all the morning business was concluded, Miss Mersey closed her notebook and turned to leave, a stack of letters in her hand to be typewritten.
‘Miss Mersey,’ he called impulsively.
‘Mr Gordston?’
‘Do you happen to know of a customer who is a young lady, very petite, with pale blonde hair? Terrible taste in hats?’
Miss Mersey tapped her pencil thoughtfully on her notebook’s leather cover. She had a prodigious memory, almost as good as Malcolm’s own, and could remember every detail of every regular customer, their orders and perfumes and likes and dislikes. But that description was probably too vague even for her. ‘There is Miss Petersham. She is blonde and ordered that odd parrot hat last month. Or Lady Minnie Grant? Mrs Gibson?’
Malcolm shook his head. He knew all those ladies and none of them was his fairy. ‘If she’s been in, I doubt she’s a regular.’
Miss Mersey’s brows went even higher. ‘She, Mr Gordston?’
‘Just someone I met in the park. I was—curious.’
‘Curious, Mr Gordston?’
He tossed down his pen. ‘Yes. That’s all, Miss Mersey, thank you.’
‘Of course. Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you. An invitation to Lady Cannon’s garden party.’
Malcolm glanced down at the engraved card she handed him. ‘How boring.’
‘Just so. But it’s one of the most sought-after events of the Season and Lady Cannon is a very good customer. Perhaps just a tiny little short appearance?’
He knew she was right and gave a brusque nod. ‘Just a tiny one.’
Miss Mersey gave a delicate little cough. ‘About the lady—I could make enquiries among the staff? Maybe they have noticed her.’
‘No,’ he snapped irritably, because what he really wanted to do was shout Yes, of course, find her! And that would be a mistake. ‘Thank you, Miss Mersey.’
She sniffed and spun around to leave the office, the door clicking shut behind her. No matter how miffed she was, she would never slam. Malcolm reached for the architect’s drawings of the Paris store and tried to concentrate on the important business at hand, expanding Gordston’s on to the Continent.
Yet he couldn’t quite get a pair of wide, heather-coloured eyes out of his mind.
‘Alexandra! Aren’t you ready yet? We will be terribly late,’ Alex’s mother called from the dressing room doorway.
Alex studied her mother’s reflection in the mirror as her maid put the finishing touches on her hair. The Duchess was tugging on her gloves, straightening her hat, as impeccably dressed as usual in a green-and-white-striped gown, pearls and amethysts in her ears, blonde hair barely touched with silver. Tall, statuesque, exactly what a duchess should be. Alex knew her own tiny, delicate looks had always been something of a puzzle to her mother.
Just like now. The Duchess tilted her head as she studied Alex’s coiffure, her pale blue watered-silk dress. ‘Oh, that’s quite nice, Mary. You’ve done wonders with Lady Alexandra’s hair.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Mary said, stabbing another pearl-headed pin into Alex’s ruthlessly smoothed-down curls. Alex could still feel the sizzle from the hair tongs.
‘I know such things take time, but we mustn’t be late,’ the Duchess said.
‘I thought that was what you wanted, Mama,’ Alex said. ‘To be the last to arrive and make a grand entrance at the top of Lady Cannon’s garden terrace.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alexandra, we would never be so rude.’ Her mother tsked. ‘But to be seen is never a bad thing, of course. I have heard that a French comte will be in attendance! A French title is never optimum, they’ve become so sadly republican, but they do always sound so lovely.’
Alex cringed inside. Her parents were showing ever more eagerness to marry her off and it was keeping her awake at night worrying. Her grand debut ball was still several days away, her Season young. It made her nervous to wonder why there was such hurry.
Mary carefully placed her hat, a pale blue tricorn trimmed with white bows, on her hair and pinned it tight. Diana had assured her it was the latest fashion and Alex had to admit it was pretty.
It made her remember her sadly crushed dark blue hat last month, dismissed by the most handsome, intriguing man she had ever seen. The man who had once been her Scottish Malcolm. Those fjord-icy eyes, that voice! Like something in a novel. Even though he had thought her a woman of loose character, she couldn’t quite stop thinking about him. What had happened to him to make him change so terribly?
She sighed to remember him, her Thor, suddenly feeling a little pang that her life would take her in a different direction.
She reached for her gloves and reticule, and felt the weight of the book she had hidden there, just in case. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hide away and read a few pages. Her mother would be watching her like a hawk.
She followed the Duchess out to the waiting carriage. At least it was a fine day for a garden party, she thought, as she arranged her skirts on the velvet-cushioned seat. The warm days had helped clear some of the miasma of coal smoke clinging to the rooftops and the sky was a lovely soft turquoise. She knew Lady Cannon’s famous garden would be looking its finest—if only she could be free to explore it.
As her mother listed who was to be in attendance at the party, who Alex should speak to at length and who to show mere politeness, Alex studied the streets outside the carriage window. The allure of the bookseller’s window, with its rows of new volumes, the glow of silk ribbons at the modiste, the lush purple violets and pure white carnations at a flower stall. When they passed the gates to the park, she thought of Thor again. The way he caught her before she fell, holding her so close, closer than she had ever been to a man, the warm, green summer scent of him. His smile, so unexpectedly sweet in his harsh, handsome face. Why couldn’t he still be the man she remembered? Why did she still want to be near him, despite everything?
What would it be like, she wondered, to be a truly wicked woman? To do as she liked without a thought to what people would think. She sometimes had daydreams about skipping right over marriage to independent widowhood. Her own house, time that was all her own. Was that the same as being wicked?
‘Alexandra, are you listening to me?’ her mother demanded.
‘Of course, Mama,’ Alex murmured. She wondered what her mother would think of Thor and his outrageous assumptions. It was fascinating to imagine. She turned to smile brightly at her mother, who frowned quizzically in return.
‘You are always so distracted, my dear,’ the Duchess said. ‘It is so important that you pay close attention at such soirées. Everyone will be watching you, you are a duke’s daughter, meant to lead society. Every time you speak to someone it means so much. It must be correct.’
‘I know, Mama,’ she said. Good heavens, but she knew! ‘I will not disappoint you.’ She hoped. Disappointment was all she seemed to bring her family sometimes.
Her mother sighed. ‘I know you will not. It’s just that your father and I want so much for your happiness. With the right marriage, you could do so much. Use your advantages.’
Alex wondered if her mother had somehow sensed her dreams of independent widowhood. ‘I want that, too.’
Her mother frowned. ‘I did wonder if sending you to school was the right thing. No Waverton daughter had ever been educated outside of home. But you were such a shy child, so dreamy. Your father was sure making friends your own age would do you good.’
‘And