She returned her attention to sprinkling a cascade of faux cherry blossom petals around the mannequin heads in the window and noted that the marchers were moving on at last. Hattie watched a woman bend over to talk to a girl of about twelve or so. Both wore very plain, outmoded garments. They were clearly working class yet marched beside a society matron dressed in the latest Parisian style, including a gold turban on which sequins glittered in the sunlight. The contrast between the marchers and the sight of all of these women from different stations in life banded together in a common cause made Hattie’s throat tighten with emotion.
The bell over the door rang as someone entered the shop. Hattie swallowed the lump, dashed away foolish, sentimental tears, and turned to greet her customer with a smile. “May I help—”
The rest of her customary greeting came out as an unintelligible gurgle, for the person who had entered the millinery was not her normal sort of client. On rare occasions, gentlemen did stop in alongside their fiancées, wives, or, more often, mistresses, but the shock of this particular fellow was not due to his gender. Hattie had quite simply never seen such an attractive man. His face and figure were handsome, for he had finely-drawn features and a trim athletic build, but more than that, his presence crackled with vitality. Bright blue eyes beamed joie de vivre and mischief. Such a man could mean nothing but trouble to any woman who came within his orbit.
Hattie stilled the rise of answering energy in her body and calmed herself before repeating, “May I help you, sir?”
“Indeed.” The fellow had been studying the shop, but now gazed directly at Hattie. Another jolt of ridiculous attraction stabbed her. She waited for it to pass while scolding herself for such nonsense. The only time she’d allowed herself to be swept away on a tide like this, it had nearly drowned her.
Foolish girl, what have you done? Her aunt’s voice still haunted her.
“What are you looking for?” Hattie asked.
He examined her from head to toe in less than a heartbeat, yet it felt as if his gaze lingered caressingly.
Heat unfurled from deep inside to coil through every part of her. Again, she banished unwelcome feelings. He answered her question flippantly. “Well, I’m in a millinery so … I suppose I’ve come to purchase a hat.”
She did not smile at the joke, and approached the man in the light blue suit as if his presence did not send tickling fingers up her spine. “What sort did you have in mind?”
He studied the nearest mannequins. “She already owns so many hats, I don’t know if one more will impress her. But she adores them so it seemed the perfect gift.”
Hattie touched the gold badge and plume on the side of a navy blue tricorn. “The military style is popular this spring if you want to choose something the lady is not likely to already possess. Tricorns are all the rage just now.”
“What about one of these numbers?” The customer indicated the fussiest, most over-embellished Merry Widow on the floor. The huge picture hat had been created to the precise design of Mrs. Constance Darrow, who had passed away before claiming it. Hattie could not seem to sell the monstrosity. Perhaps if she removed some of the garden of flowers and small birds from its brim.
“If you believe your friend would like this one, I can wrap it and have it sent today.”
“Hm. It’s a bit garish, is it not? Perhaps something simpler.”
The gentleman seemed in no hurry to vacate the premises, unlike most men who appeared to want out of this feminine domain as soon as possible. He strolled past Hattie to study the display of trimmings. A whiff of something spicy and warm, perhaps sandalwood, teased her nose as he walked by.
She smoothed the front of her bodice and followed him toward a rack that sported a rainbow array of gauzes. “If you tell me something about the woman you’re purchasing the hat for, perhaps I can be of better help.”
“She wears very elegant styles, simple, yet striking. Something involving this sheer stuff draped around her face would suit her well, I believe.”
“A wide-brimmed straw with gauze draping and ties is very charming, but one must consider the hairstyle. Does your friend generally adopt the Gibson roll? One wouldn’t wish the hat to crush her bouffant too badly.”
The customer examined Hattie’s hair with a frown of concentration. “She wears it rather like yours, I guess. Only it is not such a rich chestnut color.” The corners of his mouth curved slightly. Light slanting through the nearby window sent blue flames dancing in his eyes. “No. Not this color at all.”
Warmth rekindled in Hattie’s lower regions. She tamped it down before her cheeks could flush. Men often attempted to trifle with her. She knew how to quash such inclinations. “Is this gift for your wife, or perhaps your daughter? Maybe your mother or grandmother?” She named all the females in a man’s life the mention of whom would make him feel guilty for dallying.
His smile broadened as if he knew exactly what she was doing. “Ah, no. This lady is merely a good friend.”
Mistress, Hattie mentally translated.
“This is a farewell gift as our ways must soon part.”
“I see.”
“Something tasteful would be just the thing. I trust your judgment as far as decorating it. A friend pronounced you the finest milliner in London.” He glanced around. “And I can see
