“Why would you say that?” she asked. Her hand fell away from the dressing gown, giving him a view of her curves and the dip of her waist.
“Be frank, Miss Andrews. You never liked me when I arrived, and you certainly don’t like me now. The kiss was something you now regret. My solution is to pretend as if it never happened. We’ll continue as we were.”
He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer, but instead lay down upon the bed he’d used during his convalescence. Though he waited long moments for her to leave, he sensed she had not departed at all. Instead, he heard soft footsteps approaching, until she came to sit beside him.
Her quiet, steady presence made him turn toward her.
“It hurt, what you said to me.” She folded her hands, her voice revealing an unsteadiness. “I know I’ve made choices that a proper lady would never make. Even now, I should not be here, sitting near your bed.”
“Then go.”
She leaned close to him, her gray eyes studying him as if she could see past his rough words. “If you wish to be my friend, then do. But don’t treat me like a woman who wants to give her affections for money.”
“I’ve apologized for what I said. But tell me this,” he said, sitting up until he faced her. “If you only wanted to remain friends, why did you let me kiss you?”
She didn’t answer at first, but then she confessed, “Because you’re probably the only man who ever will. I wanted to know what it would be like.”
She believed that; he could see it in her face. And he couldn’t understand why she would say such a thing. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Andrews. I highly doubt that I will be the only man to kiss you.”
He lay back down, and while reclining, it felt more intimate to be across from her. It recalled the morning when he’d awakened with her face nestled against his chest.
A strange smile twisted at her mouth. “I highly doubt that another man will come along who will want to.” She straightened in the chair. “Now that it’s all settled, I’ll bid you goodnight.” Her form was silhouetted against the faint light in the hall as she started to leave.
“It was a good kiss,” he added, when she stood. “Should you wish to practice again, I am willing.”
In the faint light of the room, he saw the startled surprise upon her face. She didn’t answer, but her silence made him wonder if she was thinking about it.
A pounding resounded upon the front door the next morning. From the intensity of the sound, Jonathan suspected it wasn’t a welcome visitor. He used his crutches to make his way forward and opened the door before Mrs. Larson could get there.
Jonathan stared at the Scot standing before him. Tall, with long dark hair, the man wore a tartan of brown, red, and green. His coat was black, and from the murderous glare in the man’s eyes, he hadn’t been expecting to see a man dwelling at the Andrews residence.
“And just who the hell are you?” the Scot demanded.
“I might ask the same,” Jonathan countered. The man gave no answer, but pushed his way through the door, dropping a covered bundle on the floor.
“Miss Andrews!” he bellowed. “Should I be killing this man for you?”
Before he got an answer, Mrs. Larson bustled into the room, closing the door. “Now then, Mr. Sinclair, you’re letting the snow in. If you’ve brought us tea from London, I’ll brew you a cup.”
“I never drink tea. And who would that Sassenach be?” he demanded.
Jonathan barely had time to use his crutch as a shield against the dirk Sinclair had unsheathed. Though he couldn’t fault the man for drawing incorrect conclusions, he wasn’t about to let himself be skewered. He blocked the dirk, using all of his strength to hold the man away from his throat.
“Miss Andrews saved my life,” he said. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”
The man’s eyes gleamed. “I could end it for you and save her any more trouble.”
Jonathan shoved the crutch toward the man’s throat, pinning him against the wall. Though it took every last bit of his strength, he had no intention of being a victim. Or allowing this man to threaten Miss Andrews in any way.
From his strong reaction, Jonathan suspected he had a prior interest in Victoria. A primal rise of jealousy roared through him, an irrational response that he couldn’t control. It made little sense, but the idea of another man touching her only heightened his anger.
“Gentlemen,” came Victoria’s quiet voice from the top of the stairs. Both of them stopped at her presence. “Mr. Sinclair, please leave the fabrics at the bottom of the stairs, if you please. I presume my sister paid you your share of the proceeds.”
It was then that Jonathan remembered Victoria talking about a Mr. Sinclair, who went to London for them. Sinclair might have been a merchant or a messenger, but at the moment, he appeared more like a pirate. Jonathan released him, and a self-satisfied expression came over the man’s face.
“She did pay me, aye.” Sinclair brushed at his doublet, his gaze narrowing upon Jonathan. “It’s getting harder tae find these materials, and I had tae buy some secondhand gowns. The price is dear.”
Jonathan eyed the man, wondering where precisely he had “found” fabric during a war. And the veiled hint that he would be charging more for his services was sounding more and more like a way of swindling the Andrews family.
But Victoria didn’t seem dismayed at all. “I’ll make do with whatever you can bring to me. Did the dress sell?”
Sinclair cocked his head and eyed her for a moment before answering. “It was the… red garment that sold the best,” he said. “Twenty pounds for it.”
“Twenty?” Victoria whispered, sinking down to sit on the top step. “But… that’s so much. For…” Her voice trailed off, flooding with color.
“Madame Benedict wants more of them in different colors,” Sinclair added. “I took her orders and brought the fabric and materials.”
