A Viscount to Defy Her Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

Katherine’s fingers hesitated over the silver-backed hairbrush, not because she meant to use it, but because the bristles still held a few copper strands that did not belong to her.

Just like hers, but not hers. Her mother’s.

She had not sat at her mother’s dressing table in weeks.

The air carried the faintest trace of rosewater and powder, and old perfume that had seeped into wood and velvet and the folds of a curtain. Her mother’s scent, refusing to be entirely dismissed.

Behind her, a floorboard groaned.

“You are up early,” Martha, her maid, said gently. She stood in the doorway with a folded shawl over one arm and a ribbon box in the other, her face composed into practical concern. “Or you never slept.”

Katherine kept her hand on the brush, because letting go felt too much like admitting defeat. “Is it morning already?”

“It is.” Martha stepped in, her petite figure crossed the room with care as she set the ribbon box down on the dresser. “And if you intend to be on the road at a reasonable hour, it would be a kindness to your own bones to take tea.”

Katherine’s gaze slid over the table and a small sketchbook that lay, half-open, revealing a gown design in her mother’s slanting hand. A pressed violet had been tucked between pages and forgotten there, as if time had kindly preserved it.

“Martha,” Katherine said, carefully casual, “did you ever tidy this table after… after she—”

“No.” Martha’s answer was immediate and firm. “I dusted, swept, and polished. But I did not put her things away. That was never mine to do.”

Katherine’s mouth tightened, not in disapproval but in gratitude that Martha understood the difference. “It looks like she might come back at any moment.”

“It does, miss,” Martha said softly, then cleared her throat as if she had caught herself on sentiment. “But alas, she will not. And you’ve business to attend.”

Katherine lifted the brush, turning it in her hand mindlessly.

Martha watched her for a beat, then reached past her to the blotter on the desk. “That letter,” she said, in the tone of a woman referring to a knife left too close to the edge. “Is it the same, or another?”

Katherine’s eyes slowly shifted to the folded parchment. “It has been sitting there for days.”

“Aye, and you’ve been walking past it as though it might bite.” Martha slid the paper forward. But Katherine had already read it twice, and it still sat there.

Katherine moved to the desk and pressed a fingertip to the imprint of the wax.

“Go on,” Martha said, as if Katherine required permission to suffer. “Read it one more time. Sometimes the third look shows you what the first two hid.”

“It does not change,” Katherine murmured, but she unfolded the paper anyway.

The hand was masculine, controlled, practiced in authority. Her grandfather’s words were courteous in form and absolute in intent.

Miss Merriweather, it began, as if “granddaughter” were a familiarity he did not yet allow.

Katherine read silently, her eyes moving over the lines she could have recited by memory now.

He wished her to come to Ashcombe House at once. He desired her presence under his roof. He would see her presented properly, and he would see her settled properly. He wrote of duty. He wrote of responsibility. He wrote of what was owed to family and name. And, with the chill kindness of a man who believed he was doing what was best, he wrote of marriage as if it were merely the correct final arrangement to her existence.

Martha waited until Katherine folded the letter back into itself. “Well?” she prompted.

“Well,” Katherine repeated, because it was easier than saying what she felt.

“The Viscount Ashcombe has given me no choice.”

Martha’s brows lifted. “No choice?”

“It is a matter of… urgency,” Katherine said unhurriedly.

“Mmm, so your grandfather expects you to go and be paraded about like a prize he means to sell, and you are trying to decide whether to let him?”

Katherine straightened. “He is not selling me. He is –”

“Arranging you, then,” Martha supplied. “As if you were a piece of furniture he means to place in the correct room.”

Katherine exhaled, slow and controlled. “I will go to Ashcombe House.”

Martha did not look surprised. She looked, instead, as if she had expected Katherine to say it and had prepared herself not to weep.

“I will go,” Katherine continued, “because I must. If I refuse, he will make it his mission to wrest my father’s company from me out of spite, and he has the influence to do it.”

“Ah.” Martha’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me true. If your father were standing in this room, would he tell you to go?”

Katherine’s eyes stung. She blinked once, hard, refusing to give the tears a place to land. “My father would tell me to do what preserved the business. He would tell me to keep my hands on what he built.”

