‘It is only to be expected,’ Mrs Tatton said and went back to pouring the tea.
‘I suppose you are right,’ Arabella murmured, and a vision of the scandalous silk black dress swam in her mind. She glanced down at her own grey gown and knew she would rather wear this every single day, old and shabby as it was, than anything Dominic would buy for her.
‘Archie and I will make ourselves scarce.’
Arabella nodded and glanced at her son, feeling a tug of guilt and worry. Hiding them away at night was not so very bad, for both her mother and son slept early. And although the room was near to the attic it was warm and cosy and nicely furnished, and better in every way than the one they had left in Flower and Dean Street. But to force them to stay quiet and hidden during the day while Dominic sat downstairs and chose a wardrobe of fast, provocative clothes in which to dress her sparked an angry resentment in Arabella.
Something of her feelings must have shown in her face for Mrs Tatton said, ‘It is only for one day, Arabella, and it will do us no harm. And as for the rest … well, the clothes are the least of it.’
There was no sign of Dominic by two o’clock the next day when the dressmaker called. Arabella smoothed her skirts for the umpteenth time and forced herself to at least pretend to be attending to her needlework, although she had the sudden thought, just as she heard the knock at the door, that perhaps mistresses did not spend their time in needlework. It was the first time that anyone would be seeing her as Dominic’s mistress and Arabella composed her face to conceal her humiliation.
When Gemmell showed the woman into the drawing room, Arabella’s heart sank to meet her shoes. Of all the dressmakers in London that Dominic could have chosen …
And she remembered those final dark days that had led her to Mrs Silver’s House of Rainbow Pleasures. It should not matter that it was Madame Boisseron waiting in the drawing room, for in her desperation Arabella had knocked on the door of every dressmaker, mantua maker and milliner, every corsetry house, tailor and seamstress, seeking work that was not to be found. Any one of London’s dressmakers coming here today would have recognised her. But somehow, the fact that it was the woman in whose shop she had met Mrs Silver just seemed to add to the humiliation for Arabella.
But if Madame Boisseron recognised Arabella the dressmaker was wise enough to make no sign of it. Arabella took a deep breath, swallowed down her embarrassment and knew that she had no choice but to deal with the situation as best she could.
Dominic had still not arrived when the little dark-eyed woman, whose accent was soft and French, brought out a book of dress designs. Arabella glanced at the clock, knowing she ought to wait for his arrival before they proceeded, but the thought that Dominic could dictate the clothes she wore, even right down to her underwear, made her feel so angry that she took the book from the modiste and began to flip through it.
Some of the designs were positively indecent, barely covering breasts, revealing nipples and leaving little to the imagination when it came to a woman’s figure. Not so very different from the black silk dress that she had been forced to wear within the brothel.
‘This one but with a higher neckline,’ she pointed to one of the sketches, ‘and a thicker material.’
Madame Boisseron glanced up at her in surprise. ‘You are sure, madam? Gentlemen, they usually prefer a little more …’ she paused ‘… daring in their ladies’ dress.’
‘I have had quite enough of daring. So if you would be so kind.’
‘Certainly, madam,’ Madame Boisseron said. ‘After all, the Duke, he said that the decision was with you.’
‘He did?’ Arabella heard the question in her own voice, and then tried to look as if she had known it all along.
‘Indeed. There are not many men that would leave their ladies to order the entirety of their new wardrobes alone. I was most surprised when the Duke, he asked me to attend to you without his presence. He will pay only if you are happy—a most unusual nobleman, non?’
‘Most unusual,’ Arabella said and glanced away. So Dominic would not be arriving this afternoon. She allowed herself to relax a little, and stopped looking at the clock.
By three o’clock, Arabella’s measurements had been taken, they had been through the fabric sample book twice and Arabella had ordered a minimal and conservative wardrobe. Madame Boisseron must have been disappointed, given that she knew Arabella had carte blanche to order exactly as she wished and as much as she desired. But rather than be tight-mouthed, the dressmaker only smiled and looked at Arabella kindly and told her the clothes would be delivered as each dress became ready.
Immediately the door closed Arabella made her way upstairs to Archie and her mother’s bedchamber and turned her mind away from Dominic Furneaux.
But she could not keep him from her thoughts for ever. Too soon the day faded into night and Arabella sat alone in the drawing room, waiting for him to arrive. She knew that he would expect her to thank him for the free rein with the dressmaker and for his generosity of purse, but the words stuck in Arabella’s throat and she knew that she would be unable to bring herself to say them.
She waited; the clock ticked loudly and its hands crawled slowly, and the embroidery within her lap remained untouched. She worried over what he might say to her. And she worried over what she might say to him. But most of all she worried over the moment when he would take her to bed.
But Dominic did not come to the house in Curzon Street. Not that night, or the next, or the night after that.
Dominic was trying to check through the accounts for the land that encompassed his estate. It was a tedious task and one that required sustained concentration, which was the very reason he was sitting with the books spread before him this afternoon. Anything to keep his mind off Arabella Tatton.
The tactic was not proving successful and so Hunter’s arrival in his study was something of a relief.
Hunter squinted at the pages lying open on the desk and then looked at Dominic with a knowing expression. ‘There’s enough crossed-out and overwritten ink on that paper to write a novel. Quite unlike your usual precision, Arlesford. Looks to me like you have got something—or someone—else on your mind.’ Hunter smiled and arched an eyebrow.
Dominic ignored the bait and bent his head to the columns of numbers on the page before him. Hunter was right, he acknowledged dismally. The page had been clear and legible before Dominic had started his checking.
‘Came by to drop you a warning.’
Dominic felt his stomach tighten. Hunter would not be here right now if it were not something concerning Dominic.
‘You are not going to like it,’ warned Hunter.
Dominic thought of Arabella.
Hunter helped himself to Dominic’s decanter of brandy and filled two glasses. ‘It’s Misbourne. Trying a new approach.’
Dominic released the breath he had been holding as he accepted the brandy from Hunter. He took a sip and watched his friend lounge in the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘He is saying that there was some kind of old agreement made between your father and him years ago. An oath to bind the two families by marriage between you and his daughter.’
The news was not anything Dominic wanted to hear, but at least it did not regard Arabella.
‘Aye, a pact sworn with the earl when the two of them were young, single and in their cups. My father never meant to hold me to a boy’s drunken foolishness. And I’ll be damned if I’m pushed to it by a louse like Misbourne.’
‘Misbourne is risking much with his tactic; he must be very determined to make a match between you and Lady Marianne Winslow.’
Dominic’s gaze met Hunter’s and with the mention of marriage the awkwardness of the past—of what Arabella had done—was