Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
layers of tissue paper, and wrapped, like a mummy, in muslin.
“You’re not carrying it yourself,” he said. “Where’s a footman?” He saw one loitering against the corridor wall. “There. You, Thomas.”
“No.” She waved Thomas back to his post in the corridor. “I promised to deliver it personally, and it will not leave my hands.”
He glanced down at the corpse. “May I see it?” he said.
“Certainly not. I haven’t time to unwrap it and wrap it up again. You’ll see it tonight, and be astonished, like everybody else. At Almack’s.”
Almack’s. A weight settled upon him. Another Wednesday night with the same people who gathered there every Wednesday night during the Season. The same conversations, enlivened by the latest scandal. That would be him, most likely, tonight. They’d be whispering about him behind their fans, behind their cards. Lady Warford would have plenty to say, and would imagine she expressed herself with the greatest subtlety while she dropped indignant hints as large and unmistakable as elephant dung.
He remembered what Longmore had said about his mother not allowing Clara to wear the dress. “I’d better come with you,” he said. “Longmore was here—”
“I know,” she said. “Sophy dealt with him. And I’ll deal with Lady Warford, if that becomes necessary. I doubt it will. When Lady Clara sees herself in this dress—but never mind, I haven’t time to boast, and you’d be bored, in any event.”
“No, I wouldn’t be bored,” he said. He’d been reading La Belle Assemblée. He had ideas. “I’ve been—”
“It’s half-past six,” she said. “I’ve still got to get to Warford House.”
“Take the curricle,” he said.
“I don’t know what I’m taking,” she said. “Halliday promised I’d have your fastest vehicle. They’re waiting for me.”
He wanted to go with her. He wanted to see the dress, and Clara’s face when she saw it. He wanted them all to see that it was business, and Noirot was not only talented but principled—to a point—when it came to her work, in any case—and honorable—to a point—when it came to her work, in any case…
But that, to his shame, wasn’t the only reason he wanted to go with her.
He was near enough to breathe her scent, to see the faint wash of color come and go in her cheeks…and the pearly glow of her skin where the light caught it…and the tendrils of dark hair straying artfully from her bonnet, curling near her ears. He wanted to bring his hand up to cup her face and turn it to his and bring his mouth to hers…
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And ignoble as well, when she was carrying Clara’s dress, and he loved Clara and had always loved her and couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.
He’d caused trouble enough. Lady Warford had probably been harassing Clara all day long, blaming her for Clevedon’s negligence and misbehavior. The jealous cats who pretended to be their friends would be sure to sharpen their claws on Clara, too.
He stepped back from the door. “I should be a great idiot to keep you, after you’ve achieved what I could have sworn was impossible.”
She stepped back, too. “Let’s hope they let me deliver it.”
A lady of genius will give a genteel air to her whole dress by a well-fancied suit of knots, as a judicious writer gives a spirit to a whole sentence by a single expression.
John Gay, English poet and dramatist (1685–1732)
Marcelline reached Warford House at five minutes before seven. Though she arrived in Clevedon’s carriage, his crest emblazoned on the door, she knew better than to go to the front door. She went round to the tradesmen’s entrance, where she was made to wait. It had occurred to her that she might be rebuffed, but she’d refused to entertain doubts. The dress was magnificent. Lady Clara had understood she was in the hands of a master, else she’d have sent Marcelline away the other day, the minute she started tossing out her ladyship’s wardrobe.
At last Lady Clara’s maid, Davis, appeared and gave her permission to enter. Her expression grim, Davis led Marcelline past the staring servants and up the backstairs.
Her dour look was soon explained. Marcelline found both Lady Clara and her mother in the younger woman’s dressing room. Clearly, they’d been quarreling, and it must have been a prodigious row, to make both ladies’ faces so red. But when Davis entered and said, “The dressmaker is here, my lady,” a silence fell, as heavy and immense as an elephant.
Lady Warford was nearly as tall as Clara, and obviously had been as beautiful once. She by no means looked like the battle-ax she was well known to be. Though a degree bulkier than her daughter, the marchioness was a handsome woman of middle age.
Battle she did, though, going promptly on the attack. “You!” said her ladyship. “How dare you show your face here!”
“Mama, please,” Lady Clara said, her gaze darting to the parcel Marcelline carried. “Good heavens, I couldn’t believe it when they said you were here with the dress. Your shop—I read that it burnt to the ground.”
“It did, your ladyship, but I promised the dress.”
“Dress or not, I cannot believe this creature has the effrontery to show her face—”
“You made my dress?” Lady Clara said. “You made it already?”
Marcelline nodded. She set down the parcel on a low table, untied the strings, unwrapped the muslin, and drew the dress out from the tissue paper she and her sisters had carefully tucked among its folds.
She heard three sharp intakes of breath.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Lady Clara. “Oh, my goodness.”
“This is outrageous,” Lady Warford said, though with less assurance than before. “Oh, Clara, how can you bear to take anything from this creature’s hands?”
“I’ve nothing else to wear,” Lady Clara said.
“Nothing else! Nothing else!”
But Lady Clara ignored her mother, and signaled her maid to help her out of her dressing gown. Lady Warford sank onto a chair and glowered over the proceedings as Marcelline and the maid dressed Lady Clara.
Then Lady Clara moved to study herself in the horse-dressing glass.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”
The maid stood, her fist to her mouth.
Lady Warford stared.
Marcelline’s creation comprised a white crape robe over a white satin under-dress. The neckline, cut very low, displayed Lady Clara’s smooth shoulders and bosom to great advantage, and the soft white enhanced the translucency of her complexion. Marcelline had kept the embellishments simple and spare, to better showcase the magnificent cut of the dress and the perfection of the drapery, particularly the graceful folds of the bodice. A few judiciously placed papillon bows adorned the very short, very full sleeves and trimmed the edges of the robe where it opened over the satin under-dress. The robe was delicately embroidered in gold, silver, and black sprigs. The style was not French, but it was just dashing enough to be not completely English.
Most important, though, the dress became the wearer. No, it was more than merely becoming. It made Lady Clara’s beauty almost unbearable.
Lady Clara could see that.
Her