“And your mother?” Martha asked, as if she could not resist.

Katherine’s gaze met with Martha’s. The woman had become somewhat of a motherly figure to her. Her light brown eyes shone bright as if she were still under the same stage lights that she had shared with Katherine’s mother. An actress in spirit. A mother at heart.

“My mother would tell me to go,” Katherine said, voice low, “and to make them all pay for underestimating me.”

Martha’s smile came quick and fierce, “There she is. Julia Merriweather’s daughter.”

Katherine moved to the door and Martha followed. As the two of them crossed the threshold, Katherine paused and looked back into the room one last time. She felt Martha’s hand rest on her shoulder as she exhaled and closed the door with gentle firmness.

When she turned away, her spine was straight.

“All right,” Katherine said, voice steady with effort. “We go to my grandfather.”

Martha’s hand squeezed her arm once. “Aye.”

Katherine walked down the corridor with purpose, Martha at her side. The sooner we got out of the house, the better, she thought as they hastened down the stairs, through the entryway, and out the front door. Finally, the sharp winter morning air hit her lungs as she stepped outside, and with each breath she felt a wave of calm wrap itself around her.

Martha caught up shortly after and led the way to the carriage. Katherine refused to look at the house again. She kept her eyes fixed on her knees as the horses led on through town. She didn’t see the familiar façades or the long, repeating lines of houses as the carriage carried her swiftly through the town that she had known all her life.

The carriage rocked softly, and Katherine kept her gloved hands folded in her lap and posture precise. It was not until the hedgerows and bare trees slid past more frequently, that her gaze angled toward the window. Her childhood home, her mother’s legacy, and her father’s shop, all faded behind her.

Across from her, Martha had turned the seat into a traveling parlor. A basket of sewing rested beside her, the lid askew. She had already produced a length of ribbon and a small heap of pins, as if she might stitch a new life together before they reached it.

Martha gave a satisfied hum. “The country house is a different sort of theater than the city, but the audience is no less attentive. If anything, they watch harder because they have less to do.”

Katherine watched the landscape for a moment longer before responding, “I know.”

Martha spoke next, her voice growing gentler. “You are meant to go among the ton and be looked at, measured, sorted, and traded like a bolt of silk.”

Katherine let out a controlled breath. “I do not intend to be traded.”

Martha resumed sewing. “And how will you prevent it?”

“I will be dull,” Katherine said. “I will be the wallflower he can neither show off nor easily sell.”

Martha’s needle halted again. “Dull? You?”

Katherine’s tone sharpened. “It is simple. Men do not fight over what they do not see.”

Martha leaned back slightly, studying her. “That is a strategy,” she conceded. “A sad one, but a strategy.”

“It is practical,” Katherine insisted. “It is freedom.”

Martha’s voice softened. “No, my dear. Practicality is safety. Freedom is something else entirely.”

Katherine did not answer at once, because the truth was uncomfortable. She had told herself they were the same. It was easier that way.

Martha changed tack, as she always did when she sensed Katherine nearing the edge of honesty. “Do you remember the story of Miss Hargreaves?”

Katherine’s eyes flicked back. “Which one?”

“The one who vowed she would never marry,” Martha said, pleased to have her attention. “She declared it in the green room, dramatic as any duchess, swore she would keep her own wages and live with two cats and a parrot. Said men were nothing but expense and trouble.”

“And did she keep her vow?” Katherine asked, despite herself.

Martha smiled. “No. She met a violinist with very tragic eyes and married him within a month.”

Katherine’s expression turned wary. “You tell these stories only to make your point.”

“I tell these stories because life is always making points,” Martha replied. “We just pretend we’re not listening.”

Katherine’s voice cooled. “I will not be undone by a violinist.”

“I’m only saying,” Martha went on lightly, “that you can plan your scenes all you like, but sometimes the other players improvise.”

Katherine leaned back, her posture still precise. “I do not intend to fall in love.”

Martha smiled but offered no reply. Silence held for a mile or two. The carriage wheels thudded over a rough patch, and Katherine’s shoulders absorbed the impact without complaint.

“Your mother loved your father,” Martha said carefully after a while. “And your father loved her. That was not the tragedy.”

