Enchanting Pleasures (8 page)

“That reminds me,” Gabby said with a frown. “Why am I marrying Peter? Not,” she added quickly, “that I have any reluctance to do so.”

And Quill could tell by her sunny smile that she didn’t.

“But I am quite certain that my papa thinks I am marrying you,” Gabby said confusedly. “Or rather, he thinks that Peter
is
you. I am afraid that he believes that I will be a viscountess someday. But that won’t happen, will it, Quill? Your wife will be the viscountess.”

“You may never be a viscountess. But your son will surely be a viscount. I shall never marry.”

“But—”

He cut her off. “Gabby, you
must
return to your chambers now. Go!” And he pushed her toward the Yellow Drawing Room.

Gabby had no recourse but to do as he told her. So she trotted up the steps and slipped through the door to the house, thinking intently about what Quill had said. Of course he would marry! She didn’t care a bit about being a viscountess, and what her father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. But Quill was lonely. She could see it in the bleak look in his eyes. He needed someone to coax him into speech and make him laugh—even if he did laugh only with his eyes.

Back in her room, Gabby took off her half boots and neatly stowed them under her bed, hiding the wet toes under her counterpane. Then she climbed back into bed and rang for a maid.

She forgot about the spray of blooms that she brought from the garden until a young girl named Margaret appeared. The first thing she said, after a proper curtsy, was “What lovely flowers, miss!”

“Yes, aren’t they beautiful?” Gabby said cheerfully. “Did you say your name was Margaret? That’s such an English name. We don’t have flowers like this in India. This came from a pudding-pipe tree, which sounds so English as well, doesn’t it?”

Enchanted by Gabby’s friendly eyes, Margaret bustled about straightening up the room and building up a fire. She didn’t even notice Gabby’s wet boots, although she tucked them under her arm to be cleaned and polished. And she didn’t think twice about the newly picked flowers now residing in a glass by the young mistress’s bed. She’d never met a gentry lady who was so friendly and all. Why, she treated her exactly as if she, Margaret, were a friend of hers.

By the time Gabby appeared in the breakfast room holding Phoebe by the hand, Margaret had coaxed Gabby’s hair into smooth curls and confined them away from her face with a bandeau.

To Quill’s intense irritation, Gabby’s face lit up when she saw that Peter was in the breakfast chamber.

“Good morning, Peter!” she said happily. And then, “Hello, Quill.”

“Good morning, Miss Jerningham, Miss Phoebe,” Peter responded, rather more coolly. Mornings were never Peter’s favorite time of day. But he felt it behooved him to wrench himself out of bed at this untimely hour in order to escort his betrothed to a mantua-maker. He’d slay himself if any of his friends glimpsed his future wife in those appalling garments she affected.

Peter waited until Gabby and Phoebe had been given breakfast by the footman. “After you break your fast, I shall escort you to the establishment of Madame Carême,” he announced.

“How lovely,” Gabby said, helping herself lavishly to more jelly. “Do you know, this is the most delicious toast I have ever eaten in my life. What kind of jelly is this, Phillip?”

To Peter’s horror, he realized that Gabby was addressing the footman. And the said footman was smiling back at her as if they were equals. “It is blackberry jelly, miss.”

Phillip snapped back to attention against the wall, instinctively sensing Peter’s infuriated eyes on him.

“Mmmm,” Gabby said dreamily. “I
love
blackberry jelly. What do you think, Phoebe?”

Phoebe looked doubtfully at the jelly. “My ayah never let me have sugared things on my toast because they may make me fat. And then I could not get married.”

“Your ayah was a tyrant! Try this, sweetheart.”

Peter frowned. To his mind Gabby was the one who should be avoiding sugared things. It could just be the dress, of course, but she looked a wee bit plumper than was advisable, given the French style of clothing that was popular in London. Still, that was a topic he could bring up in private.

Gabby turned back to him, delicately licking her lower lip. Peter’s frown darkened.

And Quill took one look at Gabby and got up abruptly, leaving the room without making a proper farewell. If even his brother noticed Gabby’s uncivilized manners, it demonstrated that she truly was in need of correction.

“Is Madame Carême a friend of yours?”

“What?” For a moment Peter didn’t follow Gabby’s question.

“Madame Carême. You said we would visit her after breakfast.”

“No. Madame Carême is a mantua-maker, a
modiste
, as they call them in France. She is considered the best in London. We must obtain a wardrobe for you at the earliest possible moment, so I have requested an appointment for a fitting.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Gabby replied comfortably. “We had twenty of these white gowns made up in India. I had them copied from a brand-new issue of
Le Beau Monde
. That’s a magazine that discusses fashion,” she explained.

“I am more than aware of
Le Beau Monde,”
Peter said. He himself had been featured in its pages more than once. “However, that design does not suit you.”

“It doesn’t?” Gabby felt a tugging at her sleeve and looked down into Phoebe’s imploring eyes. Suddenly she remembered how much misery Phoebe’s short skirts were causing her.

“All right,” she agreed. “May Phoebe accompany us to Madame Carême’s establishment? Perhaps we shall both order some new garments.”

Peter agreed. He rather liked Phoebe. She was a child who seemed to know her place, and although she should, by all rights, be in the schoolroom, she was handling the unexpected pleasure of eating with adults with composure. He noted with approval that she had had several bites of blackberry jelly and then put her toast to the side. A lady is never too young to pay attention to her figure. Gabby, on the other hand, seemed to be eating her third or fourth piece of toast.

