A Comfortable Wife (Regencies 8)

Antonia jumped, then shot him a frown, which he met with a raised brow and an all-too-knowing smile. Offering her his arm, he gestured to the door through which the foot­man was assisting Henrietta. “Come and meet Madame Lafarge."

Guided up a narrow stair and into a salon draped in silk, Antonia felt her eyes widen. Small knots of ladies, young and old, were scattered about the apartment, grouped on chairs, each with an attendant hovering, offering samples of cloths. Murmured discussions, intent and purposeful, hummed in the air.

Philip was not the only gentleman present; others were freely giving their opinions on colours and styles. Quite a few turned to look at her; one groped for his quizzing glass, half-raising it to his eye before apparently thinking better of it. An assistant hurried up; Philip spoke quietly and she scurried away, disappearing through a curtained doorway.

Five seconds later, the curtain was thrown back; a small, black-clad figure glided into the room, pausing for a dra­matic instant before heading towards them.

"My lord. My lady." The woman, black-eyed and black-haired, spoke with a pronounced accent. She bowed, then, straightening, lifted her hands palms up as she said, "My poor talents are entirely at your disposal."

"Madame." Philip inclined his head. He introduced Hen­rietta, then stood back and let her take charge. Turning his head, he caught Antonia's eye.

Confused, she lifted a brow at him but was distracted by Henrietta's introduction.

Nodding in acknowledgement of Antonia's greeting, Ma­dame Lafarge walked slowly around her, then gestured down the room. “Walk for me, mademoiselle—to the win­dows and back, if you please."

Antonia glanced at Philip; he smiled reassuringly. She strolled down the long room, drawing covert glances from the modiste's other patrons with miffed looks from some of the younger ladies. By the time she returned to Philip's side, Henrietta and Madame had their heads together, whis­pering avidly.

"Excellent." Nodding, Henrietta straightened. "We'll return for a private session tomorrow at ten."

"Bien. I will have all ready. Until tomorrow, my lady. My lord. Mademoiselle." Madame Lafarge bowed deeply, then gestured to an underling to see them to the door.

Gaining the pavement in advance of Henrietta, slowly descending the steep flight on the arm of her footman, An­tonia let her gaze travel the short street, taking

in the nu­merous signs indicating the establishments of modistes and the odd tailor. Turning to Philip, standing patiently by her side, she raised a determined brow. "Why here?"

Philip raised a brow back. "Because she's the best—at least for style and, in my humble opinion, for that indefin­able something that gives rise to true elegance."

Glancing again at the blue gown in the window, Antonia nodded. "But it was you who had the entree—not Hen­rietta."

When, turning, she fixed an openly enquiring gaze upon him, Philip wished her understanding was not quite so acute. He considered a white lie, but she had already noted his hesitation.

Again her brow rose, her expression half playful, half distant. “Or is that one of those matters into which young ladies should not enquire too closely?''

It was; for the first time in his lengthy career, the fact made Philip uncomfortable. Inwardly frowning, he kept his expression impassive. "Suffice to say that I have had call to make use of Madame's expertise in the past."

"For which," Henrietta said, puffing slightly as she came up with them, "we are both duly grateful." She fixed Philip with an approving stare. "Wondered why you had John Coachman stop here." Turning to Antonia, she explained, "Horrendously difficult to interest personally, Madame. But if you can catch her eye, then your wardrobe, you may be assured, will be enough to set the tabbies on their tails." Straightening, Henrietta waved to her coachman, "You may wait for us at the end of Bond Street, John." Then she gestured her footman forward. “Come, Jem, give me your arm. We can stroll from here."

Philip offered Antonia his arm. She hesitated only frac­tionally before placing her hand on his sleeve. Head high, a distant smile on her lips, she strolled by his side as they followed Henrietta into Bond Street.

Her joy in his company, in his introducing her to Ma­dame Lafarge, had been quite effectively depressed.

Their foray up and down the fashionable thoroughfare was punctuated by frequent halts before the windows of milliners and glovers, haberdasherers and bootmakers.

"No sense in deciding on anything until we've consulted with Lafarge tomorrow," Henrietta opined. "Elsewise, we'll end with the wrong colour or style."

Dragging her gaze from a quite hideous chip bonnet sprouting a border of fake daisies, Antonia nodded absent-mindedly. One of their last halts was before the windows of Aspreys, the jewellers. Necklaces and rings, baubles of every conceivable hue, glittered and winked behind the glass.

Her gaze locked on the display, Henrietta pursed her lips. "If memory serves, your mama was never one for jewel­lery."

Antonia, still wrestling with unwelcome realization, shook her head. "She always said she didn't need much. But I have her pearls."

"Hmm." Henrietta squinted at a necklace and drop-earrings set on a velvet bed towards the back of the display. "Those topazes would suit you."

“Where?'' Blinking, Antonia summoned enough interest to follow her aunt's gaze.

"Not topazes."

Philip spoke from behind them; it was the first utterance he had made since they'd gained Bond Street. Both Antonia and Henrietta turned in surprise.