Читать книгу The Sleeping Beauty - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 15

Adam stayed at the dressmaker’s shop the entire time Helena was being fitted. Lounging in one of the chairs Mrs. Stiles, the proprietor, had dragged in for his use, he accepted tea and selected sweets from an array of biscuits. Helena smothered a smile as she watched him so suavely handle the fuss and bother being made over him with only the vaguest suggestion of how uncomfortable all of this must make him.

Mrs. Stiles and her assistants, Betty and Hannah, were efficient and possessed an astonishing degree of skill. Helena had entered the shop with the intentions of purchasing only a few gowns. When she saw the many sketches and materials to be had, she found she was overcome by a rush of frivolous pleasure that had her ordering far more than she ever intended.

There was luscious silks embroidered with sweet florets, one in a fabulous royal blue that would bring out the color of her eyes vividly. Soft muslins in buttercup yellow, lime and the most extraordinary shade of shimmering peach were perfect for everyday dresses. She had never been allowed to select her own garments, and most of what she had was done up in stuffs and styles not to her taste. She indulged herself in a fabulous binge.

Whether motivated by the heavy amount of Helena’s spending or true kindness, Mrs. Stiles pulled out all the stops and showered Helena with her attention, turning away at least three persons who came in while Helena was there. And she did it all cheerfully, trotting out drawings and quickly sketching up the alterations that Hannah, who seemed to have an impeccable eye for what Helena liked, would suggest.

“This one would look wonderful on you, my lady,” Mrs. Stiles pointed out. “With your height, you would carry off the straight lines most elegantly.”

“In that pale pink crepe!” declared Hannah with a flash of her dark eyes. “No, no. It is too light, too ethereal for such a powdery shade. Try this. See how the weave leaves it loose, so it will drape softly. And the deep rose color would be superb.”

“Yes, I like that,” Helena agreed.

A dour-faced Betty frowned. “Dark burgundy ribbon. Just a touch. You can’t do too much, you’ll ruin the lines. You’re long and need classical styling.” She spoke it without an ounce of inflection. Rather than take it as a sign of her disapproval, Helena gathered that this stoic countenance was Betty’s usual fare. “And no ridiculous bonnets, which are the fashion for reasons I cannot understand. A cap, there, just on the crown. I’ll get the milliner to put a feather in it if you like, but that is all.”

The haberdasher was called in as a favor to Mrs. Stiles, and Helena selected undergarments right from the dressmaker’s shop. Then there were accessories to be ordered. Gloves, reticules and every other manner of feminine decoration were paraded before her. She made her selections sparingly, feeling guilty about the expense, although she knew it to be much less than when her mother would order her wardrobe under the auspices of a French designer named Monsieur Tangrimonde. To Helena’s mind, the man had possessed atrocious taste and been exorbitantly overpriced. And she’d had the most sneaking suspicion that he hadn’t been French at all.

When they were through and the orders had all been written up, she went out to the front of the shop. Adam rose. She felt badly for him having to wait about, especially when he had told her it was such a nuisance to him, but he didn’t look at all annoyed. In fact, he was smiling quite warmly at her, one of those smiles of his that took over every muscle in his face.

Flushed already with the exhilaration of her purchases, she felt the glow inside her burn brighter under this affectionate regard. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked as she fitted her hands into her old gloves.

“I did, but I’m afraid you didn’t. It must have been horribly boring sitting about all morning.”

He shrugged. “It was not the most excitement I’ve ever enjoyed, but it was nowhere near the most boring. One of my friends was invited to see Brummel make his toilette, and insisted I go along. I swear, it took ponderous hours, and we were supposed to act as if each glimpse of his fine cravat-tying was a deep and abiding honor. I almost grabbed the man’s jeweled razor and put it to my wrists, just for some blessed relief from the dullness.”

She laughed and they exited the shop onto the street. Immediately, her good humor wilted. She had almost forgotten where she was. Furtively, she slid her gaze left to right, scanning for onlookers.

Helena went stiff as she walked alongside him, her hand on his arm nearly clawing until she remembered to relax it. He pretended not to notice, but she knew little escaped him.

He said, “I am as stuffed as a Christmas goose from all that they fed me, but you must be hungry.”

“No. I’m too nervous to eat.” A group of women was standing on the corner, trying to appear casual and failing miserably as they sneaked glances at the two of them.

“Nonsense.” Adam noticed nothing. “We’ll stop for luncheon.”

“Really, I couldn’t eat, I—”

“Don’t let’s have a row in public, Helena. You will feel much better with something in your stomach.”

If she couldn’t win this argument with him in the privacy of her own home, she wasn’t even going to attempt it on the streets of Strathmere. Pressing her lips together, she allowed him to take her across the street to a pretty inn with a white door.

They sat at a table by the window. Adam chose it, and she could guess why. If everyone wanted a look at her, they would get their chance. He wouldn’t allow her to cower in front of their rude curiosity.

With him seated beside her, making easy conversation, she found she was actually able to relax. And to her surprise, she did feel better once she had eaten. He ordered for her—a hearty lunch she never would have selected and she ate a good portion of the cold sliced roast beef and potatoes. His appetite returned and he ordered the same platter as she. It was served and devoured by the time it took for her to push her plate away, pronouncing herself able to eat no more.

He picked up his fork and sampled what she had left while they chatted aimlessly. The proprietor served them coffee. Adam ordered a tart for his dessert.

Helena regarded him with a blend of amazement and amusement. Dimly aware that he had done it again—made her forget her self-consciousness, her fear—she smoothed the napkin lying on her lap. “I see why you are always after me to eat. I have never seen one person consume so much food.”

“A compliment if I ever heard one.” He grinned. “It is my curse. I have a great fondness for food. And a great capacity for it.”

“It’s a wonder you are not fat.” She immediately flushed, noting that indeed his lean, athletic build showed no signs of overindulgence.

“To the distress of my tutor and the exasperation of my father, I seem to be imbued with a great deal of energy. It tends to wear one thin if one doesn’t eat properly.”

She raised her eyebrows at his term “properly.” She laughed. “Excessively, you mean.”

“Food is one of the great joys to be had in life. One you should experience.”

“Because I am so scrawny?”

He looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean that at all. You…you are not scrawny.” He paused meaningfully, and she felt heat steal over her once again. It was a wonder she didn’t combust one of these days under those intense perusals he was apt to give. “It is just that you are so serious all the time. Don’t you ever just let go and experience pleasure for its own sake?”