“It was,” Katherine said, too quickly. “She followed him. She followed the stage. She followed emotion. And in the end—”

“In the end she lost him,” Martha finished quietly. “And then she lost herself. That is how you see it.”

Not feeling the need to respond, Katherine turned back to the window. She caught her reflection hovering faintly in the glass. Her copper hair was pulled back, and her hazel eyes seemed duller as they refocused on the trees flattening into fields. The farther they went, the more the world seemed to change its posture.

Martha’s voice was soft next to her. “Are you nervous?”

Katherine swallowed, adjusting her features. “I am not.”

Martha did not argue. She only smiled faintly, as if she had decided to let Katherine keep her lie for now. “All right,” she said. “Then you’ll do splendidly among the ton. Because half of them live by pretending they feel nothing.”

Katherine’s lips pressed together, irritation flaring. “You make them sound ridiculous.”

“They are,” Martha said cheerfully. “But they’ll still judge you. So, you must do what your mother did, only with a steadier hand.”

Katherine turned her head slightly. “And what did she do?”

Martha’s eyes warmed. “She walked into a room like she belonged there, whether she did or not.”

“I will not be like my mother,” she said, but the words sounded less certain than she intended.

Martha’s tone turned brisk again, as if she refused to allow sentiment to linger. “Of course you will not. You have your father’s head on your shoulders and your mother’s fire in your chest.”

Katherine looked at her, then away, because the truth of that threatened to crack her careful composure.

A beat of silence passed. Then Martha added, casually, “What should I call you when we arrive? Because if I say ‘Miss Katherine’ in front of your grandfather, I may be struck dead by his glare alone.”

Katherine’s brows furrowed. “I am sure he will be just fine with ‘Miss Merriweather’, but in private, you know that I prefer Katherine.”

Martha’s smile turned sly. “Yes, I do.”

The carriage rolled on. Katherine watched the winter trees slip past and tried to imagine herself in London, under chandeliers, in a gown she would pretend not to care about, answering questions she would not wish to answer.

She could do it. She could play the part demanded of her and still keep herself intact.

Chapter Two

“Too narrow at the shoulder,” Samuel Addison said without looking up. “If he lifts his arm, the seam will split before the second act.”

“That is how it was drawn,” one of the tailors replied, indignant but not foolish. “The actor insisted.”

“Then the actor may insist again after he rips it,” Samuel said mildly. He signed his name at the bottom of the contract, blotted the ink, and finally raised his eyes. “Widen it by half an inch. If he complains, tell him it was my instruction.”

The tailor hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Yes, sir.”

The man moved away, carrying the offending sketch with him, and the workshop resumed its constant, layered hum.

His office was just off the warehouse floor. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his jaw, eyes scanning the room. Bolts of fabric stood upright like sentinels along the far wall. Through a large window, he could see a young designer arguing with a cutter over sleeve length.

It smelled of dye, steam, and effort, even with his office door closed.

This was where things were made, and where mistakes were noticed.

Samuel reached for the next paper in the stack on his desk. Contracts, letters, figures written in a clean, decisive hand. He had learned early that disorder cost money, and money when managed correctly bought freedom. His father had been proof of that.

“Lord Hartley?” he heard a man’s voice say from the door. Samuel looked up, his eyes connecting with his London factor, and then returned to his paper.

“You know I am not addressed as such within these walls, Harrington.”

The man cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, of course, uh, Mr. – uh – Addison?”

Samuel looked up again. “What is it?”

Harrington was a man with sharp eyes and had a careful way of standing that suggested he disliked waste in all its forms. He held a ledger against his chest like a shield.

“We’ll need confirmation by the end of the week if you wish to secure the Manchester looms,” Harrington said. “There is competition.”

“There is always competition,” Samuel replied. “What are the terms?”

Harrington stepped closer and opened the ledger, angling it so Samuel could read without standing. “Higher upfront investment. Lower margin initially. But quality control remains with us.”

Samuel scanned the figures. He did not rush; numbers rewarded patience. “And delivery times?”

“Reliable,” Harrington said. “They know who your father was.”

That, too, was currency.

