George sat up again and began petting her dog, who had heaved himself up and was drooling copiously all over her skirts. ‘Have you seen Eleanor and the twins yet?’ she inquired, suddenly changing subjects.
‘No. I did call with the earl when the colonel sent news of his sons’ arrival but his wife was not yet receiving visitors and the twins were asleep.’
‘Perhaps we can invade tomorrow?’ George suggested. ‘I’m simply dying to see our newest additions, and to see how Eleanor is getting on. Twins. Can you imagine? No wonder she was so uncomfortable when we saw her last.’
Imogen blew her breath out in a sympathetic puff. ‘Twins certainly would explain poor Mrs Staunton’s discomfort.’
‘Come inside, you’ll freckle if you sit out here all day.’ George pushed the dog away and stood waiting with obvious impatience.
‘Very well, lead me to your treasure trove.’
The countess had not exaggerated when she’d referred to her shopping spree as an orgy. Her boudoir was strewn with parcels, trunks, and bandboxes, a great many of which, Imogen was embarrassed to discover, were intended for her.
While she knew George meant it kindly, to accept so many gifts all at once caused an uncomfortable pang. Especially when she could hardly appear so churlish as to refuse the things George had bought for her. But there were so many of them. George appeared to have run mad in the capital, and to have purchased nearly an entire new wardrobe for them both.
As the countess and her maid sorted through the packages, Imogen’s pile grew and grew. There were hats and bonnets, new gloves in a multitude of colours and lengths, new nightgowns and a very elegant dressing gown, a long redingtote à l’Allemande, with large gold buttons and a high, mannish collar, a huge bearskin muff, and a swansdown tippet. There were fripperies, such as hair ribbons, and silk flowers, and a quantity of silk stockings, some of which were even fashionably striped.
‘I also bought fabric for new walking and carriage dresses for us both,’ George said, glancing about the ruin of her boudoir, with a distracted, slightly harried look on her face. ‘And I think we both need new habits as well,’ the countess pronounced with a mischievous smile.
‘George,’ Imogen protested, staring down at the huge pile of things the countess had brought her, all her misgivings suddenly boiling up. ‘It’s too much. Really. I can’t possibly…’
‘Pooh,’ George replied, turning her head as she studied a reflection of herself in a calash bonnet of morone-colored silk. ‘None of that now. I told you when you came to stay that I’m extravagant by nature, and you promised to not allow yourself to be embarrassed by whatever small things I might be moved to give you. You’d best take this, too,’ she added, dropping the bonnet back into its box. ‘It doesn’t suit me nearly as well as it will you. Red really doesn’t flatter me at all, I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought it.’
‘But, George…’ This was not what she’d been picturing when the countess had mentioned small things.
‘But nothing.’ George brushed her concerns away with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m quite determined to puff you off at the races, and no amount of protesting, or cavilling is going to stop me. So just take them,’ she added, her tone brisk, but her eyes still smiling.
Imogen smiled back at her and shook her head. George was being ridiculous. Though she should have been expecting it. The gown that had arrived for the ball was apparently just the start of it. ‘I’ll promise to try and not be so proud and disagreeable, and I’ll even accept this appalling large collection of finery, if only you’ll promise not to run mad again.’
The countess grinned, all lop-sided cheer, and agreed to attempt to curb her more outrageous urges, so long as Imogen would continue to accept the things she purchased when her compunction to shop won out. Imogen cautiously agreed, fearing that what she’d just done was to hand George carte blanche to supply her with anything and everything that caught her fancy.
And seemingly, almost nothing escaped her notice. Imogen’s shoulders sagged as she spotted an ivory spoked fan amongst the jumble of things intended for her. She was going to be almost as well supplied for the coming season as she would have been if she was still married to Perrin. Possibly better supplied, as her former husband would never have approved of some of the more outrageous kicks of fashion that were now in vogue.
This conclusion was reinforced when George said to her as the maid directed several footmen to carry Imogen’s new things down to the dowager house, ‘Besides, my dear, you’re simply not going to be allowed to settle in here and disappear like some poor relation. Don’t imagine I’d allow it for a moment.’ Feeling both exasperated and disgustingly happy, Imogen hugged the countess, and willed herself not to cry. She was not going to cry; regardless of the hot, heavy sensation burning behind her eyes.
George hugged her back, and then waggled her brows at her, ‘Shall we spend the rest of the afternoon choosing designs for our new gowns? I’ve brought back the latest issues of all the fashion magazines, and I’m determined that our dresses will be ready for the races, and for Lord Glendower’s shooting party.’
‘Shooting party?’ She’d heard on numerous occasions that George was the only woman who attended Lord Glendower’s annual party. Even his wife excused herself to visit one of her numerous sisters for the duration.
‘You didn’t think I’d dream of going without you?’ George replied, not looking up from the toilette she was studying intently. ‘What do you think of this one? For the corded silk?’ Imogen took the magazine, glancing over the plate showing a woman in an elegant, redingote du matin, worn
