The Earl's Wager (6 page)

They finally agreed on something, but she had to remind herself that didn’t mean she had an ally in this marriage hunt of hers.

As much as she needed a friend, she couldn’t confess her worries to Arabella, who had enough activity in her life with her pregnancy, marriage, and managing a household. And being forced on bed rest, she didn’t need to listen to Georgia complaining about her unfortunate circumstances. Besides, being invited to a dinner party in the country wasn’t such a horrible fate, and as much as she wanted to hate Grandleigh for being complicit in Oliver’s scheme to marry her off, he was Arabella’s brother. No matter what kind of conspiracy she managed to cook up in her head about him, she was quite certain he wasn’t that bad.

Still, she wasn’t sure how to work herself out of her current predicament. She didn’t wish to marry without Oliver’s blessing. He was her only family member left in the world. Of course, she could elope and have access to her inheritance through her husband, but that was the crux of it. She’d never have access to her own funds, not really, unless she was a widow. And what good would her funds do her if Oliver was angry at her for disobeying him?

A huge reason she wanted access to those funds was to improve Oliver’s racing stable, but more than that, it was knowing she had financial freedom. She had to be near Autumn Ridge, otherwise how could she be involved in racing? Harland had taught her so much about training. He was gentle and yet demanded hard work. It was thrilling to see the young colts and fillies blossom into their potential under his steady guidance. She desperately wanted that life.

A life in England without horses and racing would be an empty life. Her future husband had to allow her these freedoms, otherwise, what would she have? A life indoors with needlepoint and letter writing? Just the thought of it put a physical lump in her throat.

As the carriage bumped along the road, Georgia stared out the window at the busy, cobbled streets of London. What if her future husband forced her to live in town? What could be a fate worse than that? She shivered.

She should have known Oliver would catch on to her plan to marry an older man in poor health. But he couldn’t know how determined she was, or that she would find a way to have access to her inheritance and eventually have the best racing stables in England.

They stopped in front of the dress shop, and Grandleigh reached for her hand as she stepped down from the carriage. With only the thin silk fabric of her gloves separating them, the warmth of his hand shocked her. Time stood still for a fraction of a second while his gaze locked with hers.

“I hope you’ll like Mrs. Marchant,” he said with a confident smile. She looked at his dark, thick hair, then the depths of his eyes, and beyond, the lashes framing them. She studied the crinkles around the outer edges and felt warmth not only on her hand where he held it, but up her neck and face as well.

“I’m sure I will.” She pulled her hand free lest she burn up from the heat of the touch. She found it interesting that it mattered to him whether she liked the dressmaker. Perhaps he was just being polite by making casual conversation. Surely that must be all there was to the remark. If he really cared about her, he’d help her convince Oliver that Sir Richard was a good match for her. But her opinion didn’t matter to either of them.

Probably approaching sixty, Mrs. Marchant was a matronly woman with gray hair and spectacles. She seemed thrilled to learn Georgia was cousin to the Earl of Marsdale and reaffirmed how quickly the dresses would be completed. “Come back in the afternoon,” she told Grandleigh. She rubbed her hands together and smiled. “We have much to accomplish, Miss Duvall.”

“I suppose,” Georgia said, resigned to her fate.

“I have a room in the back. Take off your dress so I can take your measurements.” Mrs. Marchant brushed a hand along Georgia’s forehead. “Such nice coloring and beautiful hair. I’m thinking warm colors for you. Yellow or green perhaps.”

Georgia removed her traveling clothes with Eloise’s help.

“You seem unhappy, yes,” Mrs. Marchant said more than asked.

“I suppose I am not as happy as I’d like.” Georgia shrugged out of her petticoats.

“You must stand up straighter. You have terrible posture. You won’t catch yourself a husband if you slouch.” Mrs. Marchant pulled back her shoulders. “Your maid can wait out front. We don’t require her assistance.”

Although gruff, the woman nodded to Eloise in encouragement to leave the oversize dressing room.

Mrs. Marchant guided Georgia to stand on a pedestal not so different from a mounting block. The idea of it made her miss Perseus, and she wanted to be back at the stable working with Harland in an environment she understood, not getting poked and prodded by a pushy seamstress.

