Behind a Lady's Smile

by Jane Goodger

  “You don’t,” Mitch said forcefully. “And you won’t.”

  Mitch wanted to punch something—hard—and figured that the maître d’ who most likely tossed Genny out would be a good target. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

  Genny grabbed his arm. “No, Mitch, let it lie. We were in the wrong. We weren’t supposed to be in the restaurant in the first place. We were trespassing. The man was just doing his job.”

  Mitch pulled away and stalked back and forth for a bit while Genny watched, half bemused and half fearful he would go inside the restaurant and hurt someone.

  “We’re getting you nice dresses,” he announced. “Like the ones those ladies in there are wearing. No one is ever going to look at you and think you’re anything but a lady.”

  “The money . . .”

  “Don’t worry about the money. I have money, and dresses don’t cost much.” He placed two hands on either side of her face, his eyes troubled. “I can’t stand to see you cry, darlin’. You know that. It makes me crazy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gave him an impish smile, and he knew he was in trouble. He knew he was going to kiss her, right there in that dirty alley with the rats watching them. Hell, what was the point of trying not to when he knew he couldn’t stop himself. For two days he’d been trying not to stare at her, not to touch her, not to even talk to her. But right now, with her looking up at him and smiling, tears still in her eyes, there was nothing left to do but lower his head and press his lips against hers. She sighed. God, he loved her sighs. He moved his hands slowly to the back of her head, loving how silky-soft her hair felt, how willing she was to kiss him back. He wanted to taste her, wanted to feel her tongue and deepen the kiss, and he resisted as long as he could. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head, he couldn’t resist any longer.

  “Open for me, darlin’. Let me taste you,” he said, and when she did, even though she probably didn’t know what she was doing, he thrust his tongue inside her lovely mouth, letting out a low moan of pure joy. It was clear Genny had never been kissed like that before, clear she didn’t know quite what to do, so when she moved her tongue tentatively against his, he pulled her closer, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him. God, this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place, but he’d be damned if he would stop kissing her.

  She let out the sweetest sound. He could only describe it as abandon, pure and lovely, and bringing the kiss to a level he’d never experienced with another woman. It was devastating, as though his heart was being torn in two at the same time his body throbbed with a need so strong it was unmanning. A rat scurried over his foot, and he thanked God for that rat, for if he’d continued kissing her much longer, he’d have done things no man should do to a good woman in an alley.

  He pulled back, numb except for an insistent ache in his groin. What the hell was he doing?

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I told you I hate it when you cry. And see? You stopped.”

  She looked up at him, dazed, eyes glassy now for a completely different reason, her lips slightly swollen from their kisses. It was all he could do not to pull her against him again. What was wrong with him? He’d never been the kind of man to lose control. All these foreign emotions roiling about in his head were making him crazy. He had to stop. It was only going to make it harder for both of them when he left her in England. He didn’t like the way she was looking at him, all doe-eyed and woozy. And he didn’t like the way he was probably looking down at her, like a man who needed more than a few kisses.

  “Come on, let’s go home,” he said, more sharply than he’d meant. He softened his voice, adding, “We’ll go looking for dresses tomorrow.”

  He held his arm out for her to take and you might have thought he’d handed her the moon, the way she smiled at him.

  Louise Brunelle was one of the most sought-after couturiers in New York. She counted the likes of Mary Bishop, Caroline Astor, and Sarah McAllister as her regular clients. They flocked to her store, paid the exorbitant prices, because they all knew one thing: when you wore a gown she designed, you looked as beautiful as was possible. Her gowns were made of the finest silks, the softest wools, the most delicate lace. She embellished her creations with pearls, rubies, and amethysts, and once, for Mrs. Rockefeller, diamonds.

