Her bloody heart which couldn’t stand to be broken again.
Except it already was.
17
“Come, Jordana. Madame Fontaine is just down the street.” Marissa waved a gloved hand at her charge. “We don’t want to be late. Madame”—she affected a slight accent—“doesn’t care for clients who aren’t prompt. Lateness sets her off. She’s temperamental. And French.”
“Isn’t that the same thing, my lady?” Jordana stomped beside her, steadfastly refusing to be hurried no matter how Marissa prodded her. They’d gotten a late start today, mainly due to Marissa rising at an exceptionally late hour. She hadn’t slept much last night, tossing and turning in her bed until the wee hours of the morning. Between the ache in her heart over Haddon and her guilt over Miss Higgins, Marissa wasn’t getting a lot of rest.
Only Haddon made her weep, though.
Felice had put cold compresses on her eyes this morning while Marissa had tried to convince her maid the excessive dust in the bedroom had caused the redness and swelling.
“Is your father enjoying London?” Marissa bit her lip. What a question to ask Jordana, who she suspected knew much more than she let on.
Jordana shrugged. “I suppose he is. I’m sure if he wasn’t, we’d return home.”
A purposefully bland and useless answer. Marissa had the urge to shake Jordana. “I ran into Lord Haddon at the theater the other evening. He looked rather tired.”
“My father keeps much later hours in London than he does in the country.” Jordana paused before a small coffeehouse, looking through the window with longing. “May we stop for tea or perhaps hot chocolate?” She turned to Marissa. “Look at these tiny cakes, my lady. I adore pink icing.”
Late hours? “No, dear. Possibly after we are done at Madame Fontaine’s.” He’s probably busy dancing attendance on Lady Christina Sykes. “Not now. Do hurry along, Jordana.” Taking her charge’s arm, she pulled Jordana away from the window.
All of London must be out shopping today. The streets had been so congested her driver had been required to park the carriage a bit further away from Madame Fontaine’s than Marissa would have liked, although the walk was surely doing her and Jordana some good.
“You must hurry along as well,” she called over her shoulder to the young footman tagging along behind them. He was a gangly lad, all elbows and long legs. Marissa couldn’t remember his name. She hazarded a glance at his ill-fitting livery. A conversation with Greenhouse was warranted.
Jordana rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide the fact she didn’t care about a new wardrobe nor about offending one of the most exclusive dressmakers in London. “I’ve never even been to a modiste. Seems a waste of time.”
Marissa was aghast, stopping in her tracks. “Who makes your clothing?”
“There is a seamstress in Buxton. We visit her several times a year and she takes our measurements. Mrs. Divet usually accompanies us. I pick out some fabrics and she makes me suitable clothing.”
Marissa started moving again. “Very like a modiste. It isn’t as if you’ve been sewing your own clothing, Jordana. You nearly gave me a fit at the thought.”
Jordana frowned. “At going to a seamstress or stitching my own underthings?”
“We don’t say such things in public, on a street,” Marissa reminded her. Jordana blurted out her thoughts at the slightest provocation.
“No one heard me. And I truly don’t see the point in visiting Madame Fontaine. I don’t need any more clothes. I’ve plenty of dresses. I doubt I’ll attend any balls while I’m in London. You’ve seen me dance. I don’t do it well.” Her dark brows knit together. “And I’ve no desire to make some grand debut.”
“We’ve been over this several times, Jordana. If what you wore when Lady Waterstone came for luncheon is any indication of the contents of your armoire, then you are in dire need of something decent. A proper lady never has enough to wear. You can always benefit from another riding habit, for instance. Hurry along.” She picked up her pace. “You simply must have something other than sprigged muslin to wear in London. We are not in the wilds of the Peak District, climbing gritstone.”
“I wish I was.” Her eyes held a faraway look. “I don’t belong here.”
Jordana was stubborn, but not devious, as Arabella had been. It was the only positive thing Marissa could say about her latest project.
Still grumbling, Jordana allowed herself to be dragged behind Marissa as they approached Madame Fontaine’s. The modiste was only the first stop. Jordana must have new gloves. Bonnets. And Marissa needed a new hat to replace the one which had been ruined.
He'd been marvelous, climbing that tree to save my little hat.
Marissa didn’t even attempt to push away her thoughts of Haddon, nor the bits of him which filled her mind at the oddest moments. Everything reminded her of him. Marissa had hoped to catch a glimpse of him when she’d called to retrieve Jordana for today’s excursion, but Haddon had remained absent.
He thinks I’m having an affair with Nighter.
“This way, Jordana.” Marissa deftly steered her into a brick storefront. At least there was enjoyment to be found in shopping for clothes. What woman didn’t want a new wardrobe? Besides Jordana? Marissa herself had already ordered three additional ballgowns which should be ready today.
As they entered Madame Fontaine’s, Jordana grew silent, taking in the clusters of women looking at fabrics and ribbons with mounting horror. While she’d improved, Jordana was still terribly awkward among society, especially with young ladies her own age. Marissa had been hoping it was only shyness that kept her from making friends, but she was starting to realize Jordana truly had no interest in the things most girls valued. Dresses, paying calls, finding a suitable husband; none of those things mattered to Haddon’s daughter.
One of Madame Fontaine’s assistants saw Marissa enter and approached, bobbing politely to