Samuel nodded once. “Proceed. But no compromises on thread count. If they balk, we walk.”

Harrington’s mouth twitched, somewhere between approval and resignation. “Very good.”

When the man left, Samuel exhaled slowly and turned his attention to the sketches spread across the desk. In front of him, costumes for three different productions, two of them opening before the end of the Season. He adjusted one drawing, shifting a line at the waist, then paused, pen hovering.

His father would have approved of the cut. He could hear the man’s voice in his head, warm and insistent.

Never forget that the costume must serve the story, not the vanity.

Samuel set the pen down.

His father had served stories all his life. Built them, funded them, believed in them. He had crossed an ocean for them, dragging a young boy with him who learned to measure fabric before he learned to dance.

They had not gone to America out of ambition. They had fled England because ambition had failed them. And now he had returned.

Samuel pushed that thought aside and reached instead for the letter he had been avoiding all morning. It lay near the edge of the desk, unopened, its seal already broken by a careless thumb earlier that day.

The paper bore his mother’s hand.

He read it now because it was better to confront things head-on.

You cannot postpone this indefinitely, she wrote. The arrangement with the Wentworths is sound. Advantageous. Your father would have understood the necessity.

Samuel’s mouth tightened.

You are the Earl of Hartley, she reminded him, as if he might have forgotten.

He folded the letter and set it aside, his fingers pressing the crease too sharply.

The Earl of Hartley.

It was a title that sat on him like a borrowed coat. A well-made, undeniably valuable coat, but never quite his own. He used it when required. He ignored it whenever possible.

The Season, with its endless rounds of dinners and dances, had no particular appeal. He did not despise society; he simply found it inefficient. Too many conversations designed to conceal rather than reveal. Too many smiles sharpened into tools.

Here, in the workshop, people argued because something mattered. They disagreed because the result would be seen, worn, judged under lights that did not care about pedigree.

“Mr. Addison,” came another voice. This one younger, more uncertain.

Samuel looked up to find one of the apprentices hovering near the desk, cap clutched in both hands. “Yes?”

“There’s a question about the French shipment,” the boy said. “Madame Beaumont wishes to know if the trims should be altered for the London market.”

Samuel stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long. “I’ll speak with her.”

He crossed the room, the noise shifting around him as people made way without being told. Authority, he had learned, was most effective when it did not need announcement.

Madame Beaumont stood near a table piled with ribbons and lace, her hands mid-gesture as she spoke rapidly in accented English to a cutter. She turned when Samuel approached, her dark eyes assessing.

“You will tell me,” she said without preamble, “that London prefers restraint.”

Samuel smiled faintly. “London pretends to prefer restraint.”

She snorted. “Exactly. So, we must give them drama they can deny wanting.”

He picked up a length of trim and ran it between his fingers. “Subtle drama. Enough to catch the eye without provoking comment.”

Madame Beaumont studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You understand.”

“I try to,” he said.

“It is decided, then. I will give them their marching orders, then I must get back to the shop, Mr. Addison.”

“Very good, Madame Beaumont. I shall see you again in the morning, then.”

She smiled and nodded, then turned back to the table. Barking orders like they were performing a military drill as Samuel walked back to his office.

Later, when the afternoon light had shifted and the workshop’s arguments had settled into focused silence, Samuel returned to his desk and allowed himself one unproductive thought.

England was changing, and Samuel found it easier to notice in rooms like this one than in any ballroom. Contracts mattered more than courtesy here. Talent outpaced lineage with quiet persistence. Women were learning to manage more than households, even if the law insisted on its fictions.

He had seen it in America. He saw it here, too, if he looked closely enough.

Perhaps that was why the Season felt so tedious. It pretended none of this was happening.

Samuel gathered his papers, aligning them with care, and waited. The sudden change in the room’s atmosphere announced itself before she entered.

Samuel did not look up at once. He had learned, over time, that some people preferred to be noticed precisely when they wished, and absolutely nowhere else. Margaret was one such person. He finished annotating the margin of a contract, set the quill down, and only then raised his head.

