought you might say that.” Madame Versailles grinned. “Lady Isolde was just looking at it earlier, but her mother said it was too expensive. But you—I knew you’d have expensive tastes the moment you walked in. There’ll be no one in all of London with a gown made from this. I don’t let just anyone have a dress made of my best fabrics.”

Edmund tried not to grimace as he asked for the price.

“Nothing you can’t afford, Your Grace,” she replied. “When it came in, I knew it was Lady Isolde’s. There’s no other lady in the ton who could wear it the way it’s supposed to be worn.”

Edmund cleared his throat. “How soon could you have it made? I trust you have all of Lady Isolde’s… um…”

“Measurements,” the dressmaker interjected with a hoarse laugh. “Aye, I do, and I can have it made in… say, three days from now. I’ve been longing to create a masterpiece from it, so I won’t make you wait to see the artistry in real life.”

“It is not anything to do with me. It is her brother’s request,” Edmund tried to insist, but the dressmaker just laughed and waved his remark away.

“Of course it is, and I used to make gowns for the Queen of France.” She chuckled to herself. “I thought she had that look about her when she came in with her mother, and you’ve got the same look in your eyes. Now, it all makes sense.”

Edmund cast a discreet glance over his shoulder to see if the other customers were still nearby, but the four people seemed somehow disinterested in what was going on at the counter. Still, he refused to trust in appearances, worried beyond measure that he would see his name and Isolde’s in the scandal sheets tomorrow.

“There is no look,” he whispered. “I thank you for making the gown, but please do not make unfounded assumptions.”

Madame Versailles tilted her head to one side, eyeing him with amusement. “Very well. What would I know? I’m just a dressmaker.” Her smile widened. “Come back in three days. It’ll be waiting.”

“Thank you,” Edmund said as politely as he could, before turning on his heel and walking out of the shop with his head in a whole new world of disarray.

As he stepped back onto the street and began to walk toward the tailor to catch up with Lionel, he paused at the sight of his reflection in the passing windows.

Slowly, he turned to face himself, scrutinizing the man that stared back at him. He could see no secret affection etched across his features, he could see no unyielding love glinting in his eyes, he could not see the future that Lionel and Julianna seemed to want for him in the grim line of his mouth—all he could see was the face of the very last man that Isolde would ever want to marry. The face of a man who would never marry, even if there was an affection.

Which there is not, he told himself sternly. I would not have kissed her. I would have come to my senses in time. It was fleeting madness, nothing more.

That, he could see on his face, in the determined narrowing of his eyes, the defiant tilt of his chin, the stern press of his mouth, the squaring of his shoulders.

“Jewels, too?” a lightly teasing voice snapped Edmund out of his observation.

Lionel’s reflection appeared at his side, making Edmund realize that he had stopped outside the most prestigious jeweler in London. The display was as extravagant, and undoubtedly expensive, as the Crown jewels themselves.

“A pocket watch caught my eye,” Edmund lied, pressing on up the street.

Lionel did not run to catch up to him, but marched with longer strides until they were side-by-side once again. “I think it is more than a pocket watch that has caught your eye, Edmund.”

“It is not,” Edmund insisted, clenching his hands into fists.

Lionel shrugged. “In that case, if it is merely a pocket watch, why deny yourself? All you have to do is say that you want it, and I have no doubt that it could be yours.”

“It is just a dress!” Edmund rasped, wishing ever more fervently that he had not bothered with the endeavor at all. “And until Vincent returns, Isolde’s position in society is my duty. I must ensure that she is favored, talked about for the right reasons, and engaged to be married before the Season’s end. So, please, let us go to Golding’s and speak of other things.”

Lionel put up his hands in a gesture of calm surrender. “I do not know why you sound so exasperated. I was just talking about a pocket watch.”

“And I was just reiterating that I do not want one,” Edmund retorted, as his sneaky mind drifted back to the drawing room and her and just how much he had wanted that kiss.