Jade Lee

by Winning a Bride

  Grant ignored the voice of his madness. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and imagined his coming moment. It was crystal clear in his head because it was the one vision that had kept him going these last five years. And now, it was here. A great day built on nights spent hunched over books and days sweating over broken machinery at his textile mill. He’d gone without food as he poured money into the new dying process. Many nights he’d slept on a cot in his office, and for a time, he’d just lived there because it was cheaper. He’d sweated and bled for today, and now, it was here. His Great Day when everything paid off.

  My God, you’ve become a bloody bore. And, in case you haven’t noticed, you can’t have your glorified Moment, if you don’t sell your cloth.

  Grant grimaced, knowing his madness was right. Mr. Knopp, purchaser for A Lady’s Favor dress shop, had been scheduled to arrive ten minutes ago. Grant was waiting for him in an inn parlor on the outskirts of London. He’d placed bolts of fabric on five chairs set strategically about the room. And in the forefront of his mind was a number, the exact number of pounds he needed before he had his Great Moment. That money would come from Mr. Knopp today. Grant intended to take every penny the man had by selling the idiot all his merchandise for triple the cost to make it. But he couldn’t do that unless the man showed up!

  Five years ago, Grant would have called for a drink and set about killing time in the only way he’d known how: numbing himself insensate. But he wasn’t Grant Benton, the dissolute Lord Crowle today. He was the patient and cunning Mr. Grant who would enjoy his Great Day as soon as Mr. Knopp showed.

  Fortunately for his sanity, a moment later he heard a soft knock at the door. Grant put aside his papers—he was always studying papers and their neat columns of numbers—then straightened his jacket and put on a congenial smile.

  “Enter,” he called.

  The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was tall with soft skin and black clothing. The dress was out of date and somewhat shabby, but her smile was warm, though very tiny, like a bud of new growth on a dark stick of tree. Meanwhile, he stifled a sigh as he pushed reluctantly to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve got the wrong parlor.”

  No, she doesn’t! Bring her in! Take off her dress! Grant didn’t even wince as his madness suggested all sorts of filthy things. Sometime in the last five years, his madness had shifted from the grumbling, annoying voice of conscience to the grumbling, annoying voice of temptation. As Grant learned how to spend every day and night in toil, his madness pushed for debauchery. At first he’d found the change disconcerting. Now, he just pushed it to the back of his mind. He’d gotten better at that too over the last five years.

  Meanwhile, the woman didn’t so much as blink. “Are you Mr. Grant?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I am, but—”

  “You’re waiting for Mr. Knopp, I presume?” she said as she untied her bonnet with quick movements. “That’s me. Well, not the mister part, obviously. I’m Irene Knopp. Mr. Knopp was my late husband.”

  A widow! Make her merry!

  Grant stared at her, his mind struggling with the woman in front of him. Mr. I. Knopp was a woman? A woman! And a widow still in mourning, given her black clothing. He stifled a curse and tried to find a way out. There wasn’t one. The deadline was today, and he needed her money to have his Great Moment. His conscience would give him hell for taking advantage of a widow, but what choice did he have?

  Take advantage of her! In at least four different positions!

  Mrs. Knopp gave him another small smile. “Please, sir, I find myself somewhat fatigued. Do you mind if I sit down for a moment? Might we order tea?”

  “Uh, of course,” he said. That’s what one said when a widow said she was tired and wanted tea. He rang the bell and made the order, while she set her coat aside. Her hair was a glossy black, the exact color of a foal he’d once coveted as a boy. And though her clothing was shabby, he noted a grace in her movements as she stripped off her gloves and settled on the couch. Lord, she looked so tragic. How could he put his family’s need before hers?

  Then she turned to him and smiled. It was a brief flash full of tragedy and quiet perseverance. At that moment, he had a revelation: it was all a lie. The widow’s weeds, the tragic air, even the way she perched like a delicate, frightened bird on the edge of the couch—all of it was a carefully constructed lie.

