LITMIR.BIZ

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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 which might happen this week, she didn’t know. However, if the most troubling thing facing her today was the shock of a new dress, then she really had no troubles at all. After all, she’d dealt with worse problems during the past year, much worse.

      Mrs Palmer slid Laura’s old black dress from the top of the chair where Laura had draped it last night. If Mrs Palmer was concerned about the tatty dress staining the fine silk upholstery, she didn’t reveal it. Her face was all kindness and concern, reminding Laura of the baker’s wife who used to give her leftover biscuits from time to time until her husband had found out and put a stop to it.

      ‘I know it all must seem so strange, Mr Rathbone making up his mind so quick about you, but I assure you, Miss Townsend, you couldn’t have asked for a better man.’

      It seemed Mrs Palmer was as enamoured of Mr Rathbone as Laura’s mother. If only she could be so certain about her decision. However, it was a comfort to see the older woman so eager for Laura to like Mr Rathbone as much as she obviously did. It was better than her trying to secretly warn her off him.

      Mrs Palmer’s ruddy smile returned to her full cheeks. ‘Here’s me gabbing with the day getting away from us both. There’s breakfast waiting for you in the dining room when you’re ready. I’ll send Mary up to help you dress.’

      ‘I can manage.’

      ‘I don’t doubt you can, but Mr Rathbone wants her to assist you. If you need anything, you be sure to let me know.’

      Mrs Palmer dipped a curtsy then left as quietly as she’d entered, the nearly frayed edge of Laura’s old dress fluttering behind her and almost catching in the closing door. The dress would probably be tossed in the kitchen fire the moment she reached it. Laura was glad to see it go. It was an ugly reminder of how much she and her mother had lost during the past year.

      What would the next year bring? She still couldn’t say.

      Laura flung back the covers and slipped out of bed, determined not to complain or worry, but to face whatever was coming with optimism. At least her uncle had fallen in debt to a young, handsome moneylender and not to one of the many crooked, gap-toothed men she’d seen haunting the rookery in search of payment. It was the only thing of value he’d ever done for her.

      A soft knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young woman with a snub nose and brown hair peeking out from beneath a white cap. ‘I’m Mary. I’m here to dress you.’

      The girl said little as she helped Laura dress, lacing Laura’s worn stays over the crisp white chemise. Holding still so the maid could work gave Laura the chance to take her first real look at the room. It was smaller than Mr Rathbone’s, but well appointed with solid, simple pieces of furniture. She wondered if they’d been made by one of the upholsterers who used to frequent the shop. She studied the faint white line running through the flowing silk of the bed curtains, thinking it a familiar pattern, when the image of another room suddenly came to mind.

      She wondered how many more mornings she’d wake up here before she found herself in Mr Rathbone’s bed.

      She breathed hard against the tightening stays, fear and anticipation pressing against her chest. She should have asked for the banns instead of insisting on the common licence. She wasn’t ready for such intimacy, not yet, not with everything, especially their future together, so unsure.

      Mary tied off the stays then picked up the dress, opening it so Laura could slip inside. She held up her arms and let the blue cotton flow down over her shoulders and body. The soft material made her sigh with delight and eased some of her fears. A man who was so loving and tender with his son wouldn’t be cruel to her.

      Mary did up the row of buttons at the back, but the dress was too large in the bust. Even Laura’s well-formed breasts weren’t ample enough to keep the front from billowing and gaping open. While Mary pinned the dress to make it fit better, Laura opened and closed her hand. The shock of Mr Rathbone’s touch had remained with her long after she’d blown out her candle and settled into the clean sheets last night. It wasn’t his hand in hers which had remained with her the longest, but the conflict she’d noticed coursing beneath his calm exterior. More than once he’d begun to withdraw from her before his palm had settled again, surrendering to her hold. It was as if he both wanted and didn’t want to draw close to her. It seemed strange for a man who seemed so determined about everything to be confused about something as simple as touching his intended. Although it wasn’t as simple as she wanted to believe.

      At Mary’s urging, Laura seated herself in the chair before the dressing table and let the young maid arrange her hair. She barely noticed the tugging and combing as she remembered Mr Rathbone’s eyes upon hers. There’d been more in the joining of their hands than conveying her desire to wed quickly. There was something she hadn’t allowed herself to consider possible when she’d accepted his proposal yesterday—a deeper concern for her than business.

      The faint hint of it made her eager to be done with the dressing table and be in front of him again.

      With her hair arranged into a simple jumble of curls at the back of her head, Laura made her way downstairs. She felt guilty leaving Mary behind to see to the room. She’d tried to assist her, perfectly capable of making her own bed, but the maid had insisted it was her duty to straighten it and Laura had reluctantly left her to it.

      Laura took in the house as she moved slowly down the hallway. Last night, with the myriad arrangements and settling in, there hadn’t been time to explore. Her first time here, she’d been too occupied trying not to be seen to admire anything more than the direct route from the back door, down the hall, to the stairs.

      The upstairs hall was plain, the length of it punctuated by doors to the various bedrooms and landscapes in gilded frames. The staircase at the far end made one turn before opening into the entrance hall below. It wasn’t overly high, but wider than those she’d seen in the few merchants’ houses she’d visited with her father when she was a child. Stone covered the floor, leading to a solid door flanked by two glass windows. Through them she could see people passing by in a steady stream along the pavement lining Bride Lane. Some of them entered the churchyard of St Bride’s across the street, the rest hurried on to nearby Fleet Street.

      Making for the dining room at the back of the house, Laura noted the rich panelling lining the downstairs hall seemed less dark and foreboding in the bright morning light, though it still made her a touch uneasy to be striding so boldly through the house. It was nearly incomprehensible to think she would soon be mistress of it.

      She passed the study, the masculine mahogany desk, neatly ordered shelves and solid chairs inside indicating this must be where Mr Rathbone managed his

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