The Formidable Earl (Diamonds in the Rough #6) - Sophie Barnes Page 0,37
were nearly trembling with some inexplicable disapproval she couldn’t quite pinpoint.
“That went better than I’d expected.”
Ida started in response to Fielding’s voice. She hadn’t realized he’d come up behind her, but it occurred to her now that he was standing so close, she could smell the rich fragrance of the sandalwood oil he favored. That, along with a hint of the horse he’d ridden that morning and the coffee he must have had before coming to collect her.
She sucked in a breath, acknowledged the heat sinking into her bones and the way her stomach was swirling about. What on earth was happening to her?
Unnerved by the strange effect he was starting to have on her, of the increased intensity of it, she grabbed a roll of fabric, turned, and held it in front of herself like a shield. “If you say so.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that it could have gone better.”
“I don’t see how.” His eyes flickered with annoyance. “We secured the approval you needed in order to attend.”
“Quite right,” she agreed. Having clamped her mouth shut, she urged herself to refrain from saying more. And failed. “You also made your feelings for the duchess abundantly clear.”
“What?”
“You’re infatuated with her.”
He laughed. “That’s preposterous.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You would have tripped over your own slavering tongue had you not been standing still.”
He leaned forward until she was forced to take a step back. “I most certainly would not.”
Honestly, she ought to let it go. But… “Deny it all you want. The truth was written all over your face, and I dare say I’m not the only one who saw it.”
Dismay was evident in the slack-jawed expression that followed. “I was being polite. Nothing more. And why the devil am I defending myself to you anyway?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she muttered.
His eyes flashed with a most unsettling degree of consideration. “Are you perchance jealous?”
“Of course not,” Ida told him hotly.
“I would understand it if you were,” Fielding drawled, “after all, I am quite a desirable catch.”
“So is a trout.”
“Indeed,” he agreed with a frown, “can’t argue with you there.”
Ida muttered a curse. Why was she getting so riled up over this? If he still harbored feelings for the duchess, what difference did it make to her?
An awful thought hit her.
No.
She couldn’t possibly want Fielding for herself, could she?
It was impossible – utterly ridiculous – the only thing that made sense without making any sense at all. Which also made it all horribly confusing.
“Let’s pick out some fabric, shall we? After all, that is what we came here for.”
“Very well.” He jutted his chin toward the roll of fabric she held. “That color would look splendid on you.”
Ida dropped her gaze and acknowledged the topaz blue silk. She allowed it to slide against her fingers. “Do you really think so?”
“Without a doubt,” he told her sincerely. And then, “You will be stunning.”
Her eyes met his and she saw in them something she’d failed to acknowledge before – an intense sort of longing directed at her. He was looking at her in an entirely different way from how he’d looked at Lady Huntley.
Her pulse leapt as heat licked her skin. The bodice of her gown grew so tight she feared it might tear at the seams. She tried to breathe, to collect herself and regain her composure, but it was so hard with him standing there watching her as if he hoped she would be his last meal.
Every nerve in her body responded, tingling with heightened awareness until it made her feel dizzy.
“May I be of service?” a woman’s voice asked.
Fielding’s mouth slanted, becoming a smirk. He held Ida’s gaze for a split second longer – just enough to confirm that he’d seen her reaction – before turning toward the dressmaker. “Indeed, the lady would like a gown cut from this fabric.”
Too startled by the assault of emotions she’d had to endure since arriving at La Belle Anglaise, Ida gave up the roll of fabric so Fielding could hand it over to the dressmaker. “She’ll also be requiring a number of day dresses. Five ought to do it.” He gave the dressmaker a very direct look. “Along with the necessary underthings.
“I could have ordered those myself,” Ida whispered as they followed the dressmaker to a small seating area where fashion plates were laid out. Her cheeks burned.
“I know,” he replied so flippantly she wanted to grab the nearest roll of fabric and whack him over the head with it.