Page 27 of A Duchess of Mystery (The Mismatched Lovers #3)

As the door closed behind them, the fact that they were not Miss Chaloner’s only customers dawned on Isabella with alarming speed.

Another lady was seated in one of the special chairs Miss Chaloner kept for her most favored clients.

A lady Isabella knew all too well but had not expected to find here.

Only she was not really a lady, not in Isabella’s eyes.

Cold indignation welled up in her heart and for a moment she feared she might disgrace herself by letting it show.

But no, she had herself swiftly under control again.

Years of practice had readied her for this encounter.

“Your Grace.” Miss Chaloner curtsied. “Lady Dora.” She had to stop there, her expression anxious, because no one had introduced Richard. By the look on her face, though, she had divined his identity for herself.

The occupant of the chair of honor, ignoring Miss Chaloner, now turned her head with languid grace and fixed cold, hard eyes, the color of wet pebbles on a beach, on Isabella and Dora.

Her full lips curled and she gave a dismissive shrug, as her gaze slid past them to fix on Richard’s face.

Isabella had the pleasure of seeing those eyes widen in shock.

Even in the comparative gloom of the dressmaker’s shop, Richard’s likeness to Marcus was astonishing, perhaps more so than it would have been in plain daylight.

Lady Barbara Dangerfield, wife of the renowned whip, Sir Sutton Dangerfield, baronet, and until very recently long-time mistress of Marcus, seventh Duke of Stourbridge, and sworn enemy of Isabella, curled her lips into a smile that could only be described as condescending.

“Why,” she drawled in what had to be mock surprise, “if it isn’t little Isabella Hope and Marcus’s poor little spinster sister.

And…” she paused as her eyes ran up and down Richard’s tall form, probably taking in his military bearing, “…keeping company with the new duke, if I’m not mistaken.

” Her eyes, when she rested them on Richard, were anything but cold.

She was drinking him in from the top of his rather-tousled head, through his casual wearing of Marcus’s overlarge tailcoat and breeches, down over his well-muscled legs to his shiny boots.

From the look on her face, she liked what she saw.

Isabella bristled inside. Did that dreadful woman think addressing her by her maiden name and looking at Richard as though she would like to eat him up would annoy her?

It had, but it wasn’t about to work. Isabella drew herself up to her full height of five feet and three inches.

“Lady Dangerfield, have you decided to ape my style by visiting my dressmaker? I am quite flattered by your unexpected attentions.” She kept her voice pleasant, but had no intention of introducing Richard to this woman.

The greedy way she was looking at him had quite turned her stomach.

Hopefully it had produced the same effect on him, but one never knew with men.

Lady Dangerfield’s supercilious face took on an expression of scorn. “Whatever gave you the idea that you have style, my dear? And as for me, using the services of a provincial dressmaker? Of course not. I would as soon shop here as go into the slums of London for my clothing.”

A look of horrified indignation replaced the one of anxiety that poor Miss Chaloner had been wearing. She dropped a sheaf of dress designs all over the floor where they scattered like dead leaves.

Dora bent to gather them up.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “My mistake. I had thought that must be where you had found the gown you are wearing right now.” She ended the sentence with a smile that was meant to add “so there,” and had the pleasure of seeing her enemy’s smug expression falter.

Richard, clearing his throat rather more loudly than she deemed necessary, stepped forward, a placatory smile on his face that made her want to kick him in the shins to warn him not to go near the poisonous creature currently making doe eyes at him.

And then he bowed to that woman. Bowed, as though she were someone who merited a modicum of respect.

Could the nincompoop not tell from their exchange that he was not meant to be polite to her?

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Dangerfield. And you are correct in your surmise. I am the new duke. Richard Carstairs, at your service.”

Isabella, who was having trouble not flooring that woman, kept her face expressionless, something living with Marcus for ten years had taught her. Inside, however, she was seething. Men. Why were they always so susceptible to the charms of fast women? The irony of this thought was lost on her.

Dora stood up and deposited the now gathered designs on the table, her frightened gaze flicking between Isabella and that woman. Isabella ignored her.

Lady Dangerfield also ignored her. And Isabella.

Instead, she held out her elegant, gloved hand to Richard, who could do nothing other than take it.

Clearly she meant for him to kiss it. And damn, damn, damn the man, but he obliged.

If only she herself were a man. If only both of them were, so she could plant the shameless creature a facer, as Lord Rupert might put it.

Draw her cork. Maybe even challenge her to a duel, with swords, and run her through.

She was adept with a sword, it having been one of the things her dear papa had allowed her to learn.

But she was a woman, and custom dictated that she should keep that smile fixed on her face and grin and bear everything that came her way. Well, perhaps not quite everything.

“Your Grace,” the dreadful woman purred at Richard, oozing the sort of feline attractiveness and allure Isabella knew all too well that men liked. “It is such an honor to make your acquaintance.” Oh, please don’t let him emulate Marcus and fall for the hussy. That would be too much to bear.

Miss Chaloner, a thin stick of a woman who must have been engaged in showing Lady Dangerfield the prints now back on her desk, giving the lie to her declaration of not wanting to order a gown here, looked about to expire on the spot.

Her face had gone as pale as the paper the designs were drawn on.

“Your Grace,” she managed, as though she thought it possible to redeem the situation.

“What an honor to see you here today.” Her voice sounded thready and thin in the heavy air of the shop.

“I did not think Lady Dangerfield possessed the taste to bring her business to Miss Chaloner’s,” Isabella said, to no one in particular, trying hard to prize her teeth, which were wanting to clamp tight shut, apart. “I would say the designs here are a little on the modest side for her.”

