Page 19 of The Lyon Returns
Gwen obliged as Clara completed weaving and pinning the length of her hair into an intricate pattern atop the crown of her head. From the glimpses in the mirror Gwen had managed to steal, she gathered the young maid had a flair for the business, much more so than Gwen herself. She could not recall the last time she’d bothered with styling her long, straight-as-a-pin hair beyond coiling it at her nape orrestraining it in a plait.
“And now, for the finishing touch,” Clara said, unwrapping the curling papers from the tendrils that framed her face. Springy ringlets emerged. “Mr. Devereux will fall to his knees at the sight of you, ma’am. You’re a sight to behold, and that’s a fact.”
Mr. Devereux would do no such thing, but she refrained from saying so and thereby dimming the young maid’s delight. At nine and twenty, and a widow at that, Gwen was hardly a diamond of the first water. As for Gideon, he was handsome, but not jaw-droppingly so. Still, he had that intangible something the heroes in Georgina’s romantic novels seemed to possess. Magnetism, she called it.
“There.” With an approving smile, Clara set Gwen’s silver brush on the vanity and swiped up the ornate silver-handled mirror that made up the other half of the pair. “Look and see.”
Gwen smiled her thanks, then chirped with excitement when she gazed at Clara’s handiwork in the small mirror. “You are a miracle worker, are you not? I do not believe my hair has ever looked better.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Now we must choose a gown for you.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t anything fancy,” she warned as they moved to the wardrobe.
Her clothes were well-made and tailored to her frame, of course. They were hardly what anyone would call in the first stare of fashion, however. Not even the second.
She could have replaced them all after she and her father moved back to his manor home following Reggie’s…untimely death. She had the money to do so.
Before her father took ill, he had urged her several times to refresh her wardrobe. In so many words, he made it clear he did not approve her dowdy gowns, nor did he understand why his once fashion-minded daughter had deigned to purchase them in the first place.
She had not had the heart to explain that she had not been the one to choose them.
He assumed, she supposed, she wore them in keeping with her long period of mourning. Thus, when it became evident he would not recover from his illness, he had sworn her not to resume full mourning at his passing. The closer death loomed, the more insistent he became that she should live her life to the full, leave Little Giddingford and not look back.
His vehemence made her wonder more than once if he’d known the truth about her marriage to Reggie—not that she could ever ask.
Well, Papa, my new life is far from boring. More like exciting and exhilarating in the way of leaning off a high cliff over a roiling sea. Her father would be so proud.
She picked through her dresses. Austere, all. Some brown, several fashioned in navy and gray, and two lavender gowns comprised the lot. She withdrew one of the lavender dresses.
Feeling unreasonably self-conscious thanks to Clara’s anxious hovering, she held it out for the girl’s inspection.
The gown had long sleeves and a high, demure neckline. It did boast some velvet trim.
Clara scowled.
“Oh dear,” Gwen murmured. “That bad, is it?”
The maid flushed. “No, ma’am. Only…would you mind if I took it to Mrs. Leach? She would know who among us has the best seamstress skills.”
“Seamstress?”
“For a few alterations,” Clara explained. She waited expectantly.
“Very well,” Gwen said. “If you think—”
Clara hugged Gwen’s dress to her and all but ran from the bedchamber, throwing a hasty, “I won’t be a moment,” over her shoulder.
Gideon entered thedrawing room at seven twenty-eight in the evening. He had not seen Gwen since he’d returned, following his visit with his brother.
Upon entering the townhome, Higgins had handed him a folded and sealed sheet of parchment. “From Mrs. Devereux,” he said.
If the butler thought it odd Gideon’s new wife chose to communicate through the written word rather than talking, he made no comment.
The note, written in an elegant, somehow feminine script read,Dear Sir, I have vacated your chambers for the ones adjoining. Please feel free to resume sole use.She’d signed it,Yours, Gwen
Sole use, eh? That answered the question of where she intended to sleep.
“Kindly inform my wife her presence is requested in the drawing room at half past seven,” he’d said, before retreating to his chamber for a much-awaited soak in his copper tub, custom-crafted to accommodate his larger frame.
