Heiress in Red Silk, Hunter, Madeline [good beach reads TXT] 📗

He strode out of the drawing room, ready to kill someone. Forestier preferably, but the scoundrel was in Paris.

Light footsteps hurried up behind him and caught him at the stairs.

“What is wrong with you?” Rosamund hissed. “That was rude to the point of cruelty.”

“He is the competitor who cost us two thousand, not to mention a percentage of profits.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I? I wonder what Forestier told him about what we have.”

“Do not be so fast to assume betrayal, Kevin. It sounded to me as if Forestier truly thought you might see a solution where he did not, and that he also thought Mr. Lovelace might be of use in our own enterprise.”

He shook off the hand she had on his arm. “I’m not interested.”

“It can’t hurt to listen. It may come to nothing, but we should at least—”

“Damnation, no.”

She narrowed her eyes. She backed up two paces. Then she turned and strode back to the drawing room.

That night, when he retired to his chambers, he found a long sheet of paper propped on the dressing table. He stared at it while his valet helped him undress.

“Mrs. Radnor brought that, sir,” Morris said while he set aside the waistcoat.

Kevin picked it up and held it to the light. It looked like the drawing Lovelace had taken from his pocket.

He had not seen Rosamund since she marched back into the drawing room. She had spent the afternoon at her shop, and had had dinner sent up to her apartment. He had spent the time immersed in thoughts on an idea he had for a new invention. Even so, he had not missed the brittle silence that permeated the house.

Now he examined the paper. There was no note with it, but he read her message all the same.

Cursing, he threw himself onto the divan and held up the damned paper so the lamp on the table beside him illuminated the drawings. Thus did women win their battles. Weaker sex, hell. Men didn’t stand a chance.

* * *

Rosamund turned on her bed and snuggled against her pillow. No, not a pillow.

An arm moved to surround her.

No wonder her fitful sleep had turned peaceful. “You’re here,” she murmured.

“Do you mind?”

She shook her head and drifted in the peace his embrace always gave her. She was so glad he had come. She had spent the evening full of self-righteous anger, but by the time she retired, she had worried that he wouldn’t even care about the distance she had imposed. More likely he would find her pique irritating and boring.

Perhaps he had. Maybe he had not even noticed her absence. Right now, she didn’t care because his embrace made her heart so happy for their special friendship.

Not friendship, her heart’s voice said. Call it love, because that is what you feel.

“The problem with his machine is simple to fix once you give it some thought. I will send him the solution I propose.”

Machine? Solution? Oh yes. Mr. Lovelace.

“That is nice of you.”

She felt him kiss the top of her head. “Think nothing of it.”

* * *

Rosamund walked to her shop, eager to do something besides practice elocution or manners. Her tutors had a habit of congratulating her, but it always sounded as if they praised themselves instead. She had improved much in the month of lessons, and they saw her as one of their creations, much as the new hat she was finishing was one of hers.

Upon arriving at the shop, she immediately went to the workroom. The apprentice, Sally, labored over trimming a headpiece. Rosamund checked her work, then sat to finish her own.

The hat used some of the ideas she had carried back from Paris in her reticule. The brim was uneven, and deeper on one side than the other. The larger side curved up, and she had split the brim there in three places. That allowed the plumes on the crown to show through to the front, and also gave the hat a different flair.

Covering those split sections had been a challenge. She carefully picked out the stitches on one of them and began to redo it.

Mrs. Ingram entered. “There’s someone asking for you in front.”

“Not a local businessman, I trust. My marriage was announced.”

“Nothing like that. Mr. Walter Radnor and his wife.”

Surprised, Rosamund set aside her trimming and made her way to the front of the shop.

Felicity waited there, dressed very fashionably and wearing a hat Jameson’s had not made. Walter hovered near her, looking pompous and vaguely uncomfortable. Felicity saw her and fluttered over.

“What a charming shop. Such interesting hats.”

Rosamund welcomed them, then waited with curiosity. When they both kept ambling around her establishment, she moved in and forced the question. “How can I help you? Have you come to commission something, Mrs. Radnor?”

“I think that you can address me as Felicity now, because we are related.”

“How generous of you.”

Felicity glanced at her husband.

He offered a hearty, bland smile. “We want you to know that we have accommodated ourselves to the marriage. What’s done is done.”

“How good of you.”

“Yes, well, about that, however.” He glanced around, his gaze returning repeatedly to the window. “Is there somewhere we can talk alone?”

“Come with me.” She led the way up to the first story and the space in front that the shop used. She had installed a divan and some chairs there, along with the necessities for fitting headwear.

“We called at your home, but were told you were here,” Felicity said after sitting on the divan.

Rosamund wondered who had told them that.

“Do you think this is wise?” Walter asked. “Continuing in trade now that you are wed is neither necessary nor appropriate.”

“Did the family send you to instruct me? If my husband does not mind, why should you?”

“Kevin has never been careful about social expectations,” Felicity said soothingly. “Walter is only trying to help you. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Walter nodded.

“Then you have done your duty.” Rosamund stood. “Now, I have a full day and—”

“Actually, we wanted to talk about something else,” Walter