He couldn’t resist. “Do you think it advisable to eat quite so much jellied toast?” He himself had had a spare breakfast, merely a cup of tea and a slice or two of a late apple. Quill, of course, ate like a peasant. He always had. Peter delicately added a trifle more sugar to his tea, taking care not to tinkle the spoon against the bone china of his cup.

Gabby looked at the toast in her hand with surprise and then put it to the side. “Thank you for the advice,” she said, smiling at him.

Well, at least she’s amenable, Peter thought. Perhaps he would be able to transform her. Like a work of art.

“I should never have known that blackberry jelly makes one ill if one eats too much,” Gabby continued. “Does it give you a stomachache or”—she paused—“a different sort of problem?”

Peter choked on his tea. He cast a quick look at the footman, but Phillip’s face was carefully schooled to utter calm. Peter decided not to answer that particular question.

“If you are quite finished, I shall order the carriage,” he said, as his gaze deliberately slid over her head.

Gabby chewed on her lip. Was it just her imagination, or did both Dewland brothers have conversational impediments? Then her brow cleared. It was likely that blackberry jelly caused a digestive problem. One could not imagine Peter uttering an indelicacy.

She carefully folded her napkin and placed it on the table.

G
ABBY’S INTRODUCTION TO
the establishment of Madame Carême was a shock to everyone concerned. As a stiffrumped butler ushered them into a pale golden-colored audience chamber, Madame Carême herself appeared from an inner door and effusively greeted Peter. In fact, they seemed to be close friends, and within seconds Peter was lavishly complimenting her on the ravishing ensemble that someone named Lady Holland had worn to the duke’s birthday the previous day. Madame Carême appeared not to have noticed Gabby’s presence beyond a nod of greeting. And Phoebe might have been invisible.

Gabby sighed and looked about. One side of the room was bedecked with mirrors. Phoebe was sitting primly in a chair next to the maid who had accompanied them, so Gabby wandered over to the mirrors. To her amusement, she found that they were arranged in a kind of three-way style so that a person standing before them could see her front and both sides at the same time.

As she looked into the mirrors, Madame Carême and Peter came up behind her. Madame Carême gave her a much nicer smile than she had at first and took her hand. “I must apologize,” she said. “I had no idea that you were Monsieur Dewland’s affianced bride.”

Gabby smiled back. It was nice to know that Peter was so esteemed.

“Your future husband has the taste of an angel,” Madame Carême was saying. “His dress is always tasteful, and yet it has that touch of fantasy, of the pleasant creation, that turns a toilette from merely customary to brilliant.”

Gabby blinked and looked at Peter, who was also reflected three ways in the mirrors. His clothing seemed to be neat and dark. In fact, she much preferred his dress today to the rather gaudy embroidery and gold lace that he had worn to court. Madame Carême seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so she said, rather weakly, “Indeed, Peter is very elegant.”

“Elegant!” Madame Carême’s accent thickened. “You can have no conception, Miss Jerningham! Monsieur Dewland has explained to me that you have just arrived in England—but you are marrying the man who
establishes
male fashion in London. If your betrothed chooses a single-breasted white waistcoat in the evening, you can be sure that most gentlemen will wear precisely the same garment the following evening.”

“You exaggerate, my dear Madame Carême,” Peter broke in. “You do me too much grace.”

“I am French,” Madame Carême replied loftily. “I have no need to exaggerate. I speak the truth, always. There was a time when you were younger, my dear monsieur, when it was not clear who would dominate gentlemen’s fashions. As I said, you were young. But now that you have come into your full powers—well, I would defy anyone to go against your dictates.”

Gabby looked round-eyed at Peter.

“Madame Carême is inflating my small influence with the
ton
,” he declared with a sweeping bow, pressing his lips to the very tips of the Frenchwoman’s fingers. “All I can say is that the depth of your compliment is returned by the fact that I am entrusting my future bride to you, Madame Carême, to no one but you!”

“Yes,” Madame Carême said, turning back to Gabby. Her face was not quite as happy as it had been a moment ago. She looked Gabby up and down from the top of her head to the tips of her half boots.

“It will be a challenge,” Peter said persuasively. “A challenge such as only the very top
modiste
in all of London could take on.”

“True.” The
modiste
circled Gabby, as if she were a tiger circling a goat.

“White is out of the question,” Peter said.

“I shall have to give this a good deal of thought,” Madame Carême announced. “I shall take a month, or perhaps even longer.”

“We hoped for no less. May I ask the smallest of favors, my dear Madame?” Peter lowered his voice. “Have you any garment that might be quickly made over to fit Miss Jerningham? I am unable even to take my betrothed into the park for a drive. In fact, I ordered a closed carriage on the way to your establishment, as I am sure you will understand.”

“An excellent precaution. I doubt that I can help you in an immediate sense with much beyond a day dress or two, my dear monsieur. I am afraid that Miss Jerningham is a trifle, a trifle—”

To Gabby’s great pleasure, Madame Carême was interrupted before she could reveal the trifling problem that Gabby presented. The door swung open and in walked a gentlewoman accompanied by a maid.

“The Duchess of Gisle,” intoned the butler, in a satisfied sort of way.

Madame Carême turned in a flash. “Your Grace! I had no idea that you had returned to London!”