Victoria touched her hand to her mouth, an awkward laugh escaping. “I hope you gave the money to my mother and sisters. Minus your own fee and the cost of materials, of course.”
“I did, aye.”
Her eyes brightened. “They’ll have a merry Christmas after all.” She imagined the look on Margaret’s face when Mr. Sinclair gave over the money. They could buy gifts for one another, with more left over. A slight wistfulness came over her, as she wished she could be there with them.
“Did you have any other gowns you’re wanting me to sell?” Mr. Sinclair prompted.
Victoria nodded, a blush coming over her cheeks. “I-I’ve made another garment… like the red one.”
“What color?”
Her face twisted in an apologetic expression. “Unfortunately, black. I had nothing but an old silk mourning gown. I cut it up and tried to make it pretty with some lace.”
“Black lace.” Sinclair started cursing in Gaelic, shaking his head.
“You don’t think it will do? I thought perhaps, for the women in mourning—”
“It will sell. And you should double the price.”
“But black is not a good color,” she protested. “I’m not certain…” Her face flushed, and from her embarrassed expression, Jonathan suspected they were no longer discussing gowns.
“Exactly what sort of garments are you making?” he inquired.
Sinclair gave no answer, but Victoria stood up from the stairs. “Just… items for ladies.”
Her reluctance to give him more information sounded quite suspicious. When she drew closer, Sinclair withdrew a letter from his coat. “Your sister Amelia wrote to you.”
Victoria started to take it, but the man stopped a moment. “Miss Andrews, has this man bothered you in any way?”
She shook her head, turning back to Jonathan. In her gray eyes, he saw embarrassment as she answered softly, “No. Mr. Nottoway has done nothing.”
“Nottoway?” Sinclair repeated, a warning note in his voice.
Jonathan shook his head, and thankfully Victoria didn’t
see it. From the silent exchange with Sinclair, he’d likely have to line the man’s pockets to keep his silence.
“Why don’t you look through the fabrics and read your sister’s letter in the parlor?” Sinclair suggested. “Mr. Nottoway and I can become better acquainted. Since you’ve become friends.”
Victoria sobered at the implication. “Mr. Sinclair, please. You mustn’t tell my family about this. Mr. Nottoway was wounded and I helped him. It was nothing more than that, and Mrs. Larson was here the entire time.” She took the letter from him and walked toward the bundle.
Sinclair intercepted the fabric and carried it for her into the parlor. “As you say, Miss Andrews.” Though his voice offered reassurance, the glare he sent was unmistakable. So be it.
Jonathan left the pair of them alone and returned to the dining room on the opposite end of the house with no doubt at all that Sinclair would find him. And as he’d predicted, within a few minutes more, the man appeared in the doorway.
His expression revealed a Scot who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. And one who posed a very real threat.
“I’ve heard of you,” Sinclair began without preamble. “All of London knows about how your parents died.”
“Miss Andrews has no need to learn of it.”
“Doesn’t she?” The man crossed his arms, staring at him. “What do you suppose she’d say if she knew Jonathan Nottoway, the Duke of Worthingstone, was standing in her house? You didna tell her, did you?”
“You’re not going to tell her, either.” He kept his voice low, in case the others were listening. “What’s it worth for your silence?”
Cain Sinclair stared back with the eye of a predator. “I’ll let you know.” Without another word, he turned his back and left.
Chapter Eight
VICTORIA HAD READ Amelia’s letter three times in disbelief. It seemed that Madame Benedict had adored the corset she’d sent and had raised the price so high that only affluent ladies could afford to look at it. She’d raved about the choice of fabric and how well made it was.
They wanted twenty-five more, in every color. Twenty-five. She couldn’t believe it, and she didn’t know how she could possibly make so many. It was impossible.
Mr. Sinclair had taken the black lace corset with him, and presumably it would fetch a similar price. When she’d opened the bundle of fabric he’d brought, she found not only satin, silk, and velvet… but also muslin, painted silk, and sarcenet. There were trims and laces, whalebone and strings—enough that she was torn between wanting to laugh with delight and panicking over all the work to be done.
Amelia’s closing words sobered her mood. It seemed that she, Margaret, and Juliette had come up with a name for the new creations—Aphrodite’s Unmentionables. The name Aphrodite conjured up the goddess of love. It suggested undergarments that were sensual and forbidden.
Garments a woman like her could never wear. For what did she know of love anyway? She’d been kissed for the first time, but it would never go beyond that. Her life was here. Mr. Nottoway’s life would take him elsewhere.
“You shouldn’t allow a man like Mr. Sinclair to act as your messenger.” Mr. Nottoway used his crutches to return to the parlor, and he cast a glance back at the hallway.
“He’s been useful to us,” Victoria countered. “He may not be quite a gentleman, but we can trust him.”
“How long have you known him?”
“A few years.” She avoided a direct answer, not wanting him to hear the full story. Though she knew Cain Sinclair walked on the rougher side of life, her sister Juliette insisted that he was trustworthy. And he’d proven his worth, time and again. It was good enough for her.
Mr. Nottoway set aside his crutches and sat across from her. “And what if he’s stealing the fabric?”
