Page 3 of Bad Luck Bride (Scandal at the Savoy #3)

Magdelene paused, considering. “I wonder if that gives us enough time. We shall have barely a quarter of an hour to see the florist before we have to dash off. Perhaps you could see about the flowers while I pay that call on Mrs. Carte. Orchids would be lovely, darling, by the way.”

“Very lovely,” she agreed, her gaze straying to her desk where the unpaid bills were piling up with alarming rapidity. “And very expensive.”

“But we don’t have to worry about expenses, darling. Not anymore.”

Yes, there’s nothing like marrying a millionaire to solve all a girl’s problems.

That rather cynical reply hovered on Kay’s lips, but as she looked up, noting how her engagement to one of America’s richest tycoons had smoothed away the lines of worry that had been etched into her mother’s face since her father’s death a year ago, any impulse Kay had to say those words vanished.

Giles, being the new earl, had wanted—quite rightly—to move into the house.

He had half-heartedly offered to let them continue living there with him and his wife, but that would have been terribly awkward, to say the least, and they had declined.

For the past year, they had been drifting all over England, from hotel to hotel, trying to make their minuscule quarterly allowance from the impoverished estate last by ducking their bills and evading their creditors.

Had Wilson not come along, had he not proposed, they’d eventually have had to go abroad.

But Wilson had come along, and when he proposed, Kay’s relief had been so great, she’d nearly fainted for the first time in her life. The creditors could all be paid, Mama would be secure, and Josephine would be able to have her first London season at last.

London, of course, was expensive, but the Savoy had always been known to have fairly liberal terms of repayment, at least as far as members of the aristocracy were concerned.

“Yes,” her mother said, breaking into her thoughts, “orchids would be best, I think.”

She wanted gardenias, but for a June wedding, gardenias would be almost as much as orchids.

On the other hand, did it really matter?

After all, the dresses were from Lucile, the Savoy was costing the earth, and the pricing estimates for Jo’s debutante ball had made her gasp in shock, but perhaps her mother was right to not be worried.

After all, Wilson was one of the richest men in America, and once her engagement to him was formally announced, the bank would be happy to give her a loan based on her expectations.

And once she and Wilson married, the marriage settlement he’d agreed to pay would cover everything.

They’d only be in trouble if the wedding didn’t come off.

“Not orchids,” she told her mother. “I prefer gardenias.”

“Gardenias? No, no, dear. I know they are your favorite, but they are white, and your dress is white. No, orchids will be better. Pale green ones, with your coloring.”

“I’ll have both, then,” she said, making the compromise.

“But either way, I don’t have to pick them today.

I’d rather go with you to see Mrs. Carte,” she added, hoping there might be a way to prevail upon the wife of the Savoy’s founder for the Pinafore Room without attempts at bribery.

“After all, the room is more important. We have plenty of time to choose the flowers.”

“But we don’t, Kay. That’s just it. June seventh is only ten weeks away, dear.

The season will be full-on by then, with flowers of all sorts in short supply.

And with this being Josephine’s first season, things will be a whirlwind for us as well.

Best to have all the wedding plans made well in advance.

I will call on Mrs. Carte, and you will see the florist. Your sister can accompany you. ”

Kay capitulated, knowing her mother was right. “Very well. When Jo and I have finished, we’ll come fetch you, have lunch at the Criterion, and go on to Lucile from there.”

A frown marred Magdelene’s smooth forehead. “I’m not sure that’s wise. I don’t want anyone to see you two on your own and think you’re gallivanting around London unchaperoned.”

“A valid point, Mama, but a five-minute ride in a growler with my sister is hardly gallivanting. And it’s silly for you to come back here when Mrs. Carte’s office is right on the way to the Criterion. Don’t fuss.”

“Oh, very well, but you’d best stop dawdling and eat your breakfast,” Magdelene said as she set down the paper and rose from the table. “You’ve only half an hour, and you still have to dress.”

Kay turned toward her sister as their mother started toward her room with Foster on her heels. “You don’t mind helping me with the flowers this morning, do you, Jo?” she asked, casting a covetous glance at Josephine’s croissants as she picked up her napkin.

“Don’t call your sister Jo,” Magdelene admonished over her shoulder without so much as a backward glance.

