Silk Is For Seduction. Loretta Chase
aesthetic sensibilities.”
“In that case, I shall hasten to my hotel and have my valet replace it.”
“You’re strangely eager to please,” she said.
“There’s nothing strange about it.”
“Be calm, your grace,” she said. “I have an exquisite solution.”
She took a pin from her bodice and set his in its place. She set her pin into the neckcloth. Hers was nothing so magnificent as his, merely a smallish pearl. But it was a pretty one, of a fine luster. Softly it glowed in its snug place among the folds of his linen.
She was aware of his gaze, so intent, and of the utter stillness with which he waited.
She lightly smoothed the surrounding fabric, then stepped back and eyed her work critically. “That will do very well,” she said.
“Will it?” He was looking at her, not the pearl.
“Let the window be your looking glass,” she said.
He was still watching her.
“The glass, your grace. You might at least admire my handiwork.”
“I do,” he said. “Very much.”
But he turned away, wearing the faintest smile, and studied himself in the glass.
“I see,” he said. “Your eye is as good as my valet’s—and that’s a compliment I don’t give lightly.”
“My eye ought to be good,” she said. “I’m the greatest modiste in all the world.”
His heart beat erratically.
With excitement, what else? And why not?
Truly, she was like no one he’d ever met before.
Paris was another world from London, and French women were another species from English. Even so, he’d grown accustomed to the sophistication of Parisian women, sufficiently accustomed to predict the turn of a wrist, the movement of a fan, the angle of the head in almost any situation. Rules, as he’d told her. The French lived by rules.
This woman made her own rules.
“And so modest a modiste she is,” he said.
She laughed, but hers was not the silvery laughter he was accustomed to. It was low and intimate, not meant for others to hear. She was not trying to make heads turn her way, as other women did. Only his head was required.
And he did turn away from the window to look at her.
“Perhaps, unlike everyone else in the opera house, you failed to notice,” she said. She swept her closed fan over her dress.
He let his gaze travel from the slightly disheveled coiffure down. Before, he’d taken only the most superficial notice of what she wore. His awareness was mainly of her physicality: the lushly curved body, the clarity of her skin, the brilliance of her eyes, the soft disorder of her hair.
Now he took in the way that enticing body was adorned: the black lace cloak or tunic or whatever it was meant to be, over rich pink silk—the dashing arrangement of color and trim and jewelry, the—the—
“Style,” she said.
Within him was a pause, a doubt, a moment’s uneasiness. His mind, it seemed, was a book to her, and she’d already gone beyond the table of contents and the introduction, straight to the first chapter.
But what did it matter? She, clearly no innocent, knew what he wanted.
“No, madame. I didn’t notice,” he said. “All I saw was you.”
“That is exactly the right thing to say to a woman,” she said. “And exactly the wrong thing to say to a dressmaker.”
“I beg you to be a woman for the present,” he said. “As a dressmaker, you waste your talents on me.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Had I been badly dressed, you would not have entered Mademoiselle Fontenay’s box. Even had you been so rash as to disregard the dictates of taste, the Comte d’Orefeur would have saved you from a suicidal error, and declined to make the introduction.”
“Suicidal? I detect a tendency to exaggerate.”
“Regarding taste? May I remind you, we’re in Paris.”
“At the moment, I don’t care where I am,” he said.
Again, the low laughter. He felt the sound, as though her breath touched the back of his neck.
“I’d better watch out,” she said. “You’re determined to sweep me off my feet.”
“You started it,” he said. “You swept me off mine.”
“If you’re trying to turn me up sweet, to get back your diamond, it won’t work,” she said.
“If you think I’ll give back your pearl, I recommend you think again,” he said.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “You may be too romantic to care that your diamond is worth fifty such pearls, but I’m not. You may keep the pearl, with my blessing. But I must return to Mademoiselle Fontenay—and here is your friend monsieur le comte, who has come to prevent your committing the faux pas of returning with me. I know you are enchanted, devastated, your grace, and yes, I am desolée to lose your company—it is so refreshing to meet a man with a brain—but it won’t do. I cannot be seen to favor a gentleman. It’s bad for business. I shall simply hope to see you at another time. Perhaps tomorrow at Longchamp where, naturally, I shall display my wares.”
Orefeur joined them as the signal came for the end of the interval. A young woman waved to her, and Madame Noirot took her leave, with a quick, graceful curtsey and—for Clevedon’s eyes only—a teasing look over her fan.
As soon as she was out of hearing range, Orefeur said, “Have a care. That one is dangerous.”
“Yes,” said Clevedon, watching her make her way through the throng. The crowd gave way to her, as though she were royalty, when she was nothing remotely approaching it. She was a shopkeeper, nothing more. She’d said so, unselfconsciously and unashamedly, yet he couldn’t quite believe it. He watched the way she moved, and the way her French friend moved, so unlike that they did not even seem to belong to the same species.
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
Meanwhile, in London, Lady Clara Fairfax was longing to throw a china vase at her brother’s thick head. But the noise would attract attention, and the last thing she wanted was her mother bursting into the library.
She’d dragged him into the library because it was a room Mama rarely entered.
“Harry, how could you?” she cried. “They’re all talking about it. I’m mortified.”
The Earl of Longmore folded himself gingerly onto the sofa and shut his eyes. “There’s no need to shriek. My head—”
“I can guess how you came by the headache,” she said. “And I have no sympathy, none at all.”
Shadows ringed Harry’s eyes and pallor dulled his skin. Creases and wrinkles indicated he hadn’t changed his clothes since last night, and the wild state of his black hair made it clear that no comb had touched it during the same interval. He’d spent the night in the bed of one of his amours, no doubt, and hadn’t bothered to change when his sister sent for him.
“Your note said the matter was urgent,” he said. “I came because I thought you needed help. I did not come to hear you ring a peal over me.”
“Racing to Paris to give Clevedon an ultimatum,” she said. “‘Marry my sister or else.’ Was that your idea of helping, too?”
He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Who told you that?”
“All