The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,44
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.
She squinted at him, shaking her head. “Just how wealthy are you, English?”
“Wealthy enough.”
“Well, it’s driven ye mad.”
“Only you could accomplish that, Miss Tulloch. Only you.”
An hour later, Annie awakened Mrs. MacBean from her nap, and they headed out of the dressmaker’s shop and into the draper’s shop next door.
Huxley’s behavior continued to baffle her. She cast a glance at the odd Englishman, who’d worn that same triumphant expression ever since she’d tacitly agreed to let him spend ridiculous sums on her gowns. What did he think he’d won?
Watching him discuss rich, plum silk with the gentleman behind the counter, she shook her head again, unable to untangle the answer. It wasn’t only his claim on her dressmaker bills, either. When Mrs. Baird had started to take Annie back into a curtained area for measuring, he’d tried to follow them.
His triumphant gleam had dimmed briefly when Mrs. Baird halted him with a starchy glare and a firmly closed curtain. Before that, his eyes burned a hole in Annie’s plaid. What did he suppose she hid beneath it—gold bullion?
Perhaps that was why he was so eager to pay for her gowns. He thought she kept treasure stitched into her trews. In truth, all she had beneath her clothes were drawers and serviceable linen stays. The corset had no boning, no real structure. She’d crafted it to lace in front, so it was easy to manage on her own and supported her bosoms enough for comfort. But Mrs. Baird’s dubious, careful glances had told her she’d best order new undergarments