Margaret Fairleigh, his first love and now the recently widowed Countess of Montford, stood just inside the threshold, framed by the open door as though she had calculated the effect. Her blonde hair had been arranged with effortless precision, gloved hands resting lightly one atop the other, she surveyed the office with an expression that suggested equal parts curiosity and ownership.

“Well,” she said lightly, “this is not what I expected.”

Samuel rose. Not quickly, not reluctantly. Exactly as courtesy required. “You are early,” he said, which was both true and deliberate.

She smiled. “You always did prefer the advantage of preparation.”

That, too, was deliberate.

“Will you come in?” he asked, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

She did, moving with the grace of a woman long accustomed to rooms making way for her. Her eyes did not linger on him immediately. Instead, she examined the papers, the sketches, the scattered bolts of fabric visible through the half-open door to the workshop beyond.

“So industrious,” she murmured. “One might almost forget you have a title.”

Samuel resumed his seat. “I rarely find it useful in rooms where work is being done.”

Her gaze flicked to him then. “Your grandfather would have disagreed.”

“My grandfather disagreed with many things,” Samuel replied evenly. “Some of them survived him, Lady Montford.”

Margaret laughed softly, as though he had offered a clever jest rather than a boundary. “You have changed, Samuel. And you know better than to address me as such.”

He inclined his head a fraction. “Time tends to encourage change, Margaret.”

She leaned back in her chair, “Yet you remain surrounded by theatres and tailors. Your father would be pleased.”

The mention landed where she intended it to, but Samuel did not flinch. “I hope so. He believed talent should be cultivated, not merely consumed.”

“An admirable philosophy,” she said. “Though I wonder how profitable it truly is.”

Samuel met her gaze. “It has kept the doors open on two continents.”

Her smile sharpened. “Ever practical.”

“Ever honest,” he corrected mildly.

A weighted silence fell over them. Margaret broke it by reaching for one of the sketches on his desk without asking.

“May I?”

“You already are,” he said.

She examined the drawing, her eyes tracing the lines with genuine interest. “You have an eye. That was always true. Even when you were younger.”

“Even then,” Samuel agreed, without inviting reminiscence.

She set the paper down carefully. “Tell me… what is your intention here? Truly. Not what you tell investors. Not what you tell your mother.”

Samuel folded his hands atop the desk. “I intend to build something that outlasts fashion. To find people who understand craft and give them the means to excel. To ensure that when the curtain rises, what the audience sees supports the story rather than distracts from it.”

“And London?” she pressed. “Do you intend to stay?”

“For now.”

Her brow arched. “Such commitment.”

“It is sufficient.”

She studied him as if he were a chessboard, weighing pieces unseen. “You speak as though the Season is a nuisance rather than an opportunity.”

“I speak as though it is temporary,” Samuel replied. “Which it is.”

“Temporary arrangements have a way of becoming permanent,” she said lightly. “Especially when contracts are signed.”

His expression did not change. “Only if both parties consent, which they rarely do.”

That earned him another laugh, quieter this time. “You always were difficult to corner.”

“I have never cared for corners.”

Margaret leaned forward slightly now, lowering her voice. “You could be extraordinary, Samuel. With the right alliances. With the right woman beside you.”

He did not look away. “I am already occupied.”

“With work,” she said, knowingly.

“With purpose,” he corrected.

Her eyes narrowed with calculation. “Purpose can be shared.”

“So can ambition,” he said. “Which is why it must be chosen carefully.”

A pause. Then she smiled again, smoother than before. “You will make enemies speaking so plainly.”

“I find it saves time.”

She rose at last, smoothing her skirts. “Very well. I shall not keep you. London awaits, and I imagine you have engagements.”

“I do,” Samuel said, standing as well.

She moved toward the door, then stopped, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “You always did prefer the illusion of control.”

“No, Margaret. I prefer control in all endeavors,” Samuel said without thinking, and immediately wished he had said nothing at all.

Her smile lingered as she left, the door closing softly behind her.

Samuel remained standing for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he exhaled, slow and measured, and then sat back down at. It was only a few more minutes, when the storm in his mind calmed. Then he stood, crossed the room, and reached for his coat.

“You survived,” came a familiar voice from the corridor.

Samuel turned to see his good friend, Lord Ridgemont, Thomas Langford, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression amused. “Barely.”

