Hattie Glover’s Millinery

place for you.”
“Did you call for me, Mrs. Glover?” Rose popped from the back room with a pincushion adorning her wrist.
“If you’d like a breath of fresh air, I’d be happy to mind the shop. Go on. I’ll be perfectly fine here on my own.”
Hattie glared daggers at her, and opened her mouth to refuse. Instead, she snapped, “All right then.”
As she passed Rose to go to the back for her hat and coat, she whispered, “Traitor.” But her heart skipped like some of the rabbits she’d watched chase each other in the park—excited, young, and full of the energy of spring.
After settling her rose-trimmed straw on her head, she draped the veil over her face to shield her identity. She donned her linen coat, the rose fabric perfectly matched to the hat. A look in the mirror as she worked her hands into pale pink gloves assured her she cut quite a fine figure.
Would Mr. Hardy think so?
Why should she care!
Hattie snatched up her closed parasol, not because she needed it but because it completed her ensemble. Besides, it gave her nervous hands something to clutch and would make a fine weapon for smacking her escort if he got out of hand.
She re-entered the display room, pretending to focus on fastening a button, but surreptitiously watching Hardy from beneath her lashes. His widening eyes and sharp intake of breath fanned her vanity, but she betrayed no emotion as she joined him.
“Very well, then. Let us stroll.”
“Absolutely, madam.” He offered her his arm, but Hattie kept her hand to herself, even though she would have loved to feel the warmth of that arm beneath his coat sleeve.
“No, thank you, Mr. Hardy. I will walk beside you, but we must retain a respectable distance.” Her parasol came in quite useful as she held it in the hand nearest him, keeping space between them.
“Have fun,” that imp, Rose, called after them as Hardy escorted Hattie out the door.

Chapter Four
Guy kept snatching glances of the tall woman striding beside him, the purposefulness of her step suggesting she wanted to keep their outing as brief as possible. He would dissuade her from that idea and convince her he was someone worth knowing. A tall order. In the past, he’d had to do no more than give compliments and make witty remarks to engage a woman’s interest. But he could tell Harriet Glover would demand more of him.
He couldn’t quite make out exactly who she was; the strait-laced martinet who repudiated his advances or the vivacious woman whose laughter had bubbled up like champagne. When it fizzed over, the joyous sound slaked a thirst Guy didn’t know he possessed. He craved more of that intoxicating drink. But Mrs. Glover had made it clear she didn’t care for gossip and mocking, his usual forms of humor.
Why not try plain, honest conversation? Not Will’s voice this time, but one he’d nearly forgotten whispered in his mind. It sounded like Bettina, which was ridiculous since his sister had died when she was far too young to offer advice about wooing.
Guy cleared his throat. “You look lovely this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” She turned her head to look at the duck pond, giving him a view of her long neck and the point where it disappeared into her collar. He mentally traced the tendon down to where it met collarbone, and imagined kissing her at that tender juncture. Her bare shoulder would be smooth and warm beneath his hand.
He stopped the drift of his thought and snapped his gaze up to the crown of roses around her hat. “Did you design that hat yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how you ladies bear to wear those heavy things. The one I put on in the shop nearly snapped my neck. As for hat pins, they must scrape the scalp terribly.” Scalp? What the hell was he babbling on about?
But Mrs. Glover turned toward him with a small smile. “As a matter of fact, my customers do complain of headaches and stiff necks, the price of haute couture. I generally prefer smaller styles with less decoration, but I must follow the Parisian fashions. Until smaller hats come back around, I will make large picture hats.”
“I believe women would wear live dogs on their heads if it was all the rage,” Guy joked.
Ah, there was that delicious laughter again, bubbling up and flowing over. He drank it in.
“What about men’s styles? Do you find bowler hats attractive? That round crown.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Fedoras however, have very nice lines. The pinched front and brim shading the eyes are very becoming for any man’s face shape.”
Guy noted that he must purchase a new fedora soon.
“What about my boater? Does it pass muster or no?” Guy struck a pose, thumbs under his lapels, head tilted to better display the natty flat-crowned straw trimmed with a striped band.
“Quite light and perfect for spring and summer. I approve.”
Through the veiling covering her face, Hattie’s lips curved and a dimple popped in each cheek. How badly he wanted to stoop beneath her hat brim, lift the veil and kiss one of them.
Guy looked around the park for another topic of conversation, having tapped all he could think of to say about hats. Children played at the edge of the pond, chasing after ducks or racing around the perimeter, while nannies visiting each other on nearby benches called to them to keep out of the mud. A little girl in a striped pinafore crouched to watch an anthill and Guy’s mind was drawn again to Bettina. It was the first time in years he’d thought of his older sister who would always remain eleven.
“If it is not too personal a question, how long ago did you lose your husband, Mrs. Glover?” he enquired, perhaps because he was thinking of death.
It was the wrong question. Her expression closed so quickly he could almost hear the shutters slamming. “Some time ago.”
“Do you have family nearby?”
“None to