Falling for the Highland Rogue. Ann Lethbridge
the window with a grimace. ‘I might have argued, but this weather does not help my cause. Hopefully you will see Edinburgh on a better day.’
‘It is certainly full of people.’
‘Aye. All the folk have come to see the King. It is not usually quite sae full as this. O’Banyon was lucky to find rooms so close to the heart of it all.’
The carriage slowed, then halted. He leaned forwards to peer out at the street. ‘We are here.’ He opened the door.
Rain splattered his hair and face and shoulders. He reached up, grabbed an umbrella from the footman perched on the box, opened it and let down the steps. He held the umbrella up, ready for her to alight. Held it so it covered her completely and left him in the rain. She did not hurry. Let him catch a cold from a damp coat, or soaking wet feet. Not that he seemed to care about the rain as it trickled down his face and disappeared into his collar.
She took his hand and stepped lightly on to the pavement. ‘Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘Come back for us in an hour,’ he called up to the coachman and she trod daintily across the flagstone and under the portico of the shop. Petty. Very petty. It was almost as if she had to remind herself to despise him. How could that be? She wasn’t one to play favourites. She despised them all equally.
He opened the door and she stepped into the dry of a well-appointed dressmaker’s shop.
The seamstress came forwards with a smile of greeting when she saw him. Her smile turned to a slight crease in her brow as she realised Charity was not someone she recognised.
‘Good day, Mr Gilvry,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you, was I? I don’t think I have any items for Lady Selina.’
Lady Selina, was it? Not just a common smuggler, then. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, if he could command an invite to a ball attended by the King. Oh, he really deserved to be punished for that piece of folly. Even if it did fall in with Jack’s plans.
‘What a lovely shop you have, Mrs...’ She arched a brow.
‘Donaldson,’ Gilvry supplied. ‘This is Mrs West. She needs gowns for the King’s Drawing Room and the Peers’ Ball.’ He flashed the woman a charming smile. ‘I told her that you are the best mantua-maker in Edinburgh.’
The seamstress preened at his flattery, then caught herself with a frown. ‘I am no’ sure I can do anything so grand at such short notice, Mr Gilvry. I don’t mean to be disobliging, you understand.’
Charity trilled a little laugh. ‘Oh, come now, ma’am, any dressmaker of note in London would not disoblige a customer of Mr Gilvry’s standing.’ She unbuttoned her spencer. ‘I swear I am damp to the bone after braving the rain. A cup of tea would not come amiss.’
Mr Gilvry helped her out of her coat. His eyes widened when he took in the gown beneath it. A sheer lemon-muslin creation that had a bodice more suited to the drawing room of a bordello than an afternoon of shopping. She smiled up at him. ‘Do you like it?’
One look at the dress had the seamstress as stiff as a board. ‘Mr Gilvry. I really do not appreciate you bringing your—’
For the first time since she had met him, his jaw hardened as if carved from granite and Charity felt a flash not of the pleasure she had expected from making him pay for his lustful thoughts, but of anxiety for the seamstress.
‘My what?’ he asked in what to Charity sounded like a very dangerous tone.
Apparently it had the same sound to Mrs Donaldson. ‘Your friend,’ the seamstress gasped. ‘This is a respectable establishment. Please, Mr Gilvry. I have my reputation to consider.’
‘And how many other ladies are you dressing for the King’s Drawing Room?’ he asked. This was the man who challenged revenue men and criminals like Jack. She should have guessed that the youthfully innocent demeanour was a front.
She should have known better than to throw down such a challenge. And yet his anger thrilled her in the oddest of ways. It touched a place in her chest that seemed to warm with a feeling of tenderness. Because he was acting as if she was a lady. It had been years since anyone even hinted she had a shred of honour worth defending.
She hardened her heart against such nonsense. Such weakness. He was a man. He wanted what he wanted and would do anything to get it.
Still, she felt sorry for the seamstress’s quandary. She put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Really, Mr Gilvry. We can go elsewhere. It does not matter.’
‘It will matter to Lady Selina,’ he said grimly.
Mrs Donaldson sank inwards on herself. ‘Well, if the young lady is a friend of Lady Selina’s,’ she said, weakly grasping at a very fragile straw, ‘I am sure I will do everything in my power to...please.’ Desperation shone in her gaze. ‘I have a private room in the back...’ she swallowed ‘...where you can view...fabrics. Fashion plates. Take tea. I will have whisky brought on a tray...’
The green eyes were chips of ice as he sent an enquiry Charity’s way.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, not wanting him to cause the woman embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’
The woman whirled around. ‘This way please, madam, Mr Gilvry.’
He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her to follow. The pressure of his hand seared through her gown and came to rest low in her belly. Heaven help her, what was she going to do about him?
Nothing. She could not afford to be weak. To care how low she brought him would be a mistake that would cost her dearly. Sentiment had ruined her life once. She could not let it happen again. Even so she would let him dress her respectably. She had no reason to want to shame him before his peers and his King.
She owed him that much for his defence of her today.
That much and no more.
Chapter Four
The pleasure of clothing a woman. Sanford’s words drifted through Logan’s mind as he sat tucked away in a back room of Mrs Donaldson’s establishment. He gazed openly at the beautiful woman standing without shame in naught but shift and stays on a pedestal. Surrounded by mirrors on three sides, there wasn’t an inch of her he could not see. Sanford had been right with his use of the word pleasure. It was the sort of pleasure reserved for a husband. Or a man with a mistress. Which was likely what the seamstress thought and the reason for her hiding them away at the back of her shop.
In times not so distant, according to his mother, it hadn’t been at all unusual for a married woman to entertain her particular male court in her boudoir. Allowing them to choose her garments for the day while they gossiped and flirted. All perfectly respectable in the presence of a maid.
This didn’t feel in the least bit respectable, despite the presence of the seamstress’s assistant busy taking her measurements with pieces of string.
Stretching out his legs to one side of the low table in front of him, he admired her lovely form. The curve of her bountiful milky-white breasts above the lace edge of her transparent chemise, pushed higher by her close-fitting stays, beckoned his touch. The deep valley between begged for exploration. The crescent of areola, darker smudges of rosy brown, located her nipples and hinted at decadent delights. The dip of her waist was so tiny as to be unbelievable. He could span it with his hands and the view of the triangular shadow at the apex of her long slender legs, not dark, but not blonde, left him dry-mouthed.
She was Venus come to life. And for the second time in as many days, he struggled to maintain his detachment. She was not easily ignored, despite years of practise.
He glanced up to find her gaze fixed on his face. Pride tinged with wariness.
Her expression challenged, even as her lips curved in her carnal pouting smile. Her eyelids drooped, acknowledging his thoughts, his lust, and threw down the gauntlet. I’m ready for you, those eyes said. Do