She looked at his dark face. To have taken the slightest notice of his pride now would be idiotic. He was facing disgrace, and further, his own downfall would destroy his friend’s life. If he failed to exonerate himself, Pitt too might lose all the worldly possessions he had; cutting most deeply would be the loss of his ability to support his family, most particularly the wife who had stepped down so far from financial and social comfort to marry him.
“No, of course not,” she replied, smiling at Narraway. “I am just a little nervous about it. I met some of them at Bridget Tyrone’s party, and I am not sure that the encounter was entirely amicable.”
“I can imagine,” he said wryly. “But I know you, and I know something of Dolina. Tea should be interesting. And you’ll like the art. It is impressionist, I think.” He rose from the table.
“Victor!” She used his name for the first time without thinking, until she saw his face, the quickening, the sudden vulnerability. She wanted to apologize, but that would only make it worse. She forced herself to smile up at him where he stood, half turned to leave. He was naturally elegant; his jacket perfectly cut, his cravat tied with care.
She hardly knew how to begin, and yet certain necessity compelled her.
He was waiting.
“If I am to go to the exhibition I would like to purchase a new blouse.” She felt the flush of embarrassment hot in her face. “I did not bring …”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “We will go as soon as you have finished your breakfast. Perhaps we should get two. You cannot be seen in precisely the same costume at every function. Will you be ready in half an hour?” He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“Good heavens! I could have luncheon as well in that time. I shall be ready in ten minutes,” she exclaimed.
“Really? Then I shall meet you at the front door.” He looked surprised, and quite definitely pleased.
THEY WALKED PERHAPS THREE hundred yards then quite easily found a hansom to take them into the middle of the city. Narraway seemed to know exactly where he was going and stopped at the entrance to a very elegant couturier.
Charlotte imagined the prices, and knew that they would be beyond her budget. Surely Narraway must know what Pitt earned? Why was he bringing her here?
He opened the door for her and held it.
She stood where she was. “May we please go somewhere a little less expensive? I think this is beyond what I should spend, particularly on something I may not wear very often.”
He looked surprised.
“Perhaps you have never bought a woman’s blouse before,” she said a little tartly, humiliation making her tongue sharp. “They can be costly.”
“I wasn’t proposing that you should buy it,” he replied. “It is necessary in pursuit of my business, not yours. It is rightly my responsibility.”
“Mine also …,” she argued.
“May we discuss it inside?” he asked. “We are drawing attention to ourselves standing in the doorway.”
She moved inside quickly, angry with both him and herself. She should have foreseen this situation and avoided it somehow.
An older woman came toward them, dressed in a most beautifully cut black gown. It had no adornment whatever; the sheer elegance of it was sufficient. She was the perfect advertisement for her establishment. Charlotte would have loved a gown that fitted so exquisitely. She still had a very good figure, and such a garment would have flattered her enormously. She knew it, and the temptation was so sharp she could feel it like a sweet taste in her mouth.
“May we see some blouses, please?” Narraway asked. “Suitable for attending an exhibition of art, or an afternoon soiree.”
“Certainly, sir,” the woman agreed. She regarded Charlotte for no more than a minute, assessing what might both fit and suit her, then another mere instant at Narraway, perhaps judging what he would be prepared to pay.
Looking at his elegant and clearly expensive clothes, Charlotte’s heart sank. The woman had no doubt jumped to the obvious conclusion that they were husband and wife. Who else would a respectable woman come shopping with, for such intimate articles as a blouse? She should have insisted that he take her somewhere else and wait outside. Except that she would have to borrow the money from him anyway.
“Victor, this is impossible!” she said under her breath as soon as the woman was out of earshot.
“No it isn’t,” he contradicted. “It is necessary. Do you want to draw attention to yourself by wearing the same clothes all the time? People will notice, which you know even better than I do. Then they will wonder what our relationship is—that I do not take better care of you.”
She tried to think of a satisfactory argument, and failed.
“Or perhaps you want to give up the whole battle?” he suggested.
“No, of course I don’t!” she retaliated. “But—”
“Then be quiet and don’t argue.” He took her arm and propelled her forward, holding her firmly. If she had pulled back she would have bumped into him, and the pressure of his fingers on her arm would have hurt. She determined to have words with him later, in no uncertain fashion.
The woman returned with several blouses, all of them beautiful.
“If madame would care to try them, there is a room available over here,” she offered.
Charlotte thanked her and followed immediately. Every one of them was ravishing, but the most beautiful was