  He sat in his own chair, relishing the coming moments. He didn’t care if she was a thief, charlatan, or just a smart salesgirl. Whatever her true nature was made no difference. She was about to make his last five years worthwhile.

  Get her drunk first.

  He felt his lips curve. Drinking wouldn’t be the most subtle ploy, but it often worked anyway. “Instead of tea, I could order wine. More bracing, I think. They have an excellent brandy here too or—”

  “Oh heavens!” she said with a flash of white teeth. “Tea is fine for me. But please, feel free to order some for yourself.”

  Step number one: ineffective. On to step two: establishing a friendship.

  Kiss her senseless!

  “I don’t mean to offend,” he said. “Your attire suggests you’re still in mourning. That must mean your loss was recent. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy.”

  She nodded, holding his gaze for perhaps a moment too long. “Thank you,” she said, before dropping her eyes. “In truth, it’s been some time since Nate’s death, but I still feel it.”

  There was true emotion in her eyes, so the loss must be real. He felt a twinge of sympathy, but immediately quashed it. Outside, though, his expression was tender concern as he leaned forward.

  “So was he the purchaser? Are you taking over his job?”

  Her expression shifted to stern, as if she were preparing to do battle, which he supposed, she was. “I think that the best purchaser for women’s clothing is a woman, don’t you agree? A man couldn’t possibly understand things as well.”

  He nodded slowly. “Naturally, you have advantages. But in the world of business, there are some drawbacks to your gender.”

  “Spoken like a gentleman,” she said, obviously not meaning a word. Then they both fell silent as the tea tray arrived. She reached for it immediately.

  “Shall I pour?” she asked, as if she were a matron in a society parlor.

  “Of course. Just add a little lemon for me.” He hadn’t allowed himself sugar or milk for the last five years. In fact, the lemon would be a treat.

  Boring! Get on with the naked part!

  She nodded and poured, her hands steady, her every movement graceful. There wasn’t anything special in what she did. Thousands of women throughout England did the same thing every day. And yet the sight stopped his breath. His belly tightened, and his chest squeezed painfully. And, worst of all, his cock reared like a thing coming alive for the first time in five years.

  Finally!

  What the hell? She was just serving him tea!

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to judge the situation dispassionately. He noted each item individually, like marks on a tally sheet. First, she was lovely, but she didn’t dress to emphasize that. If anything, her attire was modest and old. Second, she moved with the inborn class of a lady, and yet everything about her told him she was of the working class. He’d known this already, so what had changed in the last second?

  It was the way she served tea, he realized. As if she were born to something better, but had fallen on hard times. Terrible times that he couldn’t fix.

  And there was his answer. His mother had served tea like this, and his sister too. With an innate dignity and a silent grief. Not for a man, but for a dream that was lost. A possibility that would never come to fruition. That was how the women in his family served tea. And now, Mrs. Knopp too. It roused his protective instincts. It reminded him that women should be cherished. And damn, it made him long for a better way.

  Of course, none of that explained his thickening cock. He had no interest
in bedding anyone. And if he did, it certainly wouldn’t be this tragic figure before him, especially since it was probably a well-constructed lie! And yet, nothing he said had the tiniest impact on his imbecilic organ.

  Don’t question it. Use it! Repeatedly. And in a thrusting motion!

  “Mr. Grant? Is something amiss?”

  He swallowed then reached for his teacup. “Nothing at all,” he said. He took an obligatory sip then held the cup and saucer in his lap to hide his embarrassment. “Perhaps we should get to business. You are purchasing fabric for A Lady’s Favor dress shop, and I have the best wools in England.”

  “My goodness, that’s quite a statement.”

  “It’s true nonetheless.” Then he leaned forward, deciding that he might as well use his discomfort to his advantage. If he was attracted to the woman, then he should let it show and flirt. “In fact, I have the most gorgeous bolt just for you. It’s a little heavier—meant for late fall—but the color would be spectacular on you.”

