Still, she hadn’t uttered a single protest during the fichu debate or the ermine discussion or the walking gown nonsense. But opera dress? This was too much.
Huxley turned, blinking as though he’d forgotten he’d anchored her by his side to “observe.”
“I’ve never been to an opera, English. And I dinnae intend to go. Why should I pay for a gown made especially for doin’ somethin’ I’d never do?”
“Ladies in London—”
“I’m nae goin’ to London.”
“Edinburgh, then. Regardless, London sets the fashions.”
She crossed her arms and glowered up at the man who knew far too much about ladies’ clothing. “I thought that was Paris.”
His sigh was pure exasperation.
“Isnae that where yer mistress was from?”
Ruddy color stained his cheekbones. “Former mistress. You asked how I knew so much about—”
“The modest one, aye?” She snorted. “Doesnae sound so modest to me.”
“Modiste, Miss Tulloch. She was a modiste.”
“I dinnae need an opera dress.”
The yellow-haired dressmaker, who’d been gaping throughout their exchange, decided to add her nonsense to the conversation. “You may call the ensemble an evening gown, if you prefer, Miss Tulloch. One needn’t wear it solely to the theatre.” Mrs. Baird was pleasant for a shop owner. She had a bonnie face that made it difficult to tell her age. And she spoke with the light Scottish inflection Huxley had been encouraging Annie to adopt.
Annie hated her. Which made no sense, since the woman had been perfectly polite since they’d entered the Inverness shop an hour earlier. She hadn’t sneered at Annie’s hair or mocked Annie’s trews or implied Annie was mad even once. Rather, she’d welcomed them into her shop with a warm smile. Mrs. Baird had remarkably lovely teeth.
Another reason to hate her.
The shop was a pleasant place, large and airy with white draperies everywhere and clean windows looking out on High Street. It was the kind of place where her mother might have worked, had she not had Annie to care for.
Annie imagined it was the kind of shop Huxley’s not-so-modest mistress might have run in Paris.
Her stomach burned. She narrowed her eyes upon Mrs. Baird before replying, “Mornin’ dress. Evenin’ dress. Dinner dress. Walkin’ dress. What a load of shite.”
The woman’s yellow eyebrows arched. Huxley ran a hand over his jaw.
“I’ll nae be changin’ my gown every time I visit the privy. I’d never get anythin’ done.”
Huxley’s jaw flickered. “Please excuse us, Mrs. Baird.” He grasped Annie’s elbow. “We’ll only be a moment.”
The yellow-haired, bonnie-faced, white-toothed woman smiled. “Of course.”
Annie’s stomach burned hotter as Huxley tugged her to the opposite corner of the shop, near the windows and the small sofa where Mrs. MacBean appeared to be dozing. “Well, now, ye appear to be developin’ quite the affection betwixt ye, English. Ye’ve a taste for dressmakers, I see. Mayhap ye should make her yer mistress.”
He spun her to face him. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
“Nothin’ at all.”
“Do you want to be a lady or not?”
Her chin went up. “Aye.”
“Then, you must dress like one.”
“A gown or two will do fine.”
“No. It won’t.” He released her arm to prop his hands on his hips. Then, his gaze flickered to the window as though he was having trouble looking at her without throttling her. “You clearly don’t understand the task you’ve taken on.”
“Are ye callin’ me daft?”
Bright hazel eyes came back to fix upon her. “I’m saying you will fail. Is that what you want?”
She snorted. “Now, who’s daft?”
“Bloody hell, woman.” His glower darkened into a storm. “Listen carefully. Ladies do not concern themselves with their skirts catching fire in the kitchen. Do you know why?”
She didn’t bother answering. It was usually best not to interrupt when a man was having a wee fit of temper.
“They do not cook. Rather, they order their cook to cook. They do not clean. That is what maids are for. Neither do they concern themselves overmuch with ‘getting things done.’ Because most of their tasks have no particular timetable. They manage their household. They plan entertainments. They embroider. When the weather is fine, they ride or take a pleasant walk.”
“Fascinatin’.”
“They wear morning gowns whilst they drink tea and write gossipy letters to their cousins. They wear walking gowns whilst they visit shops and spend their husbands’ money. They wear evening gowns for dinner, ball gowns for dancing, and opera dresses for attending the theatre. Ladies strive to be pleasing, modest, and inoffensive. They do not speak of visiting the privy or use the word ‘shite.’”
The burning in her stomach hardened into stone. He’d told her this endeavor would suffocate her. Suddenly, she could feel it doing precisely that.
His eyes lit. “Ah, understanding at last.”
“So, I’m to be useless.” She flicked the white curtain on one side of the window. “Bland and decorative. Like draperies.”
“Precisely.” He didn’t appear pleased about it. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he wanted her to abandon her goal. But that would mean he preferred her as she was, which made no sense at all.
She crossed her arms. “Well, I dinnae ken if I can be bland, English.”
This time, he was the one who snorted.
“But decorative. Perhaps that I can do.”
That straight, refined nose flared. Hazel eyes ran from her forehead to her feet. For some reason, she felt his gaze like a stroke. “I agree. First, you’ll need to be … fitted.”
She frowned. Why was he speaking to her bosom? “Aye. But I cannae afford all those gowns. Angus will have a bluidy apoplexy.”
“Do not concern yourself with the expense.”
She chuckled. “Ah, ye’re amusin’, English. I havenae married a lord just yet. I’m afraid we rustic, non-decorative sorts must earn our livin’ before we spend it.”
“I will take care of it.”
He spoke the absurdity so calmly, she needed a moment to recover. Another moment. Or three.
“Dinnae be daft.”
“Husband hunting season begins in spring. Gowns take weeks or months to make. You haven’t time to—”
“You are not payin’ for my clothing, English.”
“Oh, but I am. This is part of your training.” Slowly, he smiled. “As your instructor, I insist.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
The blend of arrogance and satisfaction in his gaze confounded her. He appeared to believe he’d won a victory. “When you marry, your husband will pay for all your gowns. He’ll consider it a routine expense.” He leaned closer and flicked the same curtain she had earlier. “Like buying new draperies.” His grin sent a swooping pang through her belly. Daft, charming Englishman.