Callum opened the door to the modiste, and Garrick trailed the ladies in. He felt like an invader. The land was as foreign as when he’d entered Portugal under the cover of darkness for the first time, unsure of the topography and ignorant of the language.
Ribbons and laces and fabrics in a rainbow of colors and patterns covered the walls and tables. His gaze darted, as if threats lurked behind every scrap of satin. It finally landed on Victoria, who was looking up at him with barely suppressed laughter. At his expense, of course.
“Would you rather wait outside with Callum?” The sparkle in her eyes lit embers in his chest, warming him better than any hearth.
“Yes, I would, but I promised your father not to let you out of my sight.” It wasn’t exactly what he had promised, but it was a good excuse to torture himself and wallow in her presence for as long as possible.
He sidestepped to a rare open spot along the wall and did his best to disappear between a blue twill and a white satin.
“That will be difficult. Unless you plan on watching my fitting? I will be obliged to strip down to my shift.” Victoria cocked her head and looked up at him through her dark lashes. “It would be quite scandalous.”
His imagination took flight. What he wouldn’t give to see Victoria stripped from her gown. Her limbs would be pale but lithe. Her breasts full and supple, her nipples— He clipped the wings of his thoughts before something embarrassing took place in his breeches.
Was she toying with him on purpose? Did she understand the magnitude of her power over him? He narrowed his eyes. Her color was high, and she fidgeted with the ties of her reticule. She didn’t appear gleeful in her teasing. In fact, if he had to put a word to her mood, he would pick nervous.
Lady Hawkins sent a pointed look in their direction. Victoria left his side to discuss whatever ladies discussed with their modistes. They disappeared behind a curtain. Garrick checked in with Callum, who had noted nothing unusual, and then returned to the shop to wait. The young girl behind the counter kept tossing him glances. He was probably making the poor chit nervous. He ignored her.
What was taking so bloody long? He sidled closer to the curtain, taking care not to touch the delicate fabrics or laces along the way. Murmuring voices and Victoria’s husky laugh reassured him. No one had spirited her away.
Someone on the other side of the partition ruffled the velvet curtain on their way past. The movement shifted the fabric enough to reveal a narrow slit. Instinct took over, and Garrick focused on the scene beyond as if he were observing a clandestine meeting between his enemies.
His breath caught the same time his blood rushed faster, leaving him light-headed.
Victoria stood on a raised dais facing a tall looking glass. She wore a gown of evergreen. The sleeves were long and tightly fitted, but the bodice scooped enticingly low, revealing the top curves of her breasts. Vines and red berries were embroidered along the hem, cuffs, and the edge of the bodice. She had cast her bonnet aside, and her curly hair wisped around her face and down her nape in an artlessly sensual fashion.
“Are you sure the gown is not too revealing, Madame Beauvoir?” Lady Hawkins asked. “We don’t want the gentlemen at the house party to assume Victoria is desperate for an offer.”
“Even if she is, eh, my lady?” Madame Beauvoir’s French accent was fake, although well done.
If Garrick had to guess, the dressmaker was from the north of England. But who was he to begrudge a woman a new identity in order to make a living? Based on the concoction she’d fashioned for Victoria, the modiste was talented.
“The gown is tasteful and will draw the sort of attention you seek,” Madame Beauvoir said.
“I love it, Mother.” Victoria twirled and looked over her shoulder at herself in the looking glass.
“The color is quite becoming on you, dear. Wrap it up and have it delivered once the hem is adjusted, if you would, Madame Beauvoir.”
“It will be finished by this afternoon. Miss Hawkins can wear it to your evening’s entertainments, if she so desires. Would you like to order matching gloves and stockings?” The modiste and Lady Hawkins shifted to the side to discuss particulars while a young girl began undressing Victoria.
Garrick swallowed. He should look away. Their banter earlier had been in jest. Victoria’s life was not in any danger. His sanity, on the other hand, was being held at gunpoint. Victoria remained facing him as the girl worked the length of buttons in the back. The bodice began to gape and reveal more delectable skin and the gathered edge of a white shift.
