After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(79)
“Given that my aunt was responsible for abducting the cat in the first place, I actually felt as if I should pay Mrs. Fish for her distress.”
Alarm replaced every single one of Harriet’s tingles when she caught Archibald exchanging a very significant look with Abigail before both of them directed their attention to her. “What?” was all she could think to ask, earning herself another lesson from Abigail regarding the proper way to pose a question.
By the time Abigail finished, the carriage was pulling to a stop. Terror was immediate and only increased as one of the footmen helped Harriet down to the sidewalk. She found herself standing before an imposing building, one that had not one but four covered awnings guarding the doors leading into Delmonico’s. Perfectly groomed and, as Lucetta had mentioned, handsome doormen manned each door, and fashionably dressed customers were breezing through those doors as if they had every right in the world to be there.
Her terror kept her rooted to the spot.
She didn’t have that right. She was a hat maker, or at least she’d been one before she’d been dismissed from her position. Now she was simply a lady intent on becoming a seamstress, but not a seamstress for high society, a . . .
“You’re thinking entirely too much,” Oliver whispered in her ear, the feel of his breath against her skin causing her knees to begin wobbling all over again.
“I’m not thinking—well, not anything of worth,” she returned, wincing when she heard the clear panic in her voice. “I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.”
“The only way you’ll ever be ready is to just move forward.” Oliver grinned. “At least you know which fork is the oyster fork.”
“Yes, but I never bothered to actually eat any of those oysters your fancy French chef served, and . . . what if they make me gag?” She shuddered. “They’re . . . slimy.”
“True, but they taste exactly like steak, and you love steak—you told me so.”
Before she could protest further, Oliver took her by the arm, and she suddenly found herself standing in the entranceway of the most elaborate restaurant she’d ever seen. Each and every table she saw through the doorway was draped in fine linen, with candles fluttering everywhere, the light from them causing the crystal glasses on the tables to sparkle. Servers moved on silent feet around them and a delicious aroma of well-prepared food filled the air. She drew in a deep breath, slowly released it, but was still feeling a distinct desire to bolt when Mr. Everett Mulberry suddenly appeared right in front of her and sent her a wink.
The wink had her feeling a little better until the lady walking a step behind him came into view and Harriet felt her stomach lurch. Given that the lady was keeping remarkably close to Everett, Harriet knew she had to be none other than Miss Dixon—the Nightmare, as Archibald had called her. She was dressed in an exquisite gown of beaded silk, one that had most likely come from Paris, and she was beautiful. Her light brown hair was styled to perfection, but . . . the closer she came, the better Harriet could see her, and the hardness residing in the lady’s eyes diminished her beauty ever so slightly.
“That’s Miss Dixon,” Oliver told her.
“She’s . . . lovely.”
“Not as lovely as you are, and she’s not nearly as interesting.”
It was fortunate Oliver had a firm grip on her arm, because Harriet was fairly certain if he didn’t, she would have swooned right to the ground for the first time in her life, right at the man’s feet.
“Mr. Addleshaw,” Miss Dixon drawled as she came to a stop in front of them. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Miss Dixon,” Everett said, before he gestured to Harriet. “Allow me to present Miss Harriet Peabody. Miss Peabody, this is Miss Caroline Dixon.”
Miss Dixon barely spared her a glance and didn’t wait for a response from Harriet before turning her attention back to Oliver, handing him her hand, and then batting her lashes when he took it.
Irritation was immediate, but before Harriet could dwell on the reasoning behind it, Everett leaned closer to her.
“You’re doing fine.”
“What was that?” Miss Dixon snapped.
“I was telling Miss Peabody that she looks very fine this evening.”
“You didn’t tell me I look fine.”
“I believe I mentioned that you look stunning, which I believe is a fair deal better than fine,” Everett said calmly. “Now then, Oliver, I’m sure we should inquire whether or not the duke has arrived, but . . . never mind, I see him over there with your grandfather and Mrs. Hart.”
Harriet looked up, and sure enough, Archibald and Abigail were in the midst of a conversation with a gentleman who certainly appeared duke-like, not that Harriet had ever seen a real live duke before.
“Shall we join them?” Oliver asked.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt what seems to be a lovely conversation,” Harriet said weakly.
“Since we are here to dine with the duke,” Miss Dixon said coolly, “I’m sure he’s expecting us to go greet him, even if that means interrupting Mrs. Hart.” She lifted her chin. “Everett, take my arm and—”
“Oliver, come meet the duke,” Archibald called, his request cutting Miss Dixon off midsentence.
Oliver took hold of Harriet’s arm. “Ready?”