What the Lady Wants by Renée Rosen Page B

women
into
buying things?”
    â€œI’ll never lie to a lady.” He smiled with an open hand splayed over his heart. The other hand with his crooked finger was stationed in his pocket, almost as if he was hiding it. “Now this blue right here,” he said, reaching for a moiré shawl. “This is a muchbetter choice for you. They call it verdigris. It brings out the color of your eyes.”
    â€œMy eyes are brown,” she said with a laugh.
    â€œThen would you believe that the color complements your fair complexion?”
    â€œNow that, Mr. Field, I will accept.” She laughed again.
    â€œDo you have a moment? There’s some items that I’d like to get your opinion on.”
    This time it was Delia who placed an open hand over her heart. “You, the Merchant Prince, are seeking
my
opinion?”
    â€œMrs. Caton, with all due respect, when it comes to ladies’ fashions, there is no one whose opinion I value more.”
    Delia took in his compliment, feeling it spread throughout her chest and limbs, making her cheeks flush. “Well, in that case, Mr. Field, I’m all yours.”
    She was laughing when she glanced over and noticed Harriet, Annie and Sybil watching her. Sybil gave her a long, puzzled look that made Delia uncomfortable, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. Harriet turned away and soon after, Annie did the same. Delia knew she should rejoin them, but Marshall wanted to show her some things, and besides, he’d said that he needed her opinion. That was too great a request to turn away from.
    He guided her with his hand behind the small of her back, walking her down the aisle. Stopping before a millinery display, he rotated one of the hats. “Remember,” he said to the shopgirl, “feathers and enhancements face out.”
    The young clerk apologized, looking as though she’d committed a grave mistake. Marshall moved on with Delia at his side. She couldn’t help but notice the way the salesclerks stood at attention when he passed by, nearly holding their breath. Deliaremembered her father calling him “persnickety” and “tough to work for.”
    Marshall walked her into the back storage room where wooden crates, just off the freighters and trains, were stacked floor to ceiling, stenciled with thick black lettering on the sides: PARIS, MADRID, VENICE . Half a dozen men checked inventory lists as they unpacked the items.
    Grabbing a long flat rod, Marshall began prying open a wooden crate. She observed the way his thick hands wedged the lid open. Sensing that he was a perfectionist, she imagined that one crooked finger must have seemed like an immense flaw to him, which probably explained why he kept it in his pocket whenever possible.
    As he opened the first crate, Delia’s pulse took off. She was getting a private preview of the latest styles. There were sable-trimmed cloaks imported from Spain, Persian paisley shawls with fringe, satin underskirts and silk hosiery from Italy. Delia was fascinated. Of everything he showed her, there was only one item—a Dolly Varden bonnet—that didn’t impress her.
    â€œI think the lace
and
the crystals are too much,” she said.
    â€œHmmm.” He held the bonnet, tilting it to the side. “I was wondering that myself. I asked a couple of the shopgirls for their opinions, but none of them gave me a straight answer. They were just waiting to see what I thought. Why can’t more women just speak their minds?”
    â€œIs that really what you want women to do?”
    â€œAs long as they agree with me.” He laughed and called over to his office boy. “Send the Dolly Vardens back.”
    Delia stood back in amazement. She’d never felt so important. This was a man who was respected by all for his tastes and here he had followed her advice. She realized she’d never reallybeen taken seriously—listened to—and by a man she