Victoria ran her hands along the skirts, then looked up with a smile when the girl gently tugged one of the sleeves down. Her gaze swept over the slit in the curtain, and he pressed himself back against the wall out of sight.
If he’d been in the field, the possibility of exposure would have signaled his immediate retreat. A wise agent knew when to give up a position, no matter how tempting the information gleaned could be.
All wisdom deserted him. He peeked through the slit once more, expecting her to have turned and shielded herself from the inappropriateness of his spying, but she hadn’t. His position hadn’t been compromised.
The girl had tugged both sleeves off and was helping Victoria step out of the heavy skirts. Her posture offered a tantalizing view of the shadowy valley between her breasts. She straightened on the dais, her shoulders back, her gaze finding its way unerringly to his, unflinching and brazen.
He had been outflanked. Not only was she aware of his attentions, but she welcomed them. Her breathing paced his, shallow and rapid, the movement drawing his attention downward along the tempting curves of her body. Her stays pressed her full breasts high. The rise and fall of her chest against the thin fabric of her shift was decadent. Her nipples were barely covered, and he ruminated on their shape and color.
Her waist dipped above the curve of her hips, and the looking glass reflected her pert bottom. The shadow of her mons was visible through her shift. He allowed his gaze to wander all the way to her stocking-covered feet and then back up. In his mind’s eye, he lifted her shift higher and higher, exposing her calves, her knees, her thighs until…
“Anywhere else you would like to visit, my dear? We won’t be back until after the new year.” Lady Hawkins turned to Victoria while the modiste took the dress and disappeared into what Garrick assumed was her workroom.
Victoria blinked once, then shifted to face her mother while the shop girl helped her back into her yellow dress. “I should like to visit the milliner next door.”
Lady Hawkins hummed thoughtfully before saying, “This will be our fourth visit to the milliner in as many weeks. You have shown an unusually keen interest in bonnets lately, yet you never seem to have one on in the garden. Why is that?”
Garrick didn’t hear Victoria’s reply. He backpedaled toward the door, flummoxed by his lack of control and positively dumbfounded at Victoria’s boldness. He tried to summon shame or regret or some emotion that would blunt the arousal humming through him but failed.
Victoria was an innocent. The kiss they’d shared had been her first. How could he forget the tentative movement of her lips on his, and her gasp when his tongue coaxed hers out to play? She hadn’t known where to put her hands or what to do with the passion roiling through her like a storm.
Of course, that had been two years ago. Much could have happened since. Victoria wasn’t one to deny her curiosity. The thought was demoralizing and painful. Feeling suffocated by gewgaws and fripperies, he pushed his way outside and took a deep, bracing breath. The cold air made his lungs prickle and tamped down the unwarranted shot of jealousy. Lady Hawkins exited the modiste, followed by Victoria. Her head was down, her bonnet shielding her expression.
“Everything in order, Garrick?” Lady Hawkins asked.
In order? His entire universe was in utter and complete chaos.
“Yes, ma’am.” He inclined his head and didn’t meet her eyes in case she possessed a sliver of her husband’s uncanny
ability to see through him to the image burned in his mind of her daughter wearing nothing but her unmentionables.
“We are paying a visit to the milliner next door.” Lady Hawkins looped her arm through Victoria’s, and this time he remained outside while the ladies did their shopping.
His only option was to scrub the picture of Victoria from his head. He could never touch her again. He banged his head back against the stucco wall, but she remained forefront in his mind. Even more worrisome, she was still firmly rooted in his heart.
Chapter 3
Victoria wanted to crawl under her covers with her boon companions—embarrassment and shame—for the rest of the day, but she couldn’t. Eleanor was counting on her. Lord Berkwith had left a note with Mrs. Leighton, the milliner, and Victoria needed to pass it to Eleanor. It was Lord Berkwith who had suggested the friendly milliner as a go-between for Victoria, the other go-between.
The chain of communication was overly complicated because Lady Stanfield, Eleanor’s mother, was a blue-blooded hunting dog on the scent of rakes and fortune hunters. She took her role of mother and chaperone with a zealousness reserved for nuns.