“Why are you so unhappy? Most women love being fitted for new gowns. But you are, I sense…you are different.” Mrs. Marchant stood behind her and measured her waist.

“Why do you care?” Georgia stared straight ahead. Perhaps it was a rude question to ask, but if she couldn’t be honest in the back room of a dress shop tucked away from all the prying eyes and judgment of Londoners, where else could she be herself?

“I care about all my customers.” Mrs. Marchant pulled several pieces of fabric from a nearby armoire. “Especially anyone related to the Earl of Marsdale, even if you are American.”

“You’re not as proper sounding as most Englishwomen.”

“It’s because I’m French, not English.”

They all seemed the same to Georgia. They were not American. She had no allies. She had no friends. She was an ocean away from everything she knew and loved.

“You don’t have a French accent,” Georgia said. “At least not that I can tell. Everyone knows I’m American. If they don’t know by the mere looks of me, they only have to listen to my voice to know.”

“It’s not a bad thing.” Mrs. Marchant lifted a brow. “That way, you can do many things…and if you say something inappropriate, you can say you didn’t know. No? You’re American. You have a built-in excuse to do whatever you want.”

Despite her efforts to remain despondent about this entire dressmaking ordeal, a smile tugged at her lips. “I like the way you think, Mrs. Marchant. If only I really could do whatever I wanted.”

“You are a young, strong woman, you can do a great many things.” The modiste pulled on the thin fabric of Georgia’s chemise and pinned it tight against her skin. “You can make many choices for yourself.”

Mrs. Marchant disappeared for a moment then returned carrying three different colors of fabric draped over her arm.

“What choices can I make? It’s a man’s world. They make most of the decisions.” Georgia crossed her arms over her chest.

“What is it that you want?” Mrs. Marchant draped a piece of yellow taffeta across Georgia’s shoulder.

In the confines of this private room, locked away from the rest of the world, Georgia felt safe to confess her worries to this woman.

After she explained her marriage problems, the modiste said, “I see.” She removed the yellow fabric and replaced it with green.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Georgia muttered, wondering if she’d confessed too much.

“I’ve heard a great many things in my shop. Nothing surprises me.” Mrs. Marchant looked in the mirror at Georgia. “The green goes nicely with your skin tone. You’re wanting an older man who is in ill health.” She removed the green fabric and replaced it with an off-white, creamy color. “I can help you with that.”

“You can? How?” Georgia blurted out.

“Clothing, dresses in particular, can seduce a man.”

“I don’t know how to flirt, let alone seduce a man. I’ve never even been kissed. Well, except one time when I was about eleven years old, but I don’t think that counts. I know nothing of seduction.”

Georgia examined herself in the mirror. She wasn’t beautiful, but she wasn’t homely either. She was petite, and her body had curves. Looking around the dress shop at the pink taffetas and blue silk, ruffles and scarves, she realized with sudden clarity that she didn’t wear clothes that exposed her best assets.

“I can create dresses that will make you look your very best. My dresses will accentuate your curves and make you very attractive to a man.”

“What will that gain me, exactly?” Georgia asked. “An old man, I hope.”

“Every man wants the woman who all the men are looking at. You want to be noticed. My dresses will assist in that endeavor.” Mrs. Marchant seemed an unassuming dressmaker, but she was very shrewd indeed.

“Tell me more. I want to learn everything.”

“The first thing you must know is the power you possess. With only a look, you can bring a man to his knees. And a man who adores you will do anything for you.” Mrs. Marchant gazed into the mirror at the blue fabric draped over Georgia’s shoulder. “Anything.”

Georgia made eye contact with Mrs. Marchant in the mirror and knew she’d found a friend—an ally, someone to help her achieve what she wanted. She was filled with new hope. If not Sir Richard, then she’d find another man to marry. “Have you always been a seamstress? Or did you have another kind of employment when you were my age?”

“I’ve worked in many places,” Mrs. Marchant said, “but I enjoy owning my own dress shop the best.”