“Oh, he’s not a thief. We pay for the materials and he keeps a portion of the money for himself.” From the wary expression on his face, she could tell he believed Mr. Sinclair was little more than a common criminal.
“How do you know he doesn’t steal the materials and keep the money? You have no reason to trust him.”
“Do I have a reason to trust you?” Victoria countered. She folded the letter and set it back upon the sofa. “While I appreciate your concern, you needn’t worry. Mr. Sinclair sells the garments I make and is discreet about it.”
“He could be holding back most of the profit for himself.”
“My sister verified the amount in her letter.”
She saw the doubt on his face. Without asking, he picked up her father’s chess set and lined up the pieces. Picking up a white pawn, he moved it two squares. “It’s your choice, of course. But you weren’t discussing gowns, were you?”
His voice held a knowing tone, and color rushed to her cheeks, afraid he would guess the truth. “What makes you say that?” To distract him, she studied the chessboard and moved her black pawn one square forward.
“You were embarrassed by whatever Sinclair said to you.” He moved his knight into position, watching as her lips pursed while she considered how to respond.
“Some of the… gowns were daring. I wouldn’t wear them myself.”
Liar, her conscience chided. When she’d tried on the silk padded corset, it had been far more comfortable than her usual garments. She’d considered making one for her own use, though perhaps in a more demure color.
“You would look beautiful in crimson,” he said, taking her pawn. “The color would be well-suited to you.” Though he didn’t look at her, his deep voice was low, intimate in tone. Almost as if he were imagining her wearing red silk and nothing else.
Her hand trembled as she moved another piece upon the board, not knowing what move either of them had made. “I prefer gray.”
“Because you think no one will notice you in it?” he questioned.
“I have no need to be noticed.” Nor any desire, truthfully. In her heart she quaked at the thought of wearing a color that brought her to the center of attention.
“It has been my experience that the women who do not desire notice are the ones most worthy of it. And vice versa.” He captured another piece, adding, “Why would you have any need to make gowns in secret?”
“My father would not approve of it.” She was losing the game already and couldn’t see a way out of the mess she’d made. “He doesn’t know how difficult things are at the moment. Mother hasn’t told him, and as long as we can pay our debts with the money from our sewing, it’s not necessary.”
She moved her rook and offered, “Besides, our problems are nothing compared to what he’s enduring in the war. When he returns, there will be no need for our sewing. Our arrangement with Mr. Sinclair will suffice until then.” After he made his move, she captured one of his pawns, moving her piece into a different position.
A wry smile crossed his face. “Check.”
She sent a dismayed look toward the board. “You might as well finish it now and say ‘Checkmate.’ I can’t win. I’m terrible at this game, and I don’t know why you want to play against me.”
“It’s better than listening to you read to me.” But he pushed the chessboard aside in silent agreement. Candlelight shadowed the planes of his face, his green eyes staring into hers. His white shirt contrasted against the darker skin of his throat, while the top button of his waistcoat was unbuttoned. Though his cravat was tied in a simple manner, his face was bristled from not shaving. It gave him a dangerous look, like a highwayman.
“Was there something else you’d rather do to pass the time?” he asked. Although it was a natural enough question, her thoughts turned wayward.
“I should go,” she said, standing up so quickly, she knocked over a few chess pieces. “I-I’ve sewing to do and… you can read if you wish.”
Without waiting for an answer, she hurried from the parlor. Inwardly, she hoped that his servants would arrive soon. The longer Mr. Nottoway was stranded with her, the more her treacherous mind wished he would stay.
Jonath
an heard the sound of voices in the middle of the night. He opened his eyes and caught the flare of torches outside the parlor window. From the arguing, it sounded as if a crowd was forming. He didn’t know what their intentions were, but he had no plans on becoming a victim a second time.
He tore off the coverlet and slid his feet to the floor, reaching for his crutches. From the last threat they’d experienced, he knew Victoria’s father had a pair of dueling pistols in the bottom drawer of a large secretary. He moved swiftly to locate them, though it was impossible to load one in the dark. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t loaded, however.
He cursed his swollen leg, knowing he wouldn’t be much of a protector with his healing wound. With the pistol in one hand, he hobbled forward through the hall, moving toward the front door.
Victoria hurried down the stairs in a nightgown, a gray shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes held terror when she saw the pistol. “What are you doing?”
He pointed outside and raised a finger to his lips.
“You can’t confront them,” she insisted in a loud whisper. “Just… pretend no one is here. They might go away.”
“They know we’re here, and they have torches, Miss Andrews. I don’t mean to let them set this house on fire.” He set his crutches against the wall and reached for the doorknob.
“And you think shooting them will put an end to it?” She gripped the banister, looking horrified at what he was about to do.
“I’ll do what I have to. If they try to burn the house, go out the back door and wait near the garden wall. I’ll find you there and—”
“No.” She shook her head, sinking down to sit upon the stairs. “No, I can’t leave.”
“If they set the damned house on fire, you will.”
A bone-deep fear had settled into her, and he saw her hands shaking. “I can’t.”
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