Eleanor was not even allowed to waltz—the position deemed too scandalous—much less take a carriage ride in the park or a turn in the garden with a gentleman. It was no wonder Eleanor, a spritely, curious young lady, was chaffing under the rigid control.
The romantic ruse had worn thin for Victoria, and she wanted nothing more than to cede the role of intermediary to someone else. Or, even better, she wished Lord Berkwith would court Eleanor as a gentleman should and win over her parents. If his intentions were honorable, which Victoria was beginning to doubt.
Thomas kept his distance on their brief walk to the milliner’s shop. He had seen her nearly naked. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again?
She could have shielded herself or turned away or even screamed when she noticed him at the narrow curtain opening. Instead, she had invited his gaze, and if she were being truthful, she had gloried in it.
Her skin had gone hot and cold and tingly, as if she could feel his fingertips grazing across her body. Even now, her breasts were overly sensitive against her stays, and her belly ached with a longing she didn’t fully understand. But she understood it was scandalous.
The books she’d purchased as the dour widow McClain had offered knowledge in black and white, but hadn’t prepared her for the kaleidoscope of feelings Thomas’s attention had unleashed.
He hadn’t looked away and had seemed as boggled in the aftermath as she had felt. Her heart skipped faster in anticipation. But of what? They would never be given the opportunity to act upon their attraction.
She entered the milliner’s shop and glanced askance at the woman behind the counter. The two of them had performed this dance before. Mrs. Leighton was a beautiful widow in her thirties who held herself with an elegance that rivaled any duchess. Victoria always came away feeling gauche in comparison.
A confection made of netting and feathers perched atop Mrs. Leighton’s smooth blond chignon. The hat was a fine advertisement of her talents and would be at home in any ton ballroom.
While Lady Hawkins moved deeper into the shop, Victoria tarried over a straw bonnet decorated with delicate artificial poppy flowers. What should have been plain had been made special by Mrs. Leighton’s artistry. The milliner swept from behind the counter and joined her in examination of the bonnet.
“It would suit you very well, miss. The color would highlight your dark hair.” Mrs. Leighton touched one of the red flowers. Her lace gloves couldn’t disguise the calluses earned from the delicate millinery work.
“It is a veritable work of art.” In a softer voice, she asked, “Did he leave a message?”
Mrs. Leighton passed a tightly folded missive into Victoria’s hand. She stuffed it into her reticule without looking at what Lord Berkwith had written on the outside. Before she could turn and join her mother, Mrs. Leighton caught her wrist in a tight grip.
“You know Randall doesn’t truly love your friend, don’t you?” Mrs. Leighton spoke through clenched teeth, her lips still curled into a smile. The force and tone of the words took Victoria back. As did the use of Lord Berkwith’s Christian name.
“Actually, I don’t know that.” But she suspected the milliner was correct. The knot in her stomach tightened.
“She should beware.” Mrs. Leighton let Victoria go and nodded as if the vagaries of men were known to Victoria.
It was clear Mrs. Leighton believed Eleanor was on the path to heartbreak. Victoria would have to decide whether to confess her own misgivings to her friend. A headache brewed. She joined her mother where she was trying on a black-and-white turban.
“I know turbans are all the rage, but I’m not sure if they suit me.” Her mother pursed her lips and examined her reflection.
“I’m feeling rather peaked, Mother. I don’t feel up to joining the Carlyles for dinner. Especially as we will be leaving for Bedfordshire day after tomorrow.” Victoria fake coughed into her handkerchief.
Her mother removed the turban. “I hope you haven’t caught a cold. A red, runny nose would make for a poor impression at the house party.”
“A honeyed tea and a quiet evening will set me to rights.”
“Then let’s get you home and bundled into bed with a water bottle.”
Garrick didn’t ride in the carriage with them on their trip home. He crammed himself on top with Callum and John Coachman. Victoria battled relief and disappointment. Callum helped them descend when they returned to the town house, and Victoria was in her room waiting for a tray of honeyed tea within minutes. She paced until her maid, Annie, delivered the tea and a hot before pulling Lord Berkwith’s note out of her reticule.