  Though she’d claimed to have apprenticed under the famous Charles Worth, she had merely been a seamstress for the fashion giant. But she had learned quickly that her ambitions were nearly as high as her innate talent for knowing in one glance what cuts, colors, and fabrics would look best on a woman. Charles Worth may have been her inspiration, but her creations were all her own. When her husband died, leaving a small inheritance, she headed for America, where she knew she could bring high fashion to the nouveau riche. In the beginning, it was only her and one young seamstress carving their way into the highest levels of society. She rented in the poshest sections of the city and designed the interior of her shop to look like a wealthy lady’s parlor. It took years of hard work, but it had now paid off. Her designs rivaled those of Worth and the women of New York were more than happy to pay her exorbitant fees to claim they were wearing a Brunelle.

  When her head seamstress, Joanna, came to fetch her, saying that a man had come into the shop demanding an entire wardrobe for the granddaughter of the Duke of Glastonbury, she withdrew from her desk and followed the seamstress to the shop’s main room, excitement churning in her chest. Her hopes were high—until she took one look at the pair. Then, she became annoyed. Clearly, this pair wouldn’t be able to purchase a handkerchief in her shop, never mind an entire wardrobe.

  The young lady, her golden hair braided and twisted into a simple bun, was pretty in a fresh, innocent way. She looked as if she’d just stepped off a train from out West. Even from across the room she could see that the dress she wore was ill fitting and cheaply made, no doubt sewn by a machine and designed by a blind man. The bodice was too tight, the waist too loose and the sleeves looked simply odd. She wore no hat and her hands were bare. He was wearing a linen jacket that had seen better days—and had probably never seen a valet—and pants that looked more suited to farm work than shopping in a store such as hers.

  Still, she was bored and dealing with them should make for an interesting anecdote later on; the two country bumpkins on their first trip to New York. Très amusant. Trying to maintain a polite façade, she walked up to them.

  Walking into that fancy shop on Fifth Avenue took more courage than Mitch would have believed. It was clear from the second he crossed the threshold, he was in the land of frivolous femininity. It wasn’t just that he was the only male in the shop; it was that every bit of the place, from the ceiling with the pale pink medallions to the soft creamy carpet beneath his feet was meant to please a woman. It even smelled pretty, although that might have been the co-mingling of ten women’s perfumes. And there were women—everywhere. Shopgirls and customers scattered about the large showroom, and no doubt more women were in the back being fitted. The women spoke in low murmurs, admiring lace and fashion plates, all the while casting curious looks in his direction. Mitch felt as out of place as a mouse in a room full of cats. He pulled on his collar, wishing mightily he was back in California wearing his loose-fitting shirt.

  With a small squeal, Genny immediately went over to a display of fabrics, and Mitch followed her reluctantly.

  “I do believe I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Genny breathed, reaching out one finger to touch a navy blue velvet swatch.

  “How may I help you?” The accent was French, the words filled with disdain.

  Mitch turned to see a severe woman in her fifties, her black hair streaked with white and pulled up into an intricate design, looking at them in a way that was becoming all too familiar. Her expression was dismissive and arrogant as she moved her eyes over them. He’d worn his nicest suit, the one he wore when Mollie insisted he attend church with the Jackson family. He couldn’t wait to show this F
rench woman the wad of cash he had in hand. Then she’d come around and treat Genny the way she ought.

  “My name is Mitch Campbell and this is Genevieve Hayes. Miss Hayes requires a complete wardrobe and I was hoping you could accommodate us.”

  The smallest of smiles touched the older woman’s lips, almost as if she were acknowledging his effort to regain his footing. “I am Madame Brunelle and this is my shop.”

  “Genny, you wait here and look at the samples and I’ll talk to Madame Brunelle.” Genny nodded happily, excited to get on with the business of buying new dresses. It was all she could talk about that morning at breakfast, making Mitch feel a bit guilty about not getting her fancied up sooner. She looked just fine to him, but after what had happened in Delmonico’s, he promised himself Genny would never feel the burning humiliation of feeling unworthy again. She immediately became entranced by the wide array of rich-looking fabrics and a mannequin wearing the most expensive-looking dress Mitch had ever seen. The pale yellow gown was decorated with seed pearls, all painstakingly sewn into a floral design. He might not know much about dresses, but he knew that one cost a pretty penny. He eyed the dress, wondering how many of that type of creation five hundred dollars would buy. Probably not as many as he’d thought.