“And, Kay, I’d suggest that you not sponge off your sister’s plate,” she added, making Kay wonder—not for the first time—if her parent had eyes in the back of her head as well as the front.

“Satin is so unforgiving. What will people think if the dress doesn’t fit? ”

Despite this echoing of what Kay already knew, she couldn’t help a wistful sigh as she picked up a slice of melba toast. “I wish I didn’t have to care so much what people think.”

“It’s not for much longer,” Josephine said. “Only until June. Once you’re married, you can eat whatever you like and wear whatever you like and go where you like, and no one will care, not even Delilah Dawlish.”

Jo was right, of course, but as Kay took a bite of hard, dry toast, she grimaced. It was like eating sawdust. June, she decided, could not come fast enough.

“Devlin?”

At the sound of his name, Devlin Sharpe looked up from the paper he was reading to find Pamela coming toward him across the lobby of the Savoy.

It had been two months since he’d seen her, and as he watched her approach, he appreciated—not for the first time—her ethereal blond beauty and the grace with which she seemed to float across the floor.

She reminded him a bit of the angel one might put atop one’s Christmas tree.

But appearances could often be deceiving, and Lady Pamela Stirling was no exception.

The only child of a marquess, Pam had all the well-bred arrogance that came from high position.

But Devlin didn’t mind that. Born into the same aristocratic world she inhabited, he was used to it.

In addition, Pam had been raised as the center of her parents’ universe and was a bit spoiled in consequence, but Devlin didn’t mind that, either.

These days, he had the blunt to give her anything she wanted, and in return, she was happy to put his wishes above even her own, a trait he found both surprising and quite gratifying.

In Devlin’s entire life, no one had ever put him first, not his own family, and certainly not his previous fiancée, and he found his second fiancée’s willingness to do so a welcome change from all the people in his past experience, even if he was paying for the privilege.

Besides, angels had never held any charms for him.

His father hadn’t nicknamed him the devil’s spawn for nothing.

And Pam was quite a catch for a man of his position.

The disgraced fifth son of a baron didn’t usually warrant the attentions, much less the hand, of a marquess’s daughter, even if said marquess was stone broke.

He wasn’t in love, but that was quite all right with him, too. Love, as he knew from bitter experience, was painful, messy, and highly overrated, and he wanted nothing to do with it ever again.

He’d admitted as much to Pam upon proposing, of course, and much to his relief, she’d accepted him anyway and expressed a similar view of love to his own.

She was fond of him, she’d said, but she’d never have agreed to marry him if he hadn’t had money.

Her brutal, clear-eyed honesty about herself and what she wanted from life was another thing he liked about her, and another refreshing contrast to his first fiancée.

“Are you all right?” Pamela asked, smiling a little as she paused in front of his chair.

“Of course,” he said, setting aside the Times and rising to his feet. “Should I not be?”

“You’re staring at me as if you’ve never seen me before.”

“Well, it’s been two months since we parted in Cairo,” he reminded.

“And if I am staring, can you blame me?” he added, giving a nod to the hotel guests around them who hurried to and fro across the Savoy’s elegantly appointed lobby.

“Half the men here are staring at you. I’m just one amid the throng. ”

“Hardly,” she said, laughing, but beneath that amused, dismissive reply was a complacence that indicated she was well aware of her own feminine appeal.

How could she not be?

With her wheat-gold hair, brown doe eyes, and stunning face, Pamela had been deemed one of the most beautiful women in London during her debut two years before, and even if society hadn’t been so fulsome in their praise, one glance in the mirror and she’d have had to be blind not to see the blessings fortune had conveyed upon her.

Rather surprising that she hadn’t been snapped up by the end of her first season.

But then, Devlin knew there was a rebellious streak in Pam’s nature, one he guessed had led her to reject the men her mother had deemed suitable for introductions.

Pamela’s mother did not find him the least bit suitable, and that, he supposed, was part of his charm as far as Pam was concerned.

“When did you arrive from Yorkshire?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Late last night.”

“And how is your family and the estate?”

“My brother Thomas and his family are well enough. And Stonygates is ticking along as if it’s still 1820. What about you? Lord Walston’s estates in fine form?”