She tapped it on the desk, staring at the Berkwith’s red wax seal of crossed swords. Typically she would disguise Beckwith’s notes in one of her own and send them to Eleanor with a footman, but this time she would take it herself. Lord Stanfield, a baron with a smallholding in Yorkshire, had taken a town house a short walk away, which was how she’d made Eleanor’s acquaintance.
After finishing her tea, Victoria rang for her maid to inform her they would be calling on Eleanor, which wasn’t unusual. Unlike her next request. “I’ll wait for you in the mews. We’ll leave from there.”
“The mews, miss? Are you planning a visit to the reading room or the bookshop as well? Should we change your gown?” Annie blinked, her spectacles lending her a myopic, slightly confused expression at all times. This made for an excellent ruse. In reality, the girl was as sharp as a hatpin and Victoria’s partner in crime when it came to unsanctioned forays. Annie’s brother worked for Sir Hawkins in a more dangerous capacity, but courage and willingness to take risks ran in the family.
“No need to change. We are only paying a call on Lady Eleanor.” Her skulking was because she wanted to avoid her mother and, even more so, dreaded bumping into Thomas. The buzzing embarrassment and arousal from their secret encounter at the modiste hadn’t faded. In fact, the longer she dwelled on the heat in his gaze as she stripped to her unmentionables, the closer she came to spontaneous combustion.
“Yes, miss.” Suspicions hid poorly behind the deferent acquiescence, and Victoria found herself blabbering on.
“I wish to check on Artemis. It’s been too cold to ride recently.” As excuses went, wanting to visit her horse was thin. One of the girl’s eyebrows arched, and Victoria thought, not for the first time, that Annie was underutilized as a lady’s maid, but she only nodded.
“Very good, miss. Let me clear the tray, and I’ll be there straightaway.” Annie gathered the tea tray and retreated to the kitchen.
Victoria slipped out the back with no one the wiser and did visit Artemis while she waited for Annie. It was better to keep her lies to a minimum. After Annie joined her, they set off at a brisk walk made brisker by the lowering temperature and reached the Stanfields’ town house in less than five minutes. Annie went
to the downstairs entrance to pass the time in the kitchens gossiping with the staff while the butler led Victoria to Eleanor, who was thankfully alone in the drawing room.
Eleanor took both of Victoria’s hands in her own and pulled her to the settee. Eleanor wasn’t a great beauty at first glance, but the longer one was in her company, the prettier she grew. Her hair was somewhere between blond and brown and stick straight. Her eyes were hazel and her lips thin, but her teeth were white and straight, and her laugh was simply infectious.
“You timed your visit with perfection. Mother just stepped out to see to the packing. I’m so excited about the house party, aren’t you?” Eleanor asked.
Considering she would be expected to make a life-altering decision while playing snapdragon, Victoria’s enthusiasm had entered a downward spiral. “Indeed, but that’s not why I called.”
With more than a little trepidation, Victoria pulled the missive from her reticle. Eleanor snatched it from her hand, tore it open, and rose to stand by the window to read. She gasped and covered her mouth before looking at Victoria. Her shock was palpable.
“He… He wants me to elope with him,” Eleanor whispered. “Tonight.”
“What?” Victoria joined her friend and took the letter, scanning the contents. Beneath the flowery words of love and devotion lurked sinister undertones. Or so Victoria thought anyway. Mrs. Leighton’s warning had only reinforced Victoria’s instincts regarding Lord Berkwith.
“He implores you to meet him at the Bear and the Crown. That sounds like a common house or an inn. Ridiculous.” If Lord Berkwith were standing in front of her, she would be tempted to employ a maneuver taught to her by none other than Thomas himself involving a well-placed knee.
“I shouldn’t go. I can’t go. Can I?” Eleanor’s expressive eyes pleaded with Victoria, but she wasn’t sure what answer her friend sought.
A Scandalous Secret: Spies and Lovers Page 3