  Mitch led Madame Brunelle to a quieter corner. “That young lady,” he said, nodding to where Genny stood, “is the granddaughter of the Duke of Glastonbury. I’m her guardian.” He ignored Madame Brunelle’s raised eyebrow, which instantly registered her doubt. “See, her mother ran away from home to marry a man and came to America, where Genny was born. She’s an orphan now, and she promised her dying father that she would return to England. Thing is, she was living out West, in California, where there isn’t much need for fancy dresses and hats and such. She’s got a few dresses, but not what she should have. I don’t want her grandparents thinking she’s dressed like a maid. I want her to look like a lady.”

  Madame Brunelle stared at him a moment, her brown eyes showing little interest in his story. “You cannot afford my creations. I’m not saying this to be cruel. But it is clear you do not have the kind of money required to purchase even my simplest design.”

  Mitch smiled politely. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on this woman’s face when he told her he was prepared to spend five hundred dollars in her shop. It was a big part of his savings, but Mitch didn’t care. He’d get it back when they reached England, and even if he didn’t, it was worth it to him to see Genny looking the way she ought. He’d bought two dresses and more with twenty dollars. He figured he could outfit her quite nicely with five hundred. “Money isn’t a problem,” he said confidently, patting his jacket pocket.

  Madame let out a beleaguered sigh. “Tres bien. What is your budget, sir?”

  “Five hundred.”

  Madame’s mouth dropped just slightly, and Mitch enjoyed a small surge of triumph. “Five hundred . . . thousand?” Madame asked, sounding both aghast and excited.

  Mitch’s surge of triumph started to deflate a bit. “Five hundred. Period.”

  Madame’s polite façade returned, and Mitch had a feeling he’d underestimated the cost of a dress. “While that is a fine sum, I’m afraid in my shop it will not pay for more than one of my simplest gowns. Certainly not an entire wardrobe.” She looked genuinely sorry, and Mitch felt like an ass. “Perhaps I can direct you to another shop where the prices are not so high. Of course, the dresses are not so beautiful, either, oui?”

  Mitch looked over to Genny, who was being served by one of the seamstresses. She was holding up a deep green silk swatch and gazing in the mirror with a look of pure delight. Genny, who’d been wearing an old shirt and a pair of her father’s pants when he’d met her, seemed to be taking to being a girl pretty quickly. And that green did amazing things for her eyes.

  “Isn’t it the most lovely fabric?” Genny asked, turning to show Mitch. “It feels lovely, too.”

  “The finest silk from China,” the seamstress said, clearly trying to make a sale.

  Mitch felt like punching something. He’d never seen Genny look so damned happy, and he was going to have to disappoint her. She deserved to have a dress made of that fine material. With her hair all done up, she’d look like a princess. He dipped his head a bit, bringing his attention back to Madame Brunelle, and said low, “How much would four thousand buy?”

  Madame raised an eyebrow. “And you have that amount?”

  Mitch swallowed and pushed down the sick feeling in his gut. It was a huge portion of his savings, savings he’d been squirreling away for years. If he spent all that, he’d barely have enough money for steamer passage, never mind enough to open his photography studio.

  “She is a lovely girl,” Madame Brunelle said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, ma’am, she is.” Mitch looked back at Genny, now delicately touching another sample.

  “It would be a pleasure to design for her,” Madame said, slowly. There was something in her tone that got Mitch’s attention. “She would be spectacular. Of course, you will need to hire a lady’s maid for her so that her hair complements the gowns. I assume she doesn’t have one.”

  Mitch tightened his jaw, but had to admit Genny did not have a maid. “I wouldn’t even know where to find one.”