“I want to work as a jockey, or if I can’t do that, then as a racehorse trainer. Either way, I need access to my inheritance. My father’s will says I have to be married to receive my funds, or by age thirty, whichever comes first. I’m not willing to wait another six years to have my money.”

“Understandable. You need only to find the right man.” Mrs. Marchant took measurements along her shoulder and arms. “A man who will support you in what you want to accomplish.”

“Exactly.” Georgia swiveled her hips to look directly at Mrs. Marchant, instead of the mirror. “Once I find this man, how do I make sure he adores me and will do anything for me?”

“You must seduce him, of course.”

Heat rushed across her cheeks. “How do I do that?”

“I will help you.” She nodded and pinned fabric around her waist. “When you come back for your next fitting, we will discuss specifics. But having appropriate clothes—in the best colors and proper cut—is the first thing you need to accomplish what you want.”

Finally, she had a plan and an ally. With Mrs. Marchant to assist her, she had renewed hope of finding the perfect man to marry.

With a lighter heart, Georgia hoped for easy conversation during the ride back to Autumn Ridge. Once she had left the modiste and was back in the carriage, she asked Grandleigh, “How did you fill your time during my fitting, my lord? I trust you found some form of entertainment?”

“Yes, I met with a builder,” he stated simply.

“How very interesting. What are you having built?”

“I’m putting an addition on my stables. We discussed expanding some fencing as well.”

“Fascinating. For what purpose?”

“I’m hoping to enter some horse races, possibly as early as next year.”

“I didn’t know.” Georgia was astonished. They’d not spoken of racing before. “Do you have a racehorse, then? If so, you failed to mention this.”

“You never asked, but no, I don’t currently have a horse that can compete on the racetrack, but I hope to acquire one soon. However, I do have two brood mares, so with the right breeding, I hope to have a fine racing stable one day. Maybe not as grand as what Autumn Ridge has, but one never knows.”

Georgia still couldn’t believe her ears. She’d known of Arabella’s interest in horses, but she never said her brother had similar interests. Eager to hear more, she said, “Tell me about the addition to your stable.”

He quirked one of his interesting eyebrows. “If I’m to expand, I need at least four additional stalls. I was thinking of making them a bit larger than what I currently have, because I want the mares to have plenty of room for their foals.” His eyes lit up, and Georgia couldn’t believe she didn’t know they had this in common. “I want at least two of them to have an entrance to their own paddock.”

“I think that’s a grand idea.” Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t be interested in anything Will Sutton did or didn’t do, she couldn’t help herself. “So are the plans in place? Have you hired the builder?”

“He’s working on an estimate for me. It will all depend on the cost, and I may have to adjust the footage. I have a budget and must stay within those parameters.”

“I have a good idea of the ideal size for stalls, especially if they are designed as birthing stalls. I could look at your plans, if you’d like. It’s important to set up the proper ventilation and ideally, if you can, leave plenty of space, even a tack room, between the birthing stalls and the remaining stalls. That is what’s best, so the mare isn’t stressed. She needs a quiet place apart from the other horses. That way, she’s likely to be calmer.”

Will’s eyes narrowed, and his lips twitched.

Maybe she’d said too much. There was no way to discern his thoughts—he probably thought she had no knowledge of such things, but she did. And blast it if she cared what he thought anyway, so she continued. “I mention the ventilation because you said each stall would have its own paddock, and while that is good in theory, a door creates drafts, and direct drafts can chill a newborn foal.”

His face unreadable, he stared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but she had to add one more thing. “I only mention this because I’ve seen a foal get chilled before, and since you’re building this addition, some of these potential problems can be avoided.”

He tipped his head to the side, contemplative. “I appreciate your candor. And I admit, I hadn’t thought of the ventilation,” he said smoothly. He blinked several times, then said, “I should very much like you to look at my plans if you’d care to.”

Pride consumed her, and she swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. It felt nice to be complimented by him instead of told what to do or say. “I should like that very much, my lord.”

She couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at her lips. She’d been certain he’d find something wrong with her ideas, but instead he’d asked for her opinion. Maybe in some small measure, he even respected it. Perhaps she’d judged him too harshly; perhaps he could be on her side.