An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,25
never passed.
“Would you like a tour?”
“Do you really mean to offer? I am the competition.”
“I heard rumors to that effect.” After her unapologetic determination to stop the sale of Goodwin’s, he’d heard about her brother taking an extended holiday, allegedly for his drinking problem. “How is Edward?”
“He has made the excellent choice to prioritize his heath,” she said smoothly. “My mother and I are supportive of his endeavors to get well. He will take all the time he needs.”
It was rather curious timing, given the scene he’d witnessed between the siblings at the board meeting. A nearly bankrupt business without its leader only helped his cause. For a moment, Dalton wondered if it would be too easy. For a second, he felt a pang of dismay as if he hungered for a real challenge.
“And who does that leave in charge of the store?” Dalton asked. He noticed a quirk of her brow and upturn of her lips.
“You’re looking at her.”
He did look at her—fashionably attired, as beautiful as ever—wondering what ruthless streak ran behind that serene expression, that elegant countenance.
“You are the new president of Goodwin’s,” he said flatly.
“Yes. Someone has to restore it to its former glory. Why not me?”
“So you are not jesting about being the competition.”
“Did you doubt me, Dalton?” Beatrice asked with a deceptively sweet smile.
There was no good answer to that question. Instead, he said, “Let me show you around. I’m sure you’ll find ideas worth stealing.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. A divorced duchess of a certain age rolled her eyes at him, the merchant prince of Manhattan (or so people said) and one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. She rolled her eyes like some young, holier-than-thou girl of sixteen.
Just like that, he remembered young Beatrice, and he remembered working at Goodwin’s and finding her . . . distracting. He remembered when she first noticed him and all the moments they stole together, young and madly in lust. Running through the housewares department and sales floor after hours. Making eyes over bolts of silk and satin under bright chandeliers. He remembered her laughter. Her enthusiasm. Her inability—or refusal?—to filter her thoughts. He remembered the way she rolled her eyes when her mother told her to soften her laugh or move less exuberantly.
He did not want to remember that version of Beatrice, the version he had once loved.
Instead, he focused on the woman in front of him. His competitor. His rival. His last obstacle before the sweet satisfaction of revenge. She was bright, intelligent, and apparently ruthless. But he had years of experience and was equally determined. He could afford to give her a tour; let her steal his secrets, he’d only dream up more.
“Let’s start with millinery,” he said.
They started with millinery. Dalton explained that he employed his own milliners. He also pointed out the display of the Audobonnet, a hat decorated without feathers, which Miss Van Allen had persuaded him to display prominently, in addition to a donation to her cause, if he would not stop selling feathered hats altogether.
He would not stop selling the popular fashions; he was in business to make money above all.
But only now, as Dalton was explaining this to Beatrice, did it occur to him that he was sacrificing rare and beautiful birds so that he could sell more hats, generate more profits, all to impress a woman who had left him and a society that cared only about him when he had money.
Poor birds.
He moved along, reveling in her gasp of delight at a picnic display. His merchandiser, a gentleman named Mark, excelled at staging beautiful, sensual evocative moments to enchant customers. He instinctively knew one of Dalton’s primary rules: always astonish the customer. Sparing no expense, he had painstakingly re-created a clearing in a forest complete with real trees and flowering bushes that had to be watered thrice daily and replaced weekly. On the clearing—with tufts of soft green moss—an elegant blanket had been spread out and upon it a gorgeous picnic had been arranged. Cake. Champagne. Fresh fruit.
Nearby one could purchase the Dalton’s Fine Picnic Set—an elegant wicker hamper complete with a crisp linen blanket, a set of four china plates, gold plated cutlery, crystal flutes. And champagne, naturally.
It was a picnic befitting a duchess.
“Well, you don’t do things by half, do you, Dalton?”
“I don’t believe in sacrificing beauty and pleasure,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “And one doesn’t come to Dalton’s for anything less than the best.”