Thomas went on, “My sister has not lost her touch.”

“Nor her aim,” Samuel said, shrugging into his coat.

Thomas fell into step beside him as they walked. “She still loves you, you know? So, all things considered, you handled it well .”

“I’m sure I deserved much worse than what Margaret gave today, considering I abandoned her that Season. No doubt embarrassed her and your family as well.”

Thomas made a face. “Not me, old friend. I made it out unscathed.”

“I know you were affected, Thomas.”

“I would not confirm it either way, Samuel.”

They moved through the warehouse together, past clerks and cutters who nodded as Samuel passed. Outside, the air was sharp, the sky already fading toward evening.

“Dinner at Pembroke House,” Thomas said. “Then the Ravenshurst townhouse tomorrow.”

Samuel’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”

Thomas glanced at him sidelong. “You could still refuse.”

“I could,” Samuel agreed. “Which would create unnecessary complications.”

“It would make it so much fun, though.”

Samuel huffed a quiet laugh as they descended the steps. “Lady Pembroke might not agree.”

“Ah, she will be a good sport, Samuel.”

“I do not agree—come, let us go. I need to change and stop by the atelier before Pembroke House.”

Chapter Three

“We are already late,” Martha said for the third time, her fingers tightening around the reticule as the carriage slowed. “Your grandfather will not appreciate detours.”

Katherine did not look at her. She watched the narrow street ahead, where the buildings leaned in close as conspirators and the air carried a familiar tang.

“He will appreciate me arriving properly clothed,” Katherine said. “And properly prepared.”

Martha made a sound that hovered between a sigh and a laugh. “You mean invisible.”

“Precisely.”

The carriage came to a stop. Before Martha could protest again, Katherine had already reached for the handle.

The shop door stood ajar, as it often did. Inside, voices rose and fell in French and English alike.

The scent struck Katherine at once. Dye and starch and steam, tinged with perfume and chalk dust.

Martha hesitated on the threshold, eyes softening. “It hasn’t changed a bit,” she murmured.

Katherine stepped inside, her spine straightening as though she had entered a chapel.

Bolts of fabric rose along the walls in disciplined ranks, their colors deep and varied. Sketches were pinned above the worktables, some finished, others scrawled with notes and corrections. A dress form stood near the window wearing the beginnings of a bodice.

“Katherine,” Martha said quietly, “we truly ought to—”

“Madame Beaumont!” a voice called, warm and brisk. “You are needed.”

A woman emerged from behind a curtain, dark hair swept back, hands already dusted with chalk. She took in the scene in a single glance, and then her eyes widened.

“Martha, my dear,” she breathed. “You’ve come back to me at last.”

Martha laughed, the sound looser than Katherine had heard in days. “Only for a moment, Anabel. You look well.”

“And you look unchanged,” Anabel said, grasping Martha’s hands with genuine affection. Then her gaze shifted and settled on Katherine.

“And you must be—” She stopped herself, eyes flicking to Martha.

“Katherine Merriweather,” Katherine said, inclining her head. “My mother was Julia Merriweather, perhaps—”

Anabel’s expression softened at once, worry and warmth tangling together. “Of course, my darling girl,” she said gently. “You have my condolences. Your mother was… unforgettable.”

Katherine felt the familiar tightening behind her ribs. “She was.”

Anabel gestured them further inside. “Come. Sit, before you disappear under a bolt of taffeta.”

They did, perching on stools near a wide table strewn with patterns. Anabel leaned against its edge, studying Katherine openly now.

“You have her posture,” she said. “But not her appetite for spectacle.”

Katherine allowed herself a small smile. “That is intentional.”

Martha cleared her throat. “Katherine wishes to order gowns for the Season. Is that right?”

Anabel’s brows lifted. “Ah. London, then.”

“Yes,” Katherine said. “But I intend to be… restrained.”

Anabel laughed outright. “My dear, restraint is simply another design challenge.”

Katherine glanced around the room. “I am seeking gowns that will not draw attention. Colors that blend. Cuts that suggest propriety rather than provocation.”

Martha snorted. “She wants to be a wallflower.”

