Vicar's Daughter to Viscount's Lady. Louise Allen

you mentioned to the extent of one thousand pounds…

      No. Not her allowance, but business. Her husband must be a rich man. You will be all right, Baby, she promised. You will grow up healthy and protected and you will never know your papa did not want you. I will love you and Elliott will be your papa instead and he will ensure your future. It was easy to be glad of his money and his title for the baby’s sake. But she felt uncomfortably mercenary to accept it for herself. She had sinned and now she was being rewarded. Yet without the marriage her child would not be legitimate, she reminded herself. Her own feelings and sensibilities must come second.

      The carriage drew up and she looked out to find that they were in a busy street, lined with bow-fronted shops. ‘I am sorry to be such an expense to you,’ she said without thinking. ‘And should we not be in mourning?’

      ‘You are to be Lady Hadleigh and you must do the title credit. There is nothing to thank me for. And we have no family tradition of wearing mourning, certainly not in the country. Come.’ And he held out a hand.

      Bella stepped out of the carriage on to the flagstones. The sudden thought that this was the first step into her new life made her stumble. She was shopping to find a bonnet worthy of a bishop and the wardrobe of a countess. She would do it. And, somehow, she would learn to make this man a good wife.

      Elliott caught her elbow and steadied her. She managed to smile at him and he smiled back, probably with relief that she was not being ill or difficult. A pair of young ladies passed them and she saw them glance at Elliott, their casual gaze sharpening as they looked. He really was a very attractive man, she realised, her lips tightening as she caught him returning the scrutiny.

      He was taller and leaner—harder—than his brother. His smile was as ready, but no doubt far more genuine. Not as pattern-book good looking as Rafe, Bella thought critically, striving for detachment, but more overtly masculine. Dangerous in quite a different way to Rafe because it was less showy. This was a man who was utterly comfortable and confident in his masculinity. Elliott did not appear to feel the need to prove anything to anyone except himself. She felt a flutter of emotion that, for once, was neither apprehension nor nausea. Not, surely, attraction? No, not after what she had experienced with Rafe, she thought, hiding the shiver.

      ‘Here we are.’ Elliott had guided her along the pavement and into a milliner’s shop without her realising. Bella pulled herself together and stared round at the hats on display. She probably looked like a child inside a confectioners, but she could not help herself studying the delicious concoctions with longing.

      ‘Monsieur—but, no, I must say, my lord, is it not so?’ A tall woman of a certain age swept down on them, obviously very familiar with Elliott. Which was interesting. Bella slid a sideways glance at him, distracted from her preoccupations. Did he bring his mistresses in here?

      ‘Indeed, Madame Cynthie. And send all my accounts to Hadleigh Old Hall from now on, if you please. This lady, Miss Shelley, is to marry me tomorrow and she requires a bonnet for that occasion and one to meet the bishop this afternoon.’

      ‘Ah!’ Madame cast up her hands in delight before pouncing on Bella’s bedraggled bonnet strings. ‘And what colour is the wedding gown, Miss Shelley?’

      ‘Er…’ Elliott was no help, he merely lifted his brows at her in an infuriating manner. ‘Green. Pale leaf green.’ That was the gown she had dreamed about while she was waiting for Rafe: a dress the colour of spring.

      Half an hour later the perfect wedding bonnet, wreathed in veiling and tied with bunches of utterly frivolous green ribbon, was in its box and Bella was staring blankly at two more perfect hats. She was not used to choice. The one with the cherry-red ribbons made her rather mousy brown hair seem darker and shinier and was very dignified. But the one with the bunch of primroses tucked under the brim made her eyes look greener and was so pretty she wanted to smile just looking at it.

      ‘I cannot decide.’

      ‘Both, in that case.’ Elliott did not appear bored at having to lounge around a milliner’s shop while she dithered, nor annoyed that he was now buying three bonnets and not two. ‘The red ribbons for Bishop Huntingford, I think. Put it on now. And throw the old one away,’ he added to the milliner. ‘Now for that reticule.’ He waited until they were outside the shop before adding, ‘And a green wedding gown.’

      ‘I will never find anything to fit at such short notice.’ She wanted to say that it did not matter, but, of course, it did. Elliott would be displeased if she did not look the part. The urge to demand that her old bonnet was packed up and returned to her died.

      ‘Nonsense. Here we are.’ Another little jewel box of a shop, this time a dressmaker’s. And another shopkeeper delighted to see his lordship and obviously used to having him on her premises. Elliott met Bella’s questioning glance with a look of bland innocence. Was he keeping a mistress? Of course he was, she must just learn not to mind about it. It would be easier with her emotions not involved; it was not as though she would be a real wife.

      Mrs Sutton, could, of course, assist his lordship. She had just the gown and if Miss Shelley would only step into the fitting room to try it on, any alterations could be accomplished by mid-afternoon.

      ‘And anything else you have to hand that would do,’ Elliott called after them. ‘Morning dress, afternoon dress, walking dress. Miss Shelley’s luggage met with an accident.’

      Bella was almost speechless by the time she emerged, but Elliott was ruthless and took her firmly off to find more shops. Reticule, shoes and gloves were easily dealt with, but the lingerie shop was another matter altogether. ‘No.’ She found her voice and dug her heels in after one glance at the froth of lace and gauze in the window. There were no actual garments on display, but she could imagine them only too vividly. ‘I am not going in there with you.’

      ‘Very well. Will you be all right out here for one moment?’

      ‘Why, yes, but—’ Elliott walked calmly into the shop leaving her, and the laden footman, outside.

      ‘Right, in you go.’ He emerged after a few minutes. ‘Sanders, take the shopping back to the carriage and have it come round to collect Miss Shelley in half an hour. I will meet you at the Royal Oak.’ He tipped his hat to Bella and strolled off.

      It was impossible to vent one’s feelings in front of the footman. Bella knew that she must preserve the illusion that she knew Elliott very well and not protest about having a stranger buy such intimate garments. She managed to keep a smile firmly on her lips, nodded to Sanders and went in.

      It seemed Elliott had merely uttered a sentence containing the words bride, wedding, tomorrow, everything and left. After a few minutes Bella mentally added, outrageous, extravagant and indecent.

      ‘This is transparent,’ she protested, peering over the top of the garment being held up before her. ‘And what is it, anyway?’ She would look like the loose woman she now was.

      ‘A nightgown, madam. Here is the négligé and the slippers to match. I thought this set as well? And this. Oh, yes, and this would be enchanting with your colouring, if I might be so bold. Millie, only the best Indian muslin for Miss Shelley’s underthings, mind. Oh, and that Swiss embroidery, as well. Now, stays…’

      Whenever Bella tried to protest that there was enough the three assistants shook their heads and informed her that his lordship had been quite clear in his instructions and they would not dream of stopping until they had fulfilled them.

      ‘And handkerchiefs,’ the assistant said finally. ‘There. Now we will just pack them up, Miss Shelley, if you would like a cup of tea?’

      It was almost worth it to see Sanders’s face as he was loaded up with dainty packages and bandboxes, striped and beribboned. Almost.

      Elliott was lounging in a private parlour at the Royal Oak, the day’s newssheets spread out on the table, a jug of coffee by his side, but he got to his feet as she entered. ‘Coffee, Arabella?’

      ‘Thank