Mercy, such an answer did not bode well for their union. Henrietta shrugged off the surging concern. Most in the ton had built marriages on such ambivalence. “I should think most would call him handsome,” Henrietta mused. “But there’s no need to discuss it if you do not wish. Each woman has her own standards.”
Lady Willow inhaled deeply, her arms relaxing to her sides and her eyes refocusing on Henrietta’s face. “It’s fine. Do you know, no one has ever asked me about my preferences before.”
“I apolo—”
“No, no, Miss Blake. Do not apologize.” She smiled timidly. “I’m not insulted. It’s refreshing.”
“I’m glad, but we shall speak of other subjects.” Besides, she had not risked propriety for conversation about her ex-fiancé! She’d done so to discuss gowns and fabric and Blake Textiles. “You’re wearing a lovely gown, Lady Willow. May I ask who makes your clothes?”
Lady Willow studied her dress. “Is it? Lovely, I mean.”
Actually, it was not. It was five seasons behind, at least, and the neckline extended all the way up to her chin. Modest was a nice descriptor for it, frumpy a truer one.
Henrietta racked her brain for an appropriate answer. “Mm. The fabric is quite fine, and I adore the pearl beading at the hem.”
Lady Willow’s lip hitched up at one corner. “I do like the pearls.” She linked a finger beneath the high neck and pulled the material away from her skin. “But it’s rather constraining.”
“You’d appear to perfection in a gown with a lower-cut bodice like you wore yesterday evening.” Last evening’s gown had grazed her collarbone not her chin, at least. “You’re so slender. The high-waisted styles were simply made for you. In fact, my father’s shop specializes in them.”
Now, both corners of Lady Willow’s mouth hitched up. “You are quite the saleswoman, Miss Blake.”
Bother. She found it impossible to advertise for her shop subtly and without feeling icky. “I’m sorry if I seem mercenary. I simply like to see women well-dressed.”
Willow nodded slowly, her smile crept into her eyes. “Do you think men would notice me more if I wore your father’s gowns?”
Did she mean any man or did she mean Lord Rigsby? How to reply when she truly desired only to run away?
She stayed put. “Indeed, I do. But …” She considered her words carefully. “But any man worth your consideration should notice you no matter the dress you wear.”
“Rather forward-thinking of you, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“And not, I should think, a philosophy terribly good for business.”
Henrietta laughed at the astute observation. “No, not at all. I should have told you the only way to get noticed is in a Blake dress.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, though.” Willow picked at the slim sleeves of her dress. Prim and unadorned, the pale-yellow gown washed out her porcelain skin. “My mother picks out all my gowns.” She raised blazing eyes to Henrietta. “When I’m married, I’ll wear nothing but Blake gowns, though. You have my word.”
Henrietta sucked in a breath, whether at the ferocity in the other woman’s gaze or at the complete success of a single conversation, she didn’t know. She managed a shocked chuckle. “You’ve not even seen one yet!”
“I assume you’re wearing one.”
“Well yes, but it’s not the one I would put you in.”
Willow talked without moving her body, as if scared to bring attention to herself, but her voice rang fierce. “I need no more convincing than that. Once I’m married, nothing but Blake gowns for me.”
Henrietta had done it. She’d gained the patronage of a young future duchess. And better, she’d gained the opportunity to transform a forgettable duke’s daughter into a fiery, fashionable leader of the ton. An opportunity like this would never come again. She stuck out a hand. “I’ll hold you to that, my lady.”
Lady Willow smiled. “I look forward to it.”
She’d look forward to it. Future tense. Their deal could not come to pass until after Lady Willow married Lord Rigsby. The excitement seeped from Henrietta’s body. The thought of any woman marrying him unsettled her. But she replaced the squirmy, pinchy feeling with steely determination. There would be a wedding, and Henrietta would have what she’d come here for—a patroness who would put her shop on the map. But first—
“Lord Rigsby!” A voice boomed nearby.
“Oh, no.” Lady Willow straightened, wiping all emotions from her face. “My mother is coming.”
Henrietta followed her gaze across the lawn to the tall, buxom woman barreling toward them. She didn’t notice them but waved at a man exiting the house. Lord Rigsby.
