“Sorry, Mother, I was thinking about that dress.” Glancing back to where she had glimpsed the aloof figure moments before, she felt disappointment tear through her.
He was gone. Dark blond hair, or was it light brown? Those eyes, what color were they?
she wondered as she turned back to the window of the shop. Brown. They had to be brown. A raptor brown. Mixed with green. Intent and brooding. Eyes that could fire a woman’s arousal and her imagination. Not to mention her confusion why she would know that.
“We could go in and try it on,” her mother urged her, the soft lilt of her English accent drawing gazes from the couple that passed by them. “I’m certain it would look positively gorgeous on you.”
Would it?
She looked beyond the dresses to the other attire the store offered. Jeans, close-fitting, and shirts that would have her mother gasping in shock, she was certain. Not because they were revealing, but because they were common. Her mother strictly detested whatever she believed was common.
“Victoria, we could look at the dresses.”
Victoria.
She frowned at the image that greeted her in the glass.
She didn’t see Victoria there. She saw an unfamiliar image, a woman she was comfortable with, yet those weren’t the features—the face, the eyes, or the hair—of the woman she’d been before. Lady Victoria Lillian Harrington of the London Harringtons. She was related to royalty, though admittedly, the kinship was a distant one at best. Still, she couldn’t quite acclimate herself to who she knew she was, the person she knew she was supposed to be.
“Victoria.” Her mother’s voice echoed with exasperation now.
“I don’t think I need another dress, Mother,” she stated absently as she moved for the door of the shop. “I see something else I might like, though.”
Where the hell was her British accent? She remembered having one. She remembered once being proud of that accent. It didn’t exist now, though. Her voice was smooth and cultured, but it lacked any accent, any inflection, that could have identified her as a member of any particular country or indicated her social status.
“Victoria, you’re acting rather odd.” There was a note of fear in her mother’s voice as she entered the shop and moved beyond the dresses.
Was she acting odd? She was sure as hell feeling damned odd, she thought, before a brief moment of shock hit her. More and more often she found herself cursing. There were moments it was all she could do to hold back the earthy vulgarity when she was talking.
“I’m fine, Mother,” she assured her again as they moved through the small store.
She was going to obey the dictates of what she wanted rather than what her mother would consider acceptable. It was a dangerous urge to follow. At least, six years ago it would have been.
And there they were. Snug, low-slung jeans. There were low boots made of soft, supple leather on a stand beside them. Boots that looked sexy and stylish while being practical and easy to run in. Which made her wonder. What would she be running from?
“Victoria, we’ve discussed this denim fetish you seem to have acquired,” her mother stated worriedly as she moved closer and fingered the denim jeans. Tension seemed to thicken the atmosphere. “Really, Victoria. The dresses are much nicer.”
Lilly had to clench her teeth in irritation.
Lilly, she thought. Her name shouldn’t be Victoria, she had always disliked being called Victoria. She was Lilly. But she couldn’t recall a single time that her parents had called her Lilly.
She was Lilly. Lilly . . . something. She tilted her head and stared at the material as she rubbed the pocket between her thumb and forefinger. Lilly. Not Lady Victoria Lillian Harrington. Not even Lilly Harrington. But who?
“Can I help you?” the saleslady asked just behind her.
“The jeans,” she told the red-head as she moved to where they hung. “I’d like to try these, please, as well as the boots.” She moved to the boots and chose the correct size before stepping to a particular rack of blouses.
“Oh my God, you wouldn’t dare! Victoria, Desmond would have a stroke if he caught you dressed in such clothing.” Her mother was outraged, as she stared at the flat-heeled, sinfully black leather over-the-knee boots and snug jeans.
No, it wasn’t Desmond who had a problem with the clothes. It was her mother. Angelica Harrington demanded a certain image be presented at all times. Jeans did not fit that image, nor were they allowed in her mother’s presence.
Ignoring her, Lilly walked over to the nearby shirt, reached out and ran her fingers over the soft, expensive olive-green Egyptian cotton.
“Desmond will not appreciate this,” her mother warned, her voice tight.
Desmond was her stepfather now. In the six years she couldn’t remember, she had managed to lose her father, and her mother had married his younger half-brother.
“This blouse, please.” The dull olive-green cotton would fit tightly, conform to her body and shape her br**sts enticingly. She wasn’t certain why she was suddenly drawn to the color, though.
She turned to the polite saleslady trailing them. The other woman smiled gently. Long red-gold hair fell to her shoulders and an understanding smile crossed her face.
In the meantime Angelica fussed in the background about the jeans and the drab color of the blouse.
“Victoria, really. The dresses are much nicer.” Angelica continued to object as her daughter moved toward the dressing room.
She glanced back at the door. There was a spot just between her shoulder blades that refused to stop itching. She could feel the eyes on her. His eyes. Somehow, he was still watching her, still waiting for her. Would he be as surprised by the jeans as her mother seemed to be?
As Lilly entered the dressing room she breathed a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the wall, closing her eyes and taking a hard, deep breath.
She opened her eyes and stared back at the woman in the mirror.
She wasn’t Victoria any longer.
Who the hell was she, really? And why wasn’t she comfortable with the knowledge of her own identity, her own looks?
The soft cotton material of the short gray dress skimmed over her br**sts and hips, ending at a barely decent length just below her thighs. The soft gray material didn’t seem appropriate somehow. Just as the green eyes staring back at her didn’t seem right.
She had once had hazel eyes. She had always had hazel eyes.