“A very expensive wallflower,” Anabel said, amused. Then her humor dimmed, and she pushed away from the table. “Forgive me. I have matters on my mind.”

Katherine followed the shift immediately. “You are troubled?”

Anabel hesitated, then waved a hand as if brushing away politeness. “An investor who knows the theatre industry very well,” she said. “From America. He admires my work and wishes to expand it.”

“That sounds favorable,” Martha said carefully.

“It would be,” Anabel replied, “if his admiration extended to the work itself. He wishes to take my designs, my cutters, my best people and relocate them. Across the ocean.”

Katherine’s fingers curled slightly. “And your contract?”

Anabel’s mouth tightened. “Signed. Foolishly, perhaps. I thought it opportunity.”

“You thought it survival,” Martha said softly.

Anabel met her gaze. “Yes, because it was.”

Katherine’s eyes drifted to the sketches pinned above them. The designs that bore her mother’s unmistakable influence. Her mother’s taste lived here, in the bold line softened by intelligence, the drama controlled by craft.

“You do not wish to go as well?” Katherine asked softly.

“No,” Anabel said simply. “I wish to remain. To build here. But contracts do not bend to wishes.”

Katherine inhaled slowly. “They do, on occasion, bend to leverage.”

Anabel’s eyes sharpened. “You speak like a merchant.”

“I am one,” Katherine said. “Or very nearly.”

Martha’s head snapped toward her. “Kate—” She whispered cautiously, using the nickname that only she and her parents ever used. Martha had used it so sparingly in the days following her mother’s passing, that hearing it just now sent pinpricks behind her eyes quicker than a heartbeat.

“I am free to direct my own funds,” Katherine said, inhaling sharply, but speaking with precise calm. “With the appropriate legal guidance.”

Anabel studied her, weighing sincerity against possibility. “You would involve yourself in this?”

“I would,” Katherine said. “My mother believed in this work. Your work. My father believed in supporting things that endure. I believe both were right.”

Martha pressed a hand to her mouth.

“I do not wish to own your business,” Katherine continued. “Nor to dictate its direction. But I am prepared to stand behind it. To ensure its continuity. To see that it remains here, with you.”

Anabel was silent for a long moment.

“You would act as patroness?” she concluded slowly.

“Yes.”

“And in return?”

“Only transparency,” Katherine replied. “And the knowledge that something my mother loved will not be stripped of its soul.”

Anabel chuckled once, sharply, and then shook her head. “Is that all?”

“It is. Are we in agreement?” Katherine asked.

Anabel reached out, clasping Katherine’s hands. “We will speak to a solicitor and do this properly.”

“Of course,” Katherine said. “I insist upon it.”

Martha exhaled shakily. “Well,” she said. “That is one way to prepare for the Season.”

Katherine stood quickly, nearly knocking over a stool and muttered a quick apology before diverting the conversation back to the task at hand. “Now,” she said, clapping her hands together “about my gowns.”

Anabel’s smile returned, bright and dangerous. “Gray, you said?”

“Gray,” Katherine confirmed. “And blue. Nothing that suggests ambition.”

Anabel arched a brow. “Ambition has a way of showing regardless of what is on your shoulders.”

Katherine met her gaze steadily. “Then we must be very careful.”

The three of them gathered around the central table, skirts drawn close, papers spread wide enough to suggest industry rather than conspiracy. But the conversation had shifted from this Season’s gowns back to business.

Anabel tapped a pencil against the margin of a ledger. “The difficulty,” she said, “is not the artistry. It is the language of the agreement. The investor has secured control over distribution, not design. Yet distribution is where influence quietly settles.”

“Which gives him leverage without responsibility,” Katherine mused.

“Exactly,” Anabel replied. “In America, the stages are larger. The schedules faster. Everything must be built to endure speed rather than scrutiny.”

Martha sniffed. “And in London?”

“In London,” Anabel said, “they pretend they do not notice costumes at all, until something is wrong. Then they notice everything.”

Katherine nodded. “Subtlety here is power. Excess is forgiven in New York. In London it is remembered.”

Anabel smiled faintly. “Your mother understood that.”

The pencil stopped tapping.