  “I can help with that,” Madame said, as if finding lady’s maids for orphaned heiresses was something she did every day. “One more thing, Mr. Campbell, and this is most important. Are you truly her guardian? Or something . . . more.”

  “I guess I am. I found her all alone and hurt and agreed to take her back home.”

  “How altruistic of you.”

  Mitch let out a bitter laugh, knowing she saw a kindred spirit. “She’s the granddaughter of a duke,” he said, as if that explained what he was doing. Sadly, it was explanation enough for Madame Brunelle.

  “I wouldn’t want to have one of my creations on a woman who, shall we say, was not of the highest society.”

  Her inference made Mitch angry, but he understood it. “She is the granddaughter of a duke. And I’m a man who needs money.”

  Madame Brunelle looked him in the eye. “You are telling me the truth?”

  “I can show you a letter from the duke himself, if that would help. Now, can you make a few dresses for her or not?”

  Madame looked over at Genny again, clearly assessing her. “She’s never met her grandparents?”

  “No. They sent letters to their daughter, begging her to come home. And Miss Hayes’s father’s final wish was that she go to England. I even have a telegram from them saying they are anxious to meet her.”

  A small smile appeared on Madame’s lips. “They shall be quite happy to see her, to introduce her to society. They’ll throw dinners and balls and . . . yes, Monsieur Campbell, I will make your Miss Hayes dresses. In fact, I will make her the most beautiful dresses I have ever created.”

  Madame took a deep breath and called Genny over. “Miss Hayes, I have agreed to make your entire wardrobe at a very reasonable price.”

  Genny looked at Mitch and smiled, clutching her hands together and reminding Mitch of a child who’s been promised a special dessert after supper. She looked so damned adorable at that moment, Mitch probably would have agreed to anything.

  “I ask only one thing,” Madame said. “When someone comments favorably on one of your dresses, you are to say this: ‘It was designed by Madame Brunelle of New York City, the premier couturier in all of America.’ Can you do that?”

  Genny smiled. “Of course I can. And surely if your creations are anything like the one in your window, I’ll only be speaking the truth.”

  Madame smiled fully for the first time. “How delightful of you to say. So, it is agreed. You see, Miss Hayes, more and more British ladies come to New York every year, but my shop has not yet been recognized. They continue to purchase their gowns from Worth or a local seamstress. I want them to come to me. I want them to know that I am the premier dressmaker in the world. And you are my mea
ns of achieving this.”

  Genny looked a bit taken aback. “But no one knows me in England.”

  “They will,” Madame Brunelle pronounced grandly. “You are the lost granddaughter of a duke and duchess. You will be the talk of London, of all Britain.”

  “I will?” Genny looked more frightened than flattered.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Hayes,” Mitch said. “Your grandparents won’t introduce you into society until you’re ready.”

  “But I don’t even know how to sit,” she said in a small voice.

  “We’ll get you a tutor. We’ll get you ready,” Mitch said. He hated seeing her so uncertain. “You’re the girl who stopped a train robbery. You sure as hell can learn how to sit.”

  Genny laughed, and Mitch felt he’d made the world right somehow.

  “Miss Hayes, you go on over to Miss Joanna and we can start selecting fabrics,” Madame said. When Genny was gone, Madame said, “You do have four thousand, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “And the letter and telegram from the duke?”

  “I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

  “Then I will make Miss Hayes a wardrobe that will be the envy of every girl in England. You will be getting far, far more than four thousand dollars’ worth of clothing, Mr. Campbell, but I’m hoping our relationship will be mutually advantageous.”

  “That is very kind of you, Madame.”

  “I am not doing this because I am kind, Mr. Campbell. I am doing this because I am the best dress designer in the world. She will be a wonderful advertisement for my shop. We are very much alike, you and I, Mr. Campbell. And if it weren’t for the way your eyes soften when you look at her, I might even believe you are only doing what you are doing for the money. Amour, Mr. Campbell. It’s a curse.”