Page 34 of A Deal with the Duke of Ice

Benedict had spoken calmly and quietly throughout. A man who had to raise his voice above a reasonable level to make his point had nothing to say worth hearing.

There was a silence. Madame stared at Benedict. Her face was livid with anger and embarrassment. Her customers had given up their pretense of shopping and were staring with undisguised interest.

Benedict knew people like Madame. She didn’t have to endure this sort of insult in her own shop, of course. However, she was weighing the cost of her own pride against the amount of money Rosaline (on Benedict’s account) would spend.

“Very well.” She said finally. “Please, come in.”

She was still addressing herself to Benedict. Rosaline went to follow Madame, but Benedict laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“Your apology, Madame.”

She pursed her lips. “I apologize, Your Grace.”

Benedict smiled. “Not to me, Madame. You have offered me no insult.”

Madame audibly ground her eyes. With an effort, she moved her eyes to Rosaline.

“Ibeg your pardon, Miss Wyre.” She said stiffly.

Benedict watched Rosaline’s face. There was no smugness there, no triumph. There was just… well, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing on her face. She nodded.

“Thank you, Madame. Please, think no more of it.”

Madame’s expression softened, just a little, at Rosaline’s humble acceptance.

“Come this way, Miss Wyre. We shall fetch you some tea while you browse. Does mademoiselle know what sort of gown she is looking for?”

“Something of everything.” Benedict interrupted. Madame’s eyes widened with undisguised greed.

“Everything, Your Grace?”

“Afull wardrobe. Gowns for all occasions, capes, shawls, bonnets, shoes, stockings, everything. Make a list of everything a young woman in Society will need, and see that Miss Wyre has two of each. As for gowns, you may order as many as you like. Send the bill to my accountant, and it will be settled by the end of the week, if not sooner. I don’t hold with gentlemen not paying their bills.”

Madame made a series of quick, sharp hand gestures, and various young ladies, all dressed in smart black, came hurrying from every corner of the shop. She spoke in hurried, quiet French (at least Madame had the cleverness to learn to speak the language) and the girls dispersed, each one on an errand of their own.

“Very good, Your Grace, Miss Wyre.” Madame said, nodding gracefully. She turned to Rosaline, favoring her with a tiny twitch of her lips which could have been a smile. “Come, let me show you our inventory.”

Rosaline glanced at Benedict. “Are you coming, Your Grace?”

“I’m afraid not. Madame will take care of you. I shall be back in a few hours.”

Benedict gave a bow, then made his escape.

CHAPTER11

It was a relief to escape the plush, overstuffed opulence of Madame Contrefacon’s facility. Shopping for his own clothes was bad enough, with an experienced tailor who knew exactly what his most illustrious customer wanted, and only showed clothes and accessories that he knew His Grace would like. Shopping for an entire young woman’s wardrobe sounded like hell on earth.

Benedict headed to a teashop -notDainty’s- and made himself comfortable. He took out a book, ordered a plain coffee, and settled down to read.

“Ithoughtit was you, Your Grace!”

Benedict’s heart sank at the familiar voice. He forced himself to look up with a smile. “Lady Everett, how good to see you. And Lady Harriet, I see.”

He’d been so focused on his altercation with Madame that he hadn’t noticed the most famous of the London gossips lurking in the background, flanked by her whey-faced daughter. Lady Harriet seemed to have no ambition in life except for wandering in the garden and reading poetry. She would probably make some undemanding man a good wife some day, but Benedict couldn’t stand her.

Well, perhaps that was a little cruel. There was nothingwrongwith Lady Harriet, pe se. She was pretty enough, with average looks, figure, height, and standard brown hair. She dressed well and had proper Society manners. But that wasall. One could delve into her placid personality as much as one liked, and there would never be a spark of interest or character found there.

She wasn’t dull, exactly, because to be dull a person had to be boring, and Lady Harriet was not boring. She was just… just nothing. She had no will of her own, and no desire to find any. She contributed little to a conversation and could not be tricked or coerced into ever offering an opinion of her own.

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