They bent closer over the table, murmuring about clauses, timelines, and what could be amended if pressure were applied carefully. Katherine listened more than she spoke, filing away concerns. Patronage would not protect foolishness. If she was to stand behind this atelier, she would do so with her eyes open.

A sudden, heavy knock reverberated through the front of the shop.

All three of them startled.

Anabel straightened at once. “Might be a client—the Season is about to start,” she said with a wink, already moving. “Please, continue. I will see to it.”

Katherine watched her cross the room and disappear toward the entry. The shop resumed its quiet rhythms, while they waited for Anabel to return.

Minutes passed.

Martha leaned closer. “She’s been gone a while., Kate”

“She has,” Katherine agreed.

Another moment stretched. Katherine rose. “I will see if she requires assistance.”

She followed the corridor toward the front, slowing as voices reached her—low, controlled, but unmistakably tense.

Anabel stood in the doorway, half-shadowed. Opposite her was a man she did not know.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed with restraint rather than display. His posture suggested certainty without effort, as though he did not need to announce himself to command a room. His voice, when he spoke, carried easily.

“You are thinking sentimentally,” he was saying. “London is tradition. America is momentum.”

“And yet tradition is what built my reputation,” Anabel replied sharply.

“Which is precisely why it should be leveraged elsewhere.”

Irritation sparked in Katherine before she could temper it.

She stepped forward. “Madame Beaumont is not a commodity to be exported at will.”

Both of them turned.

The man’s gaze settled on her. It was not dismissive, or surprised, but assessing.

“And you are?” he asked.

“A patron,” Katherine said coolly. “Or soon to be.”

Anabel’s eyes widened. “Katherine—”

“She has just declared her intention to involve herself with you, financially,” the man said, his tone sharpening with interest. “In opposition to an agreement that has been already signed.”

“An agreement that may be amended,” Katherine replied. “Or contested.”

He studied her for a moment. “You are very confident for someone with no experience in this enterprise.”

“How do you know my experience?” Katherine challenged.

“You have me there, miss. Pray, tell, what is your experience?”

“I do not owe you or anyone an explanation. Though, if you must know, I have experience in theater and in business. And knowing when someone is favoring expedience and convenience over sustainability. What might your qualifications be, sir?”

His mouth curved slightly, not justifying her indignant question with anything but deflection. “You believe London sustains art better than America?”

“I believe London sustains reputation,” she countered. “And that reputation, once lost, is rarely recovered, particularly in a market that values novelty.”

“Novelty may drive attendance,” he said. “But with attendance brings critics. Have you ever dealt with critics?”

“I have. Besides, critics are not always a death sentence if you are prepared for them,” Katherine replied. “The London stage does not forgive carelessness. It merely pretends not to notice until it does.”

Anabel said nothing, watching them now as though a match had been struck where she had expected negotiation.

“You would tether this business to slow seasons and conservative audiences?” the man asked.

“I would anchor it,” Katherine corrected. “There is a difference.”

A pause followed.

“You argue well,” the man said at last.

She eyed him skeptically.

The silence stretched on between them. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, offering his hand. “Samuel Addison.”

Katherine hesitated just a fraction too long. “Miss Merriweather.”

His brows lifted. “Then allow me to be clear, Miss Merriweather. If you persist in placing yourself between Madame Beaumont and her American prospects, you may find the consequences inconvenient.”

Katherine met his gaze steadily. “Your empty threats do not frighten me, Mr. Addison.”

Something unreadable passed through his expression, then he inclined his head to Anabel. “Consider my position unchanged. Miss Merriweather.”

Only then did the full impropriety of it settle upon her. It was not the intrusion itself, but how narrowly it had avoided notice. Had anyone seen him leave her rooms, explanation would have mattered far less than appearance.

The bell above the door chimed softly.

“Well,” Martha said, emerging from behind a curtain, eyes bright with curiosity. “That felt important.”

“It was,” Anabel said quietly.

Katherine stared at the doorway, unsettled and alert all at once, the room feeling as though something had been set in motion that could not be easily reversed.

Behind her, Martha gathered their things and urged their departure. Katherine nodded, her thoughts already elsewhere, and offered Anabel a brief, composed farewell before allowing herself to be guided back toward the waiting carriage.