A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge
took down another bonnet to place in the window, not the one he had suggested, he noted, but a summer hat with gauzy yellow ribbons and a cluster of cherries adorning the upturned brim.
Once she was satisfied, she returned and removed the violets from the bonnet and wrapped them in tissue paper. ‘I hope your lady is suitably impressed.’ She held out her hand. ‘One shilling, please.’
The dryness in her voice struck him on the raw. Clearly, she thought the gift paltry. He glanced down at the wares on display in the glass case. ‘How much is that handkerchief? The one embroidered with violets.’
‘Thruppence.’ She smiled for the first time since he had walked into the shop. It changed her whole face from plain to lovely. Not pretty, exactly. But...lovely. He blinked.
She pulled the drawer towards her, withdrew the delicate square from the case and laid it on the counter.
Another wave of exhaustion washed through him. He forced his spine straight. Besides, he’d already spent quite enough. Silk violets for a shilling? He must be more foxed than he’d thought.
‘I’ll take it, Mrs...’
Again, a wash of colour rose up her face. ‘Greystoke.’
Greystoke. The name sounded familiar. Propped against the counter, he watched her fumble in the drawer. She pulled out a calling card which she wrapped inside the tissue paper along with the handkerchief. ‘In case you should know of anyone who might be interested in one of our bonnets. They are of the finest workmanship. Perhaps your wife...’ She smiled encouragingly.
Once more he found himself staring at her in a bemused fashion. ‘I am not married.’
She glanced at the neatly wrapped package. ‘I see.’
‘Those are for a special lady of my acquaintance.’ Hell, why had he felt the need to say such a thing? The recipient of his purchases was none of her business. ‘A very special lady.’
‘Of course.’ Her voice held not a scrap of interest. She tied the package with a ribbon.
He bowed and hand over his calling card. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Greystoke.’
Out in the street he glanced through the window to see Mrs Greystoke rearranging her display of handkerchiefs and watching him from the corner of her eye. Making sure he departed post-haste, no doubt.
He clapped his hat on his head and marched off.
A spray of silk violets for a shilling. He hoped like hell Mimi Luttrell appreciated the sacrifice.
But he would tell her about the bonnets. Because Mrs Greystoke was right. Even in his inebriated state, he could tell they were of the finest quality.
* * *
Whatever hopes Carrie had harboured that Lord Avery’s purchase would result in a swarm of ladies interested in hats had died over the following two days. He hadn’t bought a hat, he’d merely pillaged its decoration. The hat, sans violets, now resided on the highest shelf, there to languish until her return to Kent.
There it remained, a constant reminder of his wheedling smile and beautiful brown eyes rimmed with the longest eyelashes she had ever seen. Disastrously beautiful brown eyes with gold flecks scattered like sunbeams across them. Not to mention how he towered over her, which so few men did. Dash it all, she did not want to think about Lord Avery, the younger son of a duke, she’d realised later, having properly read his calling card. A wealthy young man she should have tried to convince to buy a dozen embroidered handkerchiefs instead getting flustered and wrapping up one. She’d made a proper mull of it, as her father would have said.
The idea of returning to the ladies at Westram with nothing but the grand sum of one shilling and thruppence and a ruined bonnet had given her nightmares. Her handbills had not brought in a single customer and she dared not use any of these meagre funds to print more. All in all, the shop in which she had placed such high hopes was a failure.
They would be able to afford one more week’s rent from what little funds they had saved over the winter before she had to close the doors. It was so frustrating. If the ladies of the ton saw these bonnets, their original design, their craftsmanship, she had no doubt they would snap them up. But how was she to accomplish it?
For the third time that morning she rearranged the items beneath the glass counter top, putting lacy gloves beside the chicken-skin fan Marguerite had painted with a pastoral scene. The bell above the door tinkled. She straightened. Her jaw dropped. ‘Lord Avery?’
He bowed. ‘Mrs Greystoke.’
She glanced behind him. There was no sign of the very special lady he had mentioned. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I have need of another of your fripperies.’ He scanned the hats.
Blankly she stared at him. ‘This is a millinery shop, my lord. You bought the one and only violet nosegay in the shop and I have no intention of demolishing any more of my stock for a whim. However, I would be more than pleased to sell you a hat in its entirety. What you do with it afterwards would be your prerogative.’
Oh, dear, that was not the way to treat a customer. Especially the younger son of a duke. But really!
‘It is hardly demolished.’ He gave her that heart-stopping crooked smile that had flustered her the first time he’d gazed at her. He looked even more handsome this morning than he had the other day. His lovely brown eyes were clear and bright, his jacket unrumpled, his dark brown hair carefully ordered. And that smile... It was doing devastating things to her insides. ‘And besides,’ he continued, ‘a hat is far too personal item for a gentleman to purchase. In my experience, a lady needs to try on several bonnets before she can decide on one. Do you let your husband buy your hats?’
‘My husband is dead.’ She clamped her jaw shut. Now why had she told him that? And in such a blunt manner, too. He might think she was interested in him and before she knew it he’d be taking advantage. That was the sort of thing men did. It had been drummed into her at Mrs Thacker’s Academy for the Daughters of Gentlemen.
His expression changed to one of sympathy. ‘I am sorry.’
Why should he be sorry? She meant nothing to him. But he was right about him buying his lady a hat. Most women did prefer to choose their own. There was something very intimate about the purchase of a hat and it was decidedly perspicacious of him to realise that particular fact. Clearly the man knew women.
A suggestion was in order. She gave him a tight little smile, wishing she knew how to be a little more charming. ‘Perhaps you could bring her with you and let her choose.’
He gave a low chuckle, a deep rich sound that seemed to stir things up low in her belly. ‘Perhaps one day. In the meantime...’
‘Well, I doubt any lady would be pleased to receive the same gift, even if it is in a different colour and form.’
His brow clouded. ‘No. You are right.’
‘What about a pair of gloves?’ She brought out a pair and set them on the counter.
‘Too practical.’
‘An embroidered pair of slippers.’ She laid several before him.
‘Too mundane.’
‘Not these. The workmanship is the finest you will see anywhere.’
He shook his head. ‘I would prefer something more...’
‘Romantic?’ She smiled sweetly.
‘Unique.’
‘What about a fan?’ She spread two hand-painted silk fans, showing off the delicate paintings, one of a ballroom scene and the other of the countryside.
He picked one up, opening and closing it and inspecting the painted sticks. ‘Very nice. Are they imported from the East?’
‘No,