The Ideal Wife(12)

The man, as Lord Severn suspected, was Mr. Gill. They exchanged pleasantries after his lordship had refused an invitation to step into the study for refreshments.

“Miss Gardiner is, ah, seeking employment with you, my lord?” Mr. Gill asked. “She is an ambitious young lady to have looked so high.”

“Miss Gardiner,” the earl said, one hand playing with the handle of his quizzing glass, “is a distant relative of mine, sir.”

Mr. Gill rubbed his hands together.

She had not passed along his message, Lord Severn decided. “And my betrothed,” he added.

Mr. Gill’s hands stilled.

But the earl’s attention was diverted. She was coming down the stairs and he turned to watch her. She was clad from head to ankles in gray. Only her black gloves and half-boots relieved the monotony.

Oh, yes, he thought in some shock, he had not been mistaken in her appearance.

Or in her character either. Her face was expressionless. Her eyes were directed at the floor between him and Mr. Gill. She curtsied when she reached the bottom of the stairs, without raising her eyes.

“Good morning, my dear,” the earl said, bowing to her. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, thank you, my lord,” she said.

“Ah,” Mr. Gill said, rubbing his hands together again. “Young love. How splendid. And how very pretty you look, Miss Gardiner.”

The woman looked up, first at Mr. Gill and then at her betrothed. There was a gleam in her eye that looked remarkably like amusement, the earl thought. But it was gone in a flash before he could observe more closely.

She took the arm that he offered.

• • •

ABIGAIL HAD BEEN on Bond Street only once, with Mrs. Gill. But they had not stopped there, only strolled along it in order to look grand. Bond Street was somewhat above Mrs. Gill’s touch.

But it was to Bond Street that the Earl of Severn took her, to the shop of a modiste who looked quite as grand as a duchess and who spoke with a French accent that had Abigail peering at her with suspicion. But the woman knew the Earl of Severn and curtsied deeply to him. And her eyes passed over Abigail’s gray clothes with curiosity and some condescension.

This was where he brought his ladybirds to be clothed, Abigail thought, and Madame Savard—or Miss Bloggs, or whatever her true name was—was assuming that she was another of that breed. She fixed the woman with a severe eye. And she felt mortified beyond belief. She had not known that gentlemen ever went shopping with ladies for clothes—not right inside the shop and greeting the modiste and demanding to see fashion plates and pattern books and fabrics.

“We will need something pretty without delay, madame,” he said. “Miss Gardiner is to be my bride tomorrow.”#p#分页标题#e#

The eyes surveying her became sharper and considerably more respectful. Madame clasped her hands to her bosom and uttered some charming and sentimental words about whirlwind romances. She and Mr. Gill should get together to render a romantic duet, Abigail thought, and then wished she had not done so, as her stomach muscles tightened with suppressed amusement.

“But by tomorrow, m’lord?” Madame said, long-nailed hands fluttering. “Non, non. impossible!”

“Possible,” the earl said firmly, not giving the word the modiste’s French intonation. “Definitely possible. Madame Girard was telling me only last week that her seamstresses can make up even the fanciest of ball gowns in three hours when necessary.”

It seemed that it was, after all, possible to make a dress suitable for a bride before the next day. As for all the rest of the garments, they were to be delivered to Grosvenor Square, some within a week, some within two.

There followed two hours of bewilderment for Abigail. Fabrics and designs were chosen by his lordship and Madame just as if she were a wax figure with no voice or mind of her own.

In a meeting with Laura that morning for the planning of strategy, it had been agreed, much against Abigail’s conscience, that she keep to her demure image at least until after the wedding—if there was a wedding. At the time, Abigail had been more convinced than ever that she would never set eyes on the Earl of Severn again. But now that the situation was real, it would have been difficult to keep to the plan if she had not been feeling so far beyond her depth.

Finally she was whisked to a back room—where the earl did not follow her, she was relieved to find—separated from all her clothes, except her chemise and stockings, stood up on a stool, and twirled and prodded and poked and measured for what seemed like a day and a half without stop.

She clung doggedly to her demure self, slipping only twice. She did protest to Madame once, when she was turned without being asked to do so, that she was no slab of beef and would appreciate not being treated like one. And she did remind a thin, bespectacled seamstress that she was not a pincushion and did not enjoy being punctured by pins. But she felt sorry for the latter lapse immediately after, when the girl looked up at her with anxious eyes and glanced swiftly across to Madame, who fortunately had not heard.