Page 9 of A Counterfeit Engagement

In conference with Mrs Anderson, Jonathan had suggested an early date for their appointment at the modiste , trusting to a mother’s natural desire to see her daughters well-presented to outweigh any concerns of impolite haste.

He found he had judged correctly, both in making the suggestion and in beginning a plan that would intertwine his family so closely with the Andersons.

Mrs Anderson was everything she had appeared on meeting previously — sensible and with unimpeachable judgment and manners.

In her capable hands, the potential awkwardness of the arrangements was passed over entirely, and they easily arranged to take the next appointment that his preferred modiste might provide.

It was therefore very few days later that Jonathan’s carriage pulled up at Portman Square to collect the Andersons. They appeared with admirable promptness, and the whole party was quickly on their way.

He was thankful that Madame Duval was not only one of the most fashionable tailors in London, but one of the most skilled as well.

It would have been inconvenient had it been necessary to choose between having the best gowns made for his sister, his not-quite-fiancé, and his not-quite-sister-in-law, and having them made at the place best suited to spread gossip in the fashionable world.

As it was, there was no need for compromise.

At Madame Duval’s atelier, there was sure to be someone who would quickly spread the news that the Andersons were in town to Mary Collins, not to mention Aunt Phoebe and Cousin Owen.

Jonathan intended to make it abundantly clear that he would not stand for scheming and interference in his private life, either from within his own family or beyond it.

After so many years of acting as Sarah’s guardian, Jonathan was well accustomed to the routines of a fashionable modiste.

Madame Duval greeted them all effusively, wreathed in smooth French charm.

She blinked at the introduction of Miss Anderson as his fiancé, then carried on seamlessly.

It was not long before she gathered up the three young women for the serious business of the day, gesturing Jonathan to an armchair and a newspaper.

Jonathan sat down and picked up the paper, though he had no intention of reading it.

It was far more amusing to watch his little sister with her new friends.

He had rather expected Sophie to lead the other two — Isabel’s deep respect and love for her older sister was obvious to even the meanest observer — but to his amusement, he found he was wrong.

With the gentle assurance born of natural talent, it was Isabel who approved one fabric and declined another, who declared that a rich, warm blue would suit Sarah better than Sophie and that a rich, luxurious green was made for Sophie, not for Isabel herself.

Jonathan blinked and looked again, taken aback.

The girls were laughing and talking excitedly as Isabel and Sarah draped the soft, thick green velvet around Sophie.

Some jest, no doubt, which he had not heard from across the room.

It was not that that had stopped his breath.

He had been looking at them idly, thinking of nothing much in particular, when he had seen Sophie with a child in her arms, clear as day.

It was not just any child; he was certain of it — it was his child.

Johnathan let out a long, shuddering breath. There was nothing there. It meant nothing. She was an attractive woman, and his fancy had run away with him. That was all.

With determination, Jonathan flicked open the newspaper and began reading the first story.

∞∞∞

Sophie shuddered. A chill travelled down her spine, rather as though she had felt someone’s eyes lingering on her. Surreptitiously, she glanced over to the sitting area, where Jonathan sat in an overstuffed armchair.

She let out a long breath. It had undoubtedly been her imagination. The duke was engrossed in his paper, and there was no one else in the store.

Only it was strange. She had been thinking of him at that very moment, thinking of how relieved he looked to hand his sister over to their capable hands, rather than attempting to wade through the details of style and material himself.

Lady Sarah had even said as much, laughing at how conscientiously her brother had always attempted to advise her on her gowns, despite having neither interest nor talent for the subject.

He had thought it his duty as her guardian.

It was like the man. Theirs was an acquaintance only of weeks and a mere handful of meetings, and yet Sophie was quickly coming to feel that she knew him as she had hardly known anyone besides her mother and sister.

The duke seemed to be a reserved man with others, yet he had never been so with her.

There had been a kind of knowing between them even at a first meeting.

Shaking her head, Sophie told herself to stop being ridiculous.

Likely the duke never thought of her at all, except in considering whether she might be a suitable acquaintance for Lady Sarah and an effective goad against Miss Collins.

It would never do to allow herself to imagine there was anything real between them, for it was all too clear that could never be.

When the duke chose to marry, he could choose any woman he liked.

Probably he would not consider anyone below an earl’s daughter, and a beautiful earl’s daughter at that.

The Duke of Belford deserved nothing less.

It was a foolish and sentimental thought, yet Sophie wished they might remain friends when it all was done.

