Regency Surrender: Debts Reclaimed. Georgie Lee
Fairley looked over the selection of dresses, tapping one finger against her chin. ‘When will you see him next?’
‘Dinner. He’s quite busy today.’
Mrs Fairley selected a pale, rose-coloured silk dress and held it up to Laura. ‘Then we’ll make it a meal he won’t soon forget.’
* * *
The rich scent of sage and cooked chicken drew Laura to the dining room. Her stomach growled, reminding her how late she was for dinner. She’d sent Mary down earlier to ask Philip and the others to start without her. Given how hungry Laura was, she didn’t want to keep others from their meal. However, neither tardiness nor hunger pangs were strong enough to stop her from pausing at the mirror hanging in the hallway to admire again the changes Mrs Fairley had wrought.
She and the young modiste had gone well over their appointed time together. A few stitches through the shoulders of the pale rose-hued dress had tightened the bust, bringing the silk up snug against Laura’s breasts. Then Mrs Fairley had arranged Laura’s hair, sweeping it up off the back of her neck and using heated tongs to create small curls which danced about her nape.
For such little effort, it’d made quite a difference. Laura appeared elegant, like one of the rich merchant’s wives who would occasionally visit her parents’ shop whenever her father had acquired a bolt of rare material. Perhaps with a simple necklace and a little more confidence, she would become more like those assured women, and learn to take pride in her position as the wife of a well-to-do moneylender.
Laura turned her face from side to side, pleased with the way the two long curls at the back bounced around her exposed neck. Pausing in her turns, she threw herself a sideways look, trying to mimic the coquettish smile Mrs Fairley had flashed when Laura had asked if Philip would be pleased with the new dress. She’d begged the woman to show her how to flirt, but Mrs Fairley had only laughed and told her she’d know what to do when the time came.
She hoped she was right. Laura’s experience with gentlemen was greatly lacking. The stationer’s son down the street had once shown an interest in her, but the dalliance hadn’t lasted more than a few days. Her father had sent the boy off with a stern warning, reminding him he was in no position to set up house with a wife. She’d railed at her father for driving the boy away until the scandal of the weaver’s daughter broke. Afterwards, she’d completely understood her father’s concern. A solicitor’s apprentice had got the weaver’s daughter with child, then abandoned her, leaving her to face the scrutiny of the neighbourhood alone.
No doubt the old neighbourhood would look down on Laura if news of her nuptials to a moneylender became known. Pinching her cheeks to bring some colour into them, she dismissed her concern. Despite the years they’d lived and worked beside the other merchants, not one of their neighbours had helped her and her mother when the business had begun to fail and they’d been forced to hire a smaller, less expensive shop in a sad little neighbourhood many streets away. Instead they’d all stood around whispering while the removers had loaded the cart with what was left of their belongings, blaming Laura and her mother for Robert Townsend’s mistakes.
Let them judge her for marrying Philip. Her opinion of them and their behaviour was no better.
Her stomach growled again and Laura reluctantly left the mirror, unable to avoid supper and Philip any longer. For all her thoughts of how to impress her betrothed, she had just as many of eating, especially with the scent of cooked chicken growing stronger with each step she took towards the dining rom.
‘The dress is cut too immodestly for a young woman.’ Philip’s voice carried from the dining room, exasperation thick in his words.
‘It’s cut exactly like Princess Charlotte’s,’ Jane protested, sounding much the way Laura had done years ago when she’d wanted an expensive fan and her father had refused to purchase it. ‘I altered it myself based on the pattern in the lady’s magazine.’
Laura stopped at the dining-room door, unnoticed by the quarrelling siblings or her mother. Philip sat at the head of the table, his frustration with his sister evident in his tight grip on his knife and fork. Laura tried not to laugh at how easily his sister could rattle him when men like Mr Williams didn’t seem to trouble him at all. Then again, she knew more than anyone how frustrating family could be. She’d been ready to scream more than once when her father had refused to listen to her arguments against her uncle. He’d always wanted to believe the best of his brother, especially at the end.
‘You are not Princess Charlotte, nor are you her age.’ Philip cut his food, the knife scraping lightly across the plate. ‘You will return the dress to Mrs Fairley to alter at once.’
‘I won’t.’ Jane’s foot stamped beneath the table, making the glasses on top rattle. ‘I like the dress this way. Tell him, Mrs Townsend, tell him this is the style.’
‘It is the style, Jane, but Mr Rathbone is right, it is too revealing for a young lady your age,’ Laura’s mother responded with measured patience.
‘But—’ Jane began to protest before Laura’s mother laid a tempering hand on hers.
‘I think I might have a suggestion which will suit you both. A width of gorgeous French lace along the top edge, like Miss Lamb wears, will encourage more modesty without ruining the line of the dress. It will be quite elegant and modest.’
‘May I alter it as she says, Philip?’ Jane bit her lip in anticipation, looking back and forth between her brother and the older lady. ‘Mrs Townsend is right, it would be modest just as you like and, oh, so in fashion.’
Philip took a deep breath and Laura caught something of relief rather than frustration in the gesture. She wasn’t sure if it was the desire to end the debate or his glimpse of the wisdom in the matron’s suggestion which led him to nod his head tersely.
‘You may keep the dress if you add the lace.’ He levelled his knife at her. ‘But if you alter one more dress on your own, I won’t buy you another until you’re sixteen.’
‘I promise I won’t change any of the others,’ Jane stressed, before exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Mrs Townsend.
Philip didn’t notice, reaching for his wine glass. Then his hand paused, his attention snapping to Laura.
She tried to steady the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but it was a fruitless struggle. She couldn’t stop breathing, not unless she wanted to faint from the same shock she saw in Philip’s eyes. They dipped down the length of her. The motion was fast, efficient yet potent, making her feel as if it had been her and not him who had crossed his room the other night naked.
Under the force of his gaze, Laura nearly tugged the ribbon from her hair and escaped upstairs to don a less revealing dress. She didn’t flee, but strode into the room, her chin confidently in the air, her mother’s words about working to win Philip following her like the swish of her slippers over the wood floor. She’d certainly succeeded in catching his attention tonight.
‘My goodness, look at you,’ Jane exclaimed.
‘Miss Rathbone, that is not an appropriate response.’ The older woman nudged the girl with her elbow before raising an approving eyebrow at Laura. ‘Laura, you look very lovely this evening.’
‘Indeed, you do,’ Jane chimed in, fixing her brother with a devilish smile. ‘Doesn’t she, Philip?’
Philip didn’t answer, but rose, his expression as stiff as his posture, except where his eyes widened. Yet it wasn’t surprise illuminating their blue. It was something hotter and more potent, like the subtle flash of anger she’d caught just before he’d struck her uncle. This wasn’t anger, or anything like what she’d experienced with the stationer’s son. The stationer’s son had possessed the ridiculous passion of a schoolboy. Philip’s reaction was of a man, albeit a man trying not to react.
Heat swept up from the pit of Laura’s stomach and burned over the tops of her exposed breasts. She nearly reached out and pulled the napkin from the footman’s arm to cover herself before