The Dress of the Season Read Online Free PDF

enough to veer off her planned speech.
    “Yes,” Osterley replied. “It seemed warranted.”
    “But you rarely drink. And certainly never to excess.”
    “Tonight seems to be the night we all break new ground, then,” he added, levering himself off the desk to pour another glass from the depleted decanter. “Would you care to join me?”
    “All right,” she agreed impulsively. She should demur, she knew. She had never drunk—what was he having? Rum?—and barely liked more than a sweet wine. Besides, she was trying to convince him of her innocence, her ability to be good.
    Then again, he had never loosened himself to do anything remotely as casual as offer her a drink of rum. It was as if, for what was to come next, he was inviting her to meet him on even ground.
    She took the glass, his fingers brushing hers. She took a tiny sip of the dark liquid—it was
ghastly
, but she held her expression as still as she could.
    It was no good of course; he was watching her closely. And when she finally broke and shuddered from the taste, the corner of his mouth turned up.
    “It’s not very pleasant,” she said, putting her chin as high as it would go. “Are you certain it’s good rum?”
    “No, but it is excellent scotch,” he replied sardonically.
    She put the glass down on the little side table beside the leather sofa. Then, without asking his permission, she daintily sat down.
    “I do not wish to argue, Osterley. I came here with the hopes to talk with you about what happened tonight, and why . . . why I think it is important to stay in London.” She said all this very calmly, very practically. She folded her hands in her lap and waited quite properly for his reply.
    He quirked up an eyebrow. Frankly, she was shocked to see it. The flyaway arches of his brows were so expressive, the dark brown a stark contrast to his lighter hair. When they were younger, before he assumed the responsibility of his title and the ward that suddenly came with it, Osterley’s eyebrows had flown up and down, and Felicity had been able to read his thoughts by their angles. But for the last four years, since becoming ‘Austere Osterley,’ they remained flat, neutral. Now, with his hair a mess, his coat off and cravat loose, and that one eyebrow, Osterley looked . . . rakish.
    She kept her eyes trained on his as he moved fluidly from the edge of the desk to the sofa, and seated himself on the opposite side from her.
    “All right, Felicity. Let’s . . . talk.”
    She kept her face clear of any emotion as she began. “Do you deny having purchased the dress?”
    “No,” he answered, equally calm. “But it was meant for someone else.”
    “Oh.” Felicity replied. “Oh, I see. Mrs. Grace.”
    Of course it was Mrs. Grace. She had been sweeping through town ever since she came out of full mourning into half, her eyes slyly following any eligible man of means around the room, calculating. She had noticed those eyes coming to rest on Osterley—but she had thought little of it, since eyes often did. Felicity’s friends whispered that Mrs. Grace wanted another husband—a young, handsome one this time—but was willing to let a man think she only wanted to be a merry widow to achieve that goal.
    “How did you end up ensnared by—” Felicity stopped herself, putting up her hands. “No, no. It doesn’t matter now.”
    He lifted his drink to her, a gesture of thanks that she did not pursue that line of questioning.
    “What matters is how it’s approached. Aunt Bertha is very correct in how it will be perceived if I am sent away. An admission of guilt. And I have done nothing but wear a gift that I thought was a gesture of my guardian’s affection.” She paused, giving him some chance to respond. When he did not, she continued. “The dress itself is not to blame. It was merely more fashionable than what Almack’s is used to, but I was not cut, or slighted. At least, not until . . .”
    “Not until you called Mrs.