Page 29 of A Most Unlikely Lady
‘What are you trying to say?’
Rolling his eyes, Reading ran a hand over his barely there moustache. ‘Take the time, Edward. You might find she has as much power to rebuild your broken parts as you do hers.’
‘I don’t have broken parts.’
He snorted. ‘You are nothing but a sack of broken parts.’
Edward opened his mouth to refute the man, but what was the point? He was right. Not that Edward would ever give him the satisfaction of admitting it. So instead, he changed tack. ‘How could I possibly rebuild Lady Ivy when you clearly stated she wasn’t broken?’
The infuriating secretary tilted his lips in a smile. ‘So, you were listening.’ He turned and paused at the entrance to Edward’s office. ‘There is no honour in living a half-life. How long will you punish yourself?’
Any other man would suffer his last breath for delving so deeply into Edward’s pain. But Reading was Edward’s only friend. He could hardly afford to kill him in the middle of Scotland Yard.
‘Get out.’ He spoke quietly, amplifying the threat in his words.
Reading pressed his lips together in a tight line. Edward knew he wished to say more, but he was too smart to risk breaching the boundaries he’d already pushed. Instead, he shut the door softly behind him just as Edward threw a glass paperweight at it. The resounding bang and resultant shatter of glass did nothing to ease his self-loathing.
‘Forever,’ he spoke to the empty room. ‘I will punish myself forever.’
* * *
Ivy tried to ignore the boning of her corset as it dug cruelly into her ribcage. Philippa had outdone herself. She glanced down at the drastically plunging neckline of her midnight-blue evening gown resplendent in silk and lace. It was a daring colour, far darker than anything Ivy traditionally wore, and the contrast against her pale skin was dramatic. Crystals were sewn into the material like starbursts that only further called attention to Ivy’s exposed flesh and highlighted the unique hue of her icy eyes.
What am I doing? I am a wallflower. I disappear into the crowd. I do not stand in the centre of a room and attract attention.
She refused to cast up her accounts in front of the assembled group of ladies sitting in her parlour, but more air in the room would be much appreciated as she couldn’t seem to draw a full breath. She couldn’t believe the women she once thought of as her closest friends had somehow coerced her into wearing this dress.
Witches. All of them. They cast some kind of spell over me, and I lost my wits.
It was the only explanation for the madness of the past forty-eight hours.
When Ivy had arrived at the duchess’ Belgrave mansion after her meeting with Worthington the day before, she wasted no time in retelling Philippa the ridiculous plan Worthington had concocted. Instead of the outrage she expected to see from her patron, Philippa had narrowed her eyes and ordered her butler – a stuffed shirt with the military posture and disdainful face of a ruling despot – to bring around her carriage. Sending servants off in all directions to deliver notes to Millicent, Hannah, and Penny, all three women had abandoned whatever plans they had for that day to convene at Madame Collette’s esteemed shop. The modiste only catered to the beau monde’s creamiest of the crop. Ivy would never dream of wearing anything designed by the highly sought-after dressmaker who was booked out a full six months in advance.
When Philippa strode through her doors, the elegant French woman abandoned the young miss she was fitting much to the bluster and loudly voiced protests of her mama. Philippa arched a brow at the matron, effectively quelling the woman’s outrage, while Madame Collette assigned one of her ‘most talented protégées’ to finish the young lady’s wardrobe.
She swept the duchess and her entourage into a private room, and once the parameters of need were established, the afternoon rushed by in a whirl of satins, crepes, cotton, and velvet. It was decided that Ivy’s shape would best be set off by simple lines, decadent fabrics, and a silhouette far more daring than Ivy would ever dream of wearing. The rest passed in a blur that brought her here, to this moment in her parlour, awaiting Worthington to escort her to the Widow’s Ball with the same amount of enthusiasm she imagined condemned men awaited escort to the hangman’s noose.
‘Delacroix has done a wonderful job with your hair, Ivy. You look ethereal.’ Philippa sat in the parlour, her left eyebrow raised dramatically as she admired the work of her talented lady’s maid. She held a steaming cup full of mostly whiskey with a dash of tea. Millie sat next to her, and Hannah claimed the wing-back chair. Penny sat on the other side of the low table, fidgeting in her fresh green satin gown with lace appliqués along the bodice. Ivy would wager the once maid, now marchioness wasn’t yet used to wearing the copious layers of cotton, linen, silk, and overly restrictive corsetry of a lady. Ivy could commiserate as she futilely attempted a deep breath, the whale boning only digging deeper.
Millie gave her a reassuring smile. In all the flurry of activity, Ivy hadn’t had a chance to speak with her privately. She desperately wished to confide in her friend about the wild thoughts and rogue feelings overtaking her normally reserved person. Just the thought of Commissioner Worthington seeing her so exposed raised a cacophony of emotions within her she could only examine with the help of her dearest friend.
Fear, of course. Anxiety. But more troubling, a certain breathless anticipation. A tightening need. An unaccountable hope for… something. Though she couldn’t imagine what exactly she hoped for outside of her modest décolletage remaining within the insufficient material of her bodice.
‘Yes, you look quite beautiful.’ Hannah’s sharp gaze saw more than Ivy wished to expose. While she hadn’t known the woman a full year yet, there was something unerringly trustworthy about Hannah. Her keen intelligence and a certain depth of understanding made her a discerning friend. While Ivy had no desire to share her sordid secrets with anyone, she instinctively knew Hannah would neither judge her nor think any less of Ivy for the sins she’d endured. Indeed, Hannah’s own dubious past would allow a certain empathy for Ivy. What a rare gift to have such friends. Ivy was luckier than most.
The silky strands framing her face brushed whisper-soft against her cheek. While she only had a cracked oval mirror in her room no larger than a dinner plate, she was vain enough to have spent far more minutes than necessary staring at her reflection after Miss Delacroix pronounced her ready. ‘Quite beautiful’ was a stretch for a pale woman with a nose too large and mouth too wide, but she did look altogether… different.
Will Worthington notice?
Did she even want him to notice?
Yes.
The answer came before she had time to censor it. Nerves bubbled like sparkling wine in her belly.
‘I’m not sure how we’re supposed to conduct any kind of investigation with me in this dress. Can you imagine the gossip that will ensue?’ She refused to show her nerves.
Hannah tsked. ‘I know you are used to staying on the edges of society. I am always more comfortable in the shadows as well, Ivy. But a wise woman once told me when one is surrounded by jewels, even a diamond can fade into the background.’ Hannah shared a silent communique with Philippa.
