The man’s face cleared. “Oh, splendid!” He held his hand out to indicate a chair at the far end. “If your maid would like to take a seat, we can review what will be required.”

“Go ahead and sit, Becky,” Della said. Her maid nodded, but not before giving Lord Stanbury an admiring look. Her fear of the gentleman seemed to have been replaced by a budding interest, one that should not make Della annoyed.

Even though it did.

“If you will come this way, we can discuss what types and colors of fabric you prefer.”

“I don’t prefer any type or color,” Lord Stanbury said in a grumpy voice. “I just don’t want anything that is too itchy.”

“Stop being such a curmudgeon,” Della said. She addressed the man who was waiting on them. “This is Lord Stanbury, and I am Lady Della Howlett.”

“My betrothed,” Lord Stanbury added.

“And you are?” Della continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. Although she felt her cheeks heat as the truth of their deception—oxymoronic thought though that was—hit her. The news of his arrival, his impending inheritance, and their betrothal was likely to be known throughout London by the evening, given how much people liked to gossip.

She couldn’t back away from their bargain now. Even if the thought of it, of returning to Society, terrified her, she had to follow through, if only to give Sarah some peace of mind. No matter what he did to her own peace of mind.

“I am Mr. Dunworthy. My father opened this shop, and I have continued his work, serving people such as your brother-in-law.” Mr. Dunworthy’s tone was proud and respectful.

“A pleasure, Mr. Dunworthy.” Della shot a reproving glance at Lord Stanbury. “Ignore my betrothed, he is just peeved that he has to get rigged out in such fashion. He’s a generally peevish person,” she continued in a confiding tone, resisting the urge to giggle at Lord Stanbury’s expression.

“If you care to assess these fabrics,” Mr. Dunworthy said as he led them toward the back of the shop. “I believe you will find these to be the highest quality, suitable for a gentleman of your position.”

“I am not peevish,” he grumbled as they followed Mr. Dunworthy.

She gave him a pointed look before going to stand beside him, so close his scent filled her nose. He smelled wonderful, like cloves and wood smoke. She wondered if it was a cologne he’d gotten while on his travels—she certainly had never smelt anything like it before. Of course, she hadn’t come close enough to any gentleman in years to sniff them. So perhaps it was common, she just didn’t know about it.

But his scent was distracting her. As was his nearness and his general presence.