When her mother had lived, home had been safe and happy, but after she died and her father lurched from one financial disaster to the next, they had moved often, always to a slightly smaller, slightly shabbier place. Until they had ended up with Aunt Grimble. Belle shuddered.
With a sigh of satisfaction, she looked over at Crecy. Her sister looked divine. Crecy had complained and grumbled and hated all the primping and fussing and being stuck with pins, but even she had been forced to admit that Madame Chalon, the modiste Violette had recommended, was actually rather clever.
Clever indeed. If Crecy had noticed even one of the dozens of men who had either stopped in their tracks or almost walked headlong into their fellow men as they gazed upon her, Belle would have been very surprised.
Smoothing an indulgent hand over the rich purple velvet of her own pelisse, Belle had to admit to feeling rather satisfied herself. Purple was not a colour she would have chosen herself, being far too bold. But, of course, she was a married lady now, and the modiste insisted that her blue eyes held just a hint of lavender, like Crecy’s, and the purple suited her immensely. On looking in the mirror, Belle had been compelled to concede the point. She had never been vain – really, what was the point when you lived with Crecy? - but she did feel a flush of real pleasure and ... yes, of pride, too, when she looked upon herself. She thought now of the carriage following behind, loaded with dresses and shoes and ... goodness, so many things!
She had tried to call a halt at one point, but Violette had just returned a rather withering look and asked if she had the slightest idea just how rich her Lord Winterbourne was. Belle didn’t really, in fact, though Longwold was illustration enough, she felt. Violette had decided to explain, however, and Belle heard enough to understand that she could spend like this every day for the rest of her life and likely not make a dent. Not that she had the least intention of doing so. She had been brought up to be thrifty, and was used to saving money where she could. Though this shopping expedition had been delightful and great fun, in Belle’s mind, it served one purpose and one purpose only: to aide her campaign in the war for Edward Greyston’s heart.
She had been tempted to confide in Violette about everything that had happened, especially ... that night. But in the end, it was too private, and she did not like to speak of Edward in such a way to anyone else. That did not mean, however, that the events of that glorious night had not been repeated often in her memories. She wondered if she would be granted a repeat of his attentions tonight, and hoped so, as she was keen to wear the little slip of nothing that Madame Chalon had dared to show her. It was silky and diaphanous and so sheer it was barely worth wearing. But still. She would.
The thought occurred to her that Edward might not speak to her at all. He might, in point of fact, be furious. However, she had decided when she left the house that morning that if he thought he would be able to treat her in such a cavalier fashion, he was going to get a shock. It would do him good to be furious, she decided. It would also do him good to realise that she would not sit about the house moping and waiting for the moment he decided to bestow his attention on her.
In fact, the sooner he got that idea into his head, the better.
“You’re not sorry, are you?”
Belle looked around to see Violette watching her, concern in her eyes.
She smiled back at the pretty young woman, seeing an echo of her husband in those lovely green eyes, or at least, how he might have been before the war.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not sorry at all. Not yet, at least,” she added with a slightly anxious tone. “I confess, I’m quailing a little, as I wonder what mood he’ll been in when I return. It was really too bad of me to go off without a word.”
“But you did leave word,” Violette objected. “He need only apply to Garrett to know your exact whereabouts and when you would be expected home.”
Except that they both knew that the man would be unlikely to admit to an interest. She wondered if he had noticed she had gone. For her part, she would have found leaving any bed Edward was in nigh on impossible. But perhaps that said more about her. Edward had likely had a great number of lovers. Perhaps for him, that night had just been one of many others just like it? Perhaps, it had not been special to him at all.
The unwelcome and troubling thought occurred to her that perhaps he had a mistress. Perhaps he was with her even now?
Belle was quite taken aback by the rage that accompanied that idea. Oh, dear. That was unexpected. She had not married for love, after all, and it was generally accepted that men would take lovers, even after they were wed. The disquieting thought occurred to Belle that if she ever discovered such a thing ... she might do something ... rash.
Pushing such disturbing thoughts aside, Belle reached for her reticule and withdrew the small book that had so scandalised the man who had sold it to her. Lady Russell and Lady Sinclair had stayed on in Bath after meeting up with a number of old cronies, so she needn’t worry about shocking them by reading it now. Mr Russell had likewise stayed behind with business to attend to, and would return the next day. Violette had already seen the book and approved her strategy, and Crecy, well, Crecy likely had far more shocking titles among her collection, if only Belle knew. She was rather content to live in ignorance. But that a young woman should be so bold as to ask for a book on the finer points of pugilism was apparently something that the little pinch-faced man behind the counter felt the need to be really rather rude about.
Belle had been quietly furious, especially as the shop had not been empty. With the haughtiest tone she could muster - and she found to her surprise that it really came rather naturally - she informed the indignant creature that she was the Marchioness Winterbourne, and the book was a present for her husband, who was a notable pugilist of some renown. Belle had absolutely no idea if that was true, and, in fact, the book was for her and not for Edward, but she saw no reason in the world to let the odious little fellow know that. Especially not as he was now looking mortified and bowing and scraping for all he was worth. Belle had always despised people who used their power and titles to belittle others, but she could see that in certain circumstances, it really could be rather handy.
It was growing late by the time the carriage rolled to a halt, and everyone hurried inside to dress for dinner as a veritable army of footmen came out to haul all of their purchases inside.
Mary exclaimed excitedly as the piles of hat boxes and shoe boxes and Madame Chalon’s exquisite creations made exotic piles around the room.
“Oh, do wear the midnight blue one tonight, my lady. You looked such a picture in it; you’ll quite take Lord Winterbourne’s breath away.
Belle paused in the midst of the chaos, rather liking the idea of taking her husband’s breath away. She gave Mary a pleased nod and grinned at her.
“The midnight blue it is, then.”