Lady Dangerfield’s expression barely changed, only the slight indentation between her eyes betraying her annoyance at Isabella’s swift repartee.

“If I had known this was your dressmaker of choice, I can assure you, I would not have come.” She rose to her feet, all five feet eight inches of Amazonian womanhood, and bestowed the sort of look on Richard that said she would very much like to engage him in something other than conversation.

Isabella was all too familiar with that look, as it was of the sort men so often gave her.

Lady Dangerfield sighed. “In fact, I’m afraid I find nothing here in the way of dresses that interests me after all.

Goodbye, Miss Chaloner. I wish you luck in dressing the daughter of a cit.

That must be so difficult for you.” Her smile increased as she looked at Richard again, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, a trick Isabella herself had often tried.

“Perhaps we shall meet again soon, Your Grace. I do hope so.”

And without a second glance for poor Miss Chaloner, who only a short time ago must have thought her new customer about to make a substantial purchase, she swept out of the shop.

Not, however, without leaning close to Isabella as she passed and hissing, “Do not attempt to cross me, tradesman’s daughter. ”

The door banged shut behind her.

With some difficulty, Isabella turned a beatific smile upon Dora and Miss Chaloner.

“Well, I can only say good riddance to that creature.” She nodded at the dressmaker.

“I can assure you, Miss Chaloner, that she is not the sort you would want to advertise as frequenting your establishment.” She advanced further into the shop.

“Whereas my dear sister-in-law and I are about to make purchases here that will make your eyes water. Courtesy of my cousin, the new duke. May I formally introduce His Grace, the new Duke of Stourbridge?” How hard it was to pretend equanimity, but she could do it.

Miss Chaloner, who had sufficiently recovered herself to stand up, swept a wobbly curtsey to the new arrivals.

“Your Graces, I’m honored that you’ve chosen to visit my humble establishment.

” Her gaze fixed on Isabella’s face. “And had I been aware of your feelings about that lady, I would not, of course, have agreed to serve her. Please rest assured of that.”

Richard was watching this exchange with a glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

Had he found the whole confrontation funny?

Had he guessed the reason for the distinct lack of amity between herself and the ghastly Lady Dangerfield?

Let him ponder. She would make sure he knew for certain before he had a chance to make the same mistake Marcus had made.

The thought of him falling into the clutches of that woman was enough to make her blood boil again.

Which was very odd, as surely he meant nothing to her? She’d think about that puzzler later.

Dora sat herself down in the seat Lady Dangerfield had so recently vacated and fanned herself with her hand. “I feel quite faint with the shock of seeing her here. What can that dreadful woman be doing in Newbury? I thought her husband’s estate was in Gloucestershire.”

Isabella took the other chair. “I don’t know and I don’t care.

Let us not sully our afternoon of pleasure by discussing that odious woman.

We are here to order new gowns for our ball, so that is what I intend to do, with no interruptions.

” She glanced up at Richard, who was still looking most amused.

Not for the first time, she had cause to reflect on how gentlemen could be most odd.

Miss Chaloner fluttered her hands. For a woman who had been running her own establishment for longer than Isabella knew, she was remarkably flighty in nature, and it didn’t take much to upset her.

But she knew when to rise to the occasion and pretend nothing had happened, “Of course, of course. I presume you will want them in black again?”

“We will,” Dora said. “Out of respect for my late brother, even though we require them because we are holding a ball at Stourbridge. In my cousin’s honor, of course, to introduce him to all our neighbors.” Her gaze slid sideways to Isabella, and their eyes met.

“Oh poppycock,” Isabella snapped, not in the mood for obliging anyone, not now she’d encountered her nemesis.

“Why are we pretending we’re sad he’s gone when we’re not?

Let those who had feelings for him wear black.

I refuse to any longer.” No doubt Lady Dangerfield would have liked to advertise her sorrows, although as she happened to be married to someone else, she couldn’t.

A feeling of delightful smugness crept over Isabella.

Maybe she would wear black again, just to annoy that woman.

Dora’s shocked eyes regarded her. Most likely due to the fact that she was unguarded enough to say all of this in front of a tradesperson.

Isabella scowled. “It’s quite ridiculous.

Miss Chaloner knows full well that my husband was not a popular man, neither with his tenants, nor with his servants and certainly not with his family. ”

Dora laid a restraining hand on her arm. Her fingers dug into the soft flesh. “Bella, no.”

Isabella glared, too angry now to curb her tongue. “I have had my fill of black. I require a gown of color for our ball. I declare our mourning is over. For you, too. And Richard, I know, is in agreement.”

“Bella, we can’t. What will people say? It’s bad enough that we’re holding a ball without also doing away with our mourning.”

“They will say that we are sensible and not a pair of hypocrites pretending to mourn someone we hated. That’s what.” She eyed Miss Chaloner. “Do you not agree?”

Poor Miss Chaloner. Isabella hadn’t meant to draw her into this but her heart was aching to wear something that wasn’t black, despite the brief but satisfying idea of keeping to black to annoy her enemy.

Let Dora pretend she was mourning if she wanted to.

She would not be a hypocrite any longer.

“Gold,” she said with determination. “I shall have a gown of embroidered gold satin. It will look well with my hair.”

Miss Chaloner nodded with alacrity. She also knew when it was a good idea to humor a duchess. “Whatever you wish, Your Grace. You will look lovely in whatever you choose to wear. Gold is such a rich color.”

Isabella turned to Dora again. “And blue for Lady Dora, I think. Yes, blue will suit her very well.”

A snort of laughter came from behind them. Really, why did Richard find this all so funny? The only thing to do was to ignore him. But at least he’d shown he had some common sense by not insisting on them remaining in mourning.