Page 22 of Her Sort of Scoundrel
“Based on my actions two years ago, you know you were.”
His brain caught on thewere.He’d never imagined he could loathe the tiny word so much.
“But,” she continued, “we’re not talking about you and me.” Her tone was sharp, determined. As if she’d closed a door and was bent on keeping it shut. “I am referring to men with bad intentions.”
“I understand, and I will speak to her.” Having such a conversation with Aurelia held no appeal for Dash, except for the hope that it might help her. Some part of him wanted to protect her innocent nature, yet he knew Fiona was right. She needed to be prepared beyond the purchase of gowns and baubles.
“Excellent.” She offered him a nod as if their conversation was at an end and she intended to mingle with other guests.
Dash knew he ought to let her go.
“She chose well,” he told her just as she turned away.
“Who?”
“Aurelia. I worry about her naïveté and yet she was clever enough to choose you to guide her.”
Fiona looked momentarily abashed. “I’m happy I can help her.” She narrowed her gaze. “And I’m pleased that you’re allowing her to be true to her nature. Encouraging her interests and not insisting she marry as soon as possible.”
Dash didn’t know whether to absorb the compliment or sift the implied critique that Fiona assumed he might do otherwise.
“I see my role as one of supporter, encourager, protector. I will never make demands of her.”
Fiona gifted him with a beaming smile. “Then she’s lucky as well as clever.”
With that, she walked away, her gown glittering, the sway of her hips mesmerizing Dash in ways he couldn’t resist.
He understood Fiona’s desires—for independence, freedom to do as she pleased. He knew that if she took a lover, she never intended it to end in anything as confining as marriage.
And he knew his duty to the earldom—to marry, to produce an heir.
Yet he knew with equal certainty that he would never crave any woman the way he desired Fiona.
CHAPTER6
Fiona watchedas Miss Forbes lifted her hand to stroke the bolts of colorful fabric and then pulled back.
“Go ahead,” Fiona urged her. “You’ll want gowns that feel good against your skin.”
The young lady looked back at Granford as if seeking his approval.
“Lady Fiona is right,” he agreed, gesturing toward the colorful array set out on the department store counter. “Take your time and choose fabrics you truly like.”
“You’ll advise me as to color and style?” she asked Fiona.
“Of course. Choose some of these and we’ll have them sent to my modiste. She’s brilliant, and when we meet with her, she’ll offer a book of designs, or even come up with something unique if you prefer.”
Miss Forbes nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I wish to be entirely unique.”
“But you already are,” Fiona told her gently. “Each of us is in our own way. It’s alright if you wish to follow the fashion of the day, but don’t be afraid to be yourself either.”
Miss Forbes smiled and dared to reach out, dancing her fingers over bolts of silk and velvet. “I like the greens and blues. Even that amber shade. I suppose they remind me of the forest at Longwood.” She side-eyed Granford, almost shyly. “But I read in a magazine that pastels are quite the thing.”
“They may not be by next year.” Granford offered Fiona a questioning look as if verifying that such a supposition was likely.
Fiona smiled in agreement. “Granford’s correct. Fashions change, and who knows. Perhaps you’ll start a trend with your teal and amber and moss green.”
“Goodness, look at those gloves.” Miss Forbes pointed toward a display that included day wear gloves and the longer, elbow-length sort that she’d need for the umpteen balls she’d no doubt be attending next year.
