needs had nearly risen up in the hallway outside Thomas’s room to embarrass him and quite possibly her.
‘Liar.’ Justin circled Philip, whose raw knuckles itched to knock the smug grin off his friend’s face. ‘She’s the most attractive woman yet to appear on your doorstep, demanding her assets.’
Philip swung, his fist brushing Justin’s arm as he turned out of the way. ‘She wasn’t on my step, she was in my bedroom.’
‘And she will be again, many times with the way you’ve arranged it,’ Justin taunted, as unguarded with his words as Philip was guarded with his thoughts. ‘I still can’t believe you’re doing this.’
‘Why?’ Philip jabbed at Justin. ‘My son needs a mother, my sister a chaperon and my house a proper steward.’
The tally sheet he’d compiled on Miss Townsend rushed back to him. What was he failing to see? Why was he doubting himself?
‘You think it’ll be so simple, but mark my words, it won’t.’ Justin swung at him, but Philip didn’t turn fast enough and his shoulder burned from the hit. ‘It never is where women are concerned.’
Philip shook out his arm, the pain dull compared to his concern. Justin was right, it wasn’t so simple, nothing in life ever was. He’d loved Arabella and she’d loved him. They’d courted and married and she’d fallen pregnant with his child. Simple. The complications had begun with her pains. Then everything had turned into a nightmare.
‘We’ve sparred enough today.’ Philip snatched a towel from the hook on the wall and scraped the coarse linen over his face. It wasn’t too late to end the venture. He could send Miss Townsend to the safety of Halcyon House or provide her with a few pounds to start another draper business.
He ran the towel over the back of his neck, studying the mix of footprints in the sand on the floor. He couldn’t send her away any more than he could leave Thomas to cry in his bed. He’d seen her lodgings, heard Mr Townsend’s nasty words. He knew what waited for her beyond the protection of his home and name. He’d made her an offer and she’d accepted the terms of the deal. This would not become the first time he reneged on a contract.
His determination failed to erase his unease. ‘What if I’m wrong about Miss Townsend, the way I was with the silversmith I loaned money to all those years ago?’
‘Oh, you’re wrong. But not in the way you think.’ Justin rocked back on his heels and Philip nearly struck him in the gut. ‘You think you can keep Miss Townsend in your house, share her bed and still remain the aloof man of business?’
A bachelor with a taste for numerous women wasn’t a man to look to for marital advice, no matter how deep their friendship. ‘She understands the terms of our arrangement.’
‘Perhaps, but you don’t.’ He smacked Philip on the arm. ‘Now come and get cleaned up. You have tomorrow to face. Tonight, I have a very pleasurable venture of my own to see to.’
Justin turned and made for the dressing rooms.
Philip wrapped the towel behind his neck and gripped both ends. Justin was mistaken if he thought there was more to this contract than convenience. Miss Townsend was as practical as Philip, if not a little rash. She understood their arrangement. Or did she?
The idea Justin might be right about Miss Townsend wanting more nagged. He wasn’t stone enough not to feel something for her. She was too determined and strong not to admire. In many ways she reminded him of himself, still struggling to find her feet after a reeling loss. As his wife, she deserved his respect and he would give it. He refused to surrender his heart. Doing so was not a part of their bargain.
He strode to the dressing room, flinging the damp towel at the boy attendant near the door.
He’d made the mistake of writing his emotions into a marriage contract once before and had been made to regret it. He wouldn’t do it again.
The steady chirping of birds broke through the haze of Laura’s fading dream. First one warbled, then another, until a chorus seemed to sit outside her window. Over the sharp tweets, Laura strained to hear the bell and her father’s voice through the floorboards as he greeted customers in the shop below her room. The only thing she heard was the click of the bedroom-door handle and the soft swish of shoes over the carpet. Laura snuggled deeper into the thick pillow, knowing it was her mother coming to chide her for sleeping late. She clutched the clean sheet up around her chin, trying to snatch a few more precious seconds of rest.
‘Miss Townsend, are you awake?’ Mrs Palmer asked.
Laura sat up, sweet memories of her old room, of her father alive and her mother well vanishing along with the feeling of warmth and love. The loss burned a hole through her chest.
‘Yes, I am.’
A fire crackled in the grate. Laura wondered how she’d managed to sleep through the maid coming in to light it. Perhaps it was the fact she’d slept at all which had allowed her to remain so soundly in her dreams. In Seven Dials, with all the noise from the other tenants and Uncle Robert’s drunken mutterings, it’d always been so difficult to sleep. ‘I’m sorry I’m still in bed. I should be up.’
‘You have nothing to be sorry about.’ Mrs Palmer laid a simple blue-cotton dress across the foot of the bed. ‘Mr Rathbone had Mrs Fairley, Miss Jane’s modiste, send this over. I’m to tell you, you have an appointment with Mrs Fairley at her shop this afternoon. She has a few other dresses from an unpaid order and will alter them to tide you over until a new wardrobe can be made.’
New dresses. Excitement crowded in beneath Laura’s lingering sense of loss. The idea of wearing a dress which wasn’t practically threadbare proved as irresistible as waking in a clean bed with no sign of rats having traipsed across the floor during the night. Laura picked up the sleeve of the dress and examined the fine stitching. ‘I’ve never had a modiste make my dresses. Mother always did it.’
‘You’ll like Mrs Fairley. She does good work and is quite nice, too. Came to Mr Rathbone about two years ago seeking a loan to improve her business and has done quite well for herself since. Mr Rathbone prides himself on patronising those he helps who make a go of things instead of wasting the money.’
Laura didn’t have to ask what happened to those who wasted Philip’s money. She already knew.
She laid the sleeve of the dress down, running her hand over the length of it to press it flat. The dress was sewn from a sturdy but soft cotton, Indian most likely, more utilitarian than silk, but with a few ribbons or the right bonnet it would suit as well for an afternoon at home as it would for attending a small tea. A fond smile tugged at her lips. She could practically hear her father’s words in her own thoughts, see the fabric from the bolt draped over his arm as he explained the weave and quality to a prospective lady buyer. Laura’s hands stilled and the smile faded. That was all gone now. A visit from the modiste would be the closest she’d ever come to experiencing it again.
‘Is something wrong, miss?’ Mrs Palmer pressed.
‘I’m all right, only a little overwhelmed.’ Truth be told, her head was still spinning from everything and it was all she could do to focus. How she would make it through the myriad other, sure to be surprising things
