Nevertheless…She slipped out of bed and, barefoot, hurried to the stairs, peering down between the banisters. She could hear voices, Treadwell’s and one other. Indistinct. Treadwell didn’t sound happy. Was he ever? She heard the front door close, and a moment later a bell ringing faintly.
A few minutes later, Marie came up the stairs, carrying a large, flattish square box with a gold logo. Zoë recognized it. It was from the House of Chance.
“Mademoiselle Milly’s wedding dress,” Marie told her. “Monsieur Treadwell, he very not happy. Parcel not supposed to come by front door.”
Zoë nodded, feeling ridiculously disappointed. Of course Reynard would not call at such an hour. And in any case, he knew he would not be admitted: Lady Scattergood had given strict instructions.
She followed Marie into Milly’s bedchamber. Milly opened the box and drew out the dress. “Oh, it’s perfect,” she murmured. “A bit plain, but very nice. And what’s this?” A second garment wrapped in tissue lay under the dress. She drew it out, held it up and gasped.
It was a flimsy silk garment: a nightdress, Zoë gathered, only so fine that it was almost transparent. Milly’s eyes were popping. “This—this can’t be what I think it is.”
“It’s a nightdress,” Zoë said.
“But it’s so…so improper. Mama would never allow me to wear something so…so revealing.”
The mother who’d dressed her in necklines so low-cut that Milly was almost popping out of them. Resulting in a proposal from a lustful old spider.
“Perhaps not, but I expect Thaddeus will love it. And,Milly, remember what I said about parroting your mother’s opinions all the time? I very much doubt your Thaddeus will appreciate it, given your mother’s attitude toward him.”
She left Milly then, feeling stupidly wistful. Milly would be marrying the man she loved and would wear that beautiful flimsy silk nightdress for him, whereas she…She was in an impossible position.
She loved Reynard, and if he’d really been Reynard the vagabond artist, she could have married him. Only her sisters and Lucy would have been so disappointed after all the trouble they’d gone to on her behalf.
They wanted her to marry Julian, the Earl of Foxton, but how could he marry an illegitimate girl who was born in the slums of London? A girl who was only masquerading as a well-born French cousin. What if she were found out? It had been nerve-racking enough making her entrance first in French society and now in English. The French had been so much easier, perhaps because she didn’t care so much, and because she knew her French, at least, was flawless. But in England, with the eyes of the ton upon her, it felt as though she were walking on ice. Thin ice, at that.
If she married Julian the earl, he would be made to look a fool. His family would hate it. His grandmother already disliked Zoë intensely. She was a woman who set great store by people’s position in society. She would be appalled—furious—to learn he was thinking of marrying her. And that, even before she knew about Zoë’s shameful background.
Did she want to be a countess, anyway? Always having to be on her best behavior? Being a grand hostess, running his various homes, being gracious Lady of the Manor to his tenants, knowing they would look down on her if they knew the truth. Aristocrats were not the only snobs in the world.
And what about her painting? Would there ever be time for that? She knew from her sisters’ experience thatthere was work involved in being the wife of an earl, just as there was work for an earl. So even if she did continue to paint, would it be regarded indulgently as “the countess’s little hobby,” fitted in between her more worldly obligations? And no doubt any praise for her painting would be because she was a member of the aristocracy, not because it was any good.
Good or bad, she wanted her painting to be taken seriously. She wanted it to be her profession.
Julian returned to his lodgings that evening only to discover that his grandmother had followed him to London. A note from her awaited him, demanding he call on her at the earliest opportunity. He sighed, but decided to get it over with. He had other plans for tomorrow.
His grandmother got straight to the point. “I have been informed that you attended a reception at the home of Lord and Lady Salcott.”
“Indeed? Who told you?”
She brushed his question aside with an impatient gesture. “Well? Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did you meet any eligible young ladies there?”
“Dozens,” he said wearily. He was fed up with her constant nagging.
“Well then?” She looked at him expectantly. “Did any of them look suitable?”
He was tempted to say “Suitable for what?” but he wanted to end this conversation and go home. “I didn’t tell you before, Grandmama, but when I was in France, I met a young lady who I’ve decided is the very one for me.”
“French?” She wrinkled her nose. “Still, better a French bride than no bride at all, I suppose. Tell me about this young lady. She is well born, I take it?”
He pretended to consider it. “She’s possibly not the kind of well-born you’re thinking of, but I think she’s perfect.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
He said in a confiding voice, “She’s an orphan and very sweet. She’s a former maidservant who was unjustly dismissed from her position.” His grandmother started to swell up, and he continued before she could interrupt. “She’s illiterate, but very clever, and I think she’ll learn to read quite quickly. And of course, she’s very beautiful.”
