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hoped so. He would not be able to bear a prattler or someone who would wish to manage his life and that of everyone around her. He might as well have married Frances and made his mother and sisters happy if that was to be his fate.
    On the other hand, of course, he did not want a dull and mindless creature of no character.
    However, he thought as he turned to bow to the bald and smiling man who was bowing deeply to him, it was pointless at this moment in his life to try to picture the qualities he really wanted in a wife. She was already chosen. He was stuck with her.
    The man, as Lord Severn suspected, was Mr. Gill. They exchanged pleasantries after his lordship had refused an invitation to step into the study for refreshments.
    “Miss Gardiner is, ah, seeking employment with you, my lord?” Mr. Gill asked. “She is an ambitious young lady to have looked so high.”
    “Miss Gardiner,” the earl said, one hand playing with the handle of his quizzing glass, “is a distant relative of mine, sir.”
    Mr. Gill rubbed his hands together.
    She had not passed along his message, Lord Severn decided. “And my betrothed,” he added.
    Mr. Gill’s hands stilled.
    But the earl’s attention was diverted. She was coming down the stairs and he turned to watch her. She was clad from head to ankles in gray. Only her black gloves and half-boots relieved the monotony.
    Oh, yes, he thought in some shock, he had not been mistaken in her appearance.
    Or in her character either. Her face was expressionless. Her eyes were directed at the floor between him and Mr. Gill. She curtsied when she reached the bottom of the stairs, without raising her eyes.
    “Good morning, my dear,” the earl said, bowing to her. “Are you ready to leave?”
    “Yes, thank you, my lord,” she said.
    “Ah,” Mr. Gill said, rubbing his hands together again. “Young love. How splendid. And how very pretty you look, Miss Gardiner.”
    The woman looked up, first at Mr. Gill and then at her betrothed. There was a gleam in her eye that looked remarkably like amusement, the earl thought. But it was gone in a flash before he could observe more closely.
    She took the arm that he offered.
    •                  •                  •
    A BIGAIL HAD BEEN on Bond Street only once, with Mrs. Gill. But they had not stopped there, only strolled along it in order to look grand. Bond Street was somewhat above Mrs. Gill’s touch.
    But it was to Bond Street that the Earl of Severn took her, to the shop of a modiste who looked quite as grand as a duchess and who spoke with a French accent that had Abigail peering at her with suspicion. But the woman knew the Earl of Severn and curtsied deeply to him. And her eyes passed over Abigail’s gray clothes with curiosity and some condescension.
    This was where he brought his ladybirds to be clothed, Abigail thought, and Madame Savard—or Miss Bloggs, or whatever her true name was—was assuming that she was another of that breed. She fixed the woman with a severe eye. And she felt mortified beyond belief. She had not known that gentlemen ever went shopping with ladies for clothes—not right inside the shop and greeting the modiste and demanding to see fashion plates and pattern books and fabrics.
    “We will need something pretty without delay, madame,” he said. “Miss Gardiner is to be my bride tomorrow.”
    The eyes surveying her became sharper and considerably more respectful. Madame clasped her hands to her bosom and uttered some charming and sentimental words about whirlwind romances. She and Mr. Gill should get together to render a romantic duet, Abigail thought, and then wished she had not done so, as her stomach muscles tightened with suppressed amusement.
    “But by tomorrow, m’lord?” Madame said, long-nailed hands fluttering.
“Non, non. impossible!”
    “Possible,” the earl said firmly, not giving the word the modiste’s French intonation. “Definitely possible. Madame