That, too, was not likely. As soon as the lie of their engagement was at an end, they would move in entirely different circles.

If Isabel was able to marry very well, perhaps she might be permitted to continue her friendship with Lady Sarah.

But if she chose a man who had only character and love to offer, without title or fortune, the connection must surely be dropped.

Lady Sarah would have her own match to think of.

As for her mother and herself, they would surely return to Seaton and their quiet life, but that was not such a hardship.

If they could only give Isabel a chance at a family of her own, they would have no regrets.

There — at the bottom of the stack of fabrics, almost hidden from view. Sophie blinked, shaken out of her thoughts.

“Might this be for the dresses as well, Madam Duvall?” Sophie asked her, retrieving it from the stack with a gentle tug.

Madam Duvall hurried to her side. She smiled broadly as soon as she saw the material in question.

“To be sure, Miss Anderson. It is a new material, brought in on the latest shipment but one. Do you like it? I think it is exquisite, but I am afraid none of my customers have cared for it as of yet. The pattern, it is not very bold.”

“I do like it, very much,” Sophie said. The pattern was woven into the fabric itself, and all in the same colour of threads. That did make it rather subtle — to be sure, it would be all but invisible from across a ballroom — and yet Sophie found herself little short of coveting it.

But it would not do to trust her own taste above one she knew to be better. “Isabel, come look at this. What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Isabel hurried over, bringing Lady Sarah with her. She took in the fabric at a glance. “Perfectly, Sophie. I do not know why you say you do not have an eye for colours, for I am sure that you do.”

“It is not that I think I have no eye,” Sophie told her laughingly, “only that I am sure yours is better. But I am glad you approve, for I am afraid I want it dreadfully.”

“That is good to hear, Miss Anderson,” Madam Duval remarked approvingly. “You will be doing me a great favour. Once other ladies see how well it wears, they will not tell me they only want the bold patterns.”

“Do you have any other fabrics like it, Madam Duvall?” Isabel asked eagerly. “Perhaps Sophie might order another such gown in a different colour.”

Madam Duvall was beaming and hurrying away to find the rest of the shipment before Sophie could protest. She turned to caution Isabel, keeping her voice low.

“I must not order too many, Isabel. I would not wish to take advantage of the duke’s kindness. One dress of this material and another of the green you chose for me will be more than enough.”

“No, I do not think it will,” the duke remarked thoughtfully over her shoulder. Sophie whirled around to face him.

“I had not intended you to hear that,” she said, and blushed at her own foolishness.

“I did not think so. But I am glad I did, all the same. Listen to your sister, Miss Anderson. It is my wish that you select several gowns.”

“But I would not wish to take advantage —”

“I know you would not,” he interrupted smoothly.

Leaning close and whispering into her ear, he added, “You really must accept them, Miss Anderson. In the first place, it is necessary for the success of our little scheme that you appear to be my fiancé, and I assure you I would not buy you only two gowns were that the case. In the second place, you must have some recompense for joining me in this venture. The gowns are part of your reward.”

With that, he gave her a wink that made Sophie’s heart pound in her chest. His meaning was entirely obvious — he meant it, of course, as a gesture of their comradery as co-conspirators against Mary Collins — and yet to her racing pulse, that wink seemed to mean something entirely different.

In any case, it was not possible to argue against such reasoning, particularly not when Madam Duvall might hear them.

“You are certain you will not regret your generosity?” Sophie asked him, marvelling at how light and arch she could sound, all the while feeling as though she might fall down.

“There is not a doubt in my mind,” he told her. “Order away. I shall be displeased only if you select too few.”

Madam Duvall, returning with an armful of fabric, laughed heartily to overhear this. “Your Grace, I only wish all my customers were like you. Do not fear, I shall tempt Miss Anderson into ordering enough to test even your purse!”

The duke chuckled. “See that you do,” he told her laughingly, and returned to his armchair.

It took all of Sophie’s willpower not to stare after him. He played the role to perfection, so naturally that if she had not known the truth, she would have thought —

But no, she knew that the suggestion of anything between them was nothing more than an act. She would do well not to forget it.

The rest of their appointment passed in a blur.

Utterly outmanoeuvred, Sophie ordered several gowns in the new style of fabric.

She could only hope that poor Madam Duvall would not be too disappointed when the influx of orders she hoped for did not materialise.

Even as the supposed fiancé of the Duke of Belford, Sophie could not imagine that many ladies would be inspired to buy a fabric simply because she had worn it.