  “On me? But I assure you, I have no need—”

  “You’re coming out of mourning soon. You must be.” He set aside his tea and crossed to the nearest pile of fabric. Sorting through them, he lifted then discarded his choices. He knew what he was looking for. So where was it? “Oh yes! I set it aside for a different customer,” he lied. In truth, he’d meant to bring it out later as a temptation. After the primary order was made, he would bring it out as a last temptation to increase her order. But now that she was here, he knew that it had been made just for her.

  He lifted it up, feeling the exquisite softness and seeing the design. He had been the one to first draw this pattern, not that he’d tell her that. But when he turned and held the fabric up to her face, he knew he’d done it all just for her.

  “This is it,” he said softly.

  He angled her toward the mirror and let her see. The fabric was a dark rose, light enough to be joyous, but still not a full pastel. It brought out the color in her skin. But what made the piece truly stunning was the intricate pattern embroidered on top. Nothing so girlish as flowers. This was a design in abstract. He’d been looking at a candle flame, and the pattern had come to him. Yellows, oranges, and red burned on the area that would be the bodice. There were matching flames for the skirt. The end result would make her appear to be wreathed in candlelight.

  “Touch it,” he said. “It’s a special wool that we make mixing in the fur from a thousand rabbits.”

  “Rabbits!”

  “Angora rabbits, in fact. Go ahead. Feel it against your skin.” He didn’t wait until she complied. Instead, he brushed it across her cheek.

  She gasped, as he knew she would. The first feel of angora wool was always the best. Wool from sheep was one thing—and his factory had some of the best—but nothing could compare to his angora blend.

  “Imagine yourself walking into a ballroom wearing this. The chandeliers are above you, but the crowd parts seeing only you. Like a living flame among them.”

  “Mr. Grant, I am not a woman who likes flattery.”

  “Every woman likes flattery, Mrs. Knopp,” he countered. “But in this, I only speak the truth. I’ll show you. But first cover your eyes.”

  “Mr. Grant!”

  “Shh!” He gently set his hand over her eyes. She closed them, of course, and he told himself the caress across her brow was only in the service of his sale. Still, he couldn’t help but note how soft her skin felt or that there was heat in her face. When was the last time she blushed? he wondered. Not lately, he’d wager.

  Meanwhile, he draped the fabric about her, covering her ugly black dress with ease.

  “Shall I look?”

  “Not yet,” he said. He quickly crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. Then he lit two candelabra, setting them on either side of her. Just as he’d thought, the dress picked up the dance of the flames. When she moved, she would draw every eye in the room.

  He smiled, proud of his creation. But more, he was awed by her beauty. “Now,” he said. “Open your eyes and see.”

  He watched as her impossibly long lashes lifted, and she looked into the mirror. She blinked then she frowned, but not in disappointment. She seemed more startled than anything. As if she had forgotten what she looked like in anything but black.

  “Your skin is flawless,” he said as he stepped behind her. “A gown made from this will bring out the color of your lips and the blush across your… cheeks.” The hesitation was deliberate as his gaze dropped lower to where the soft curve of her breasts might show.

  “The design is so pretty,” she murmured, touching the precise stitches. “It’s like…”

  “Fire?”

  “Yes, but more delicate.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It was made for you,” he said, meaning every word.

  Dance with her, his madness prompted. And for once, he obeyed, touching her elegant fingers with his own.

  “I can see you at a ball, Mrs. Knopp. The men have been watching you, but someone has claimed the waltz. He bows before you and takes your hand.”

  “Really, I don’t think—”

  “It’s harmless, Mrs. Knopp. Let yourself pretend, if only for a moment.” He didn’t give her the chance to object. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her flesh before bowing. Once he had been counted a good dancer, and he drew on that memory now. She was wrapped in fabric, so he did what he could, draping the tail end over his shoulder. Then he began to hum.

  “That’s a pretty tune.”

  “Really? Trust me, I’m accounted a much better dancer than a musician. And now, if you will, Mrs. Knopp?”

  He resumed humming and then swept her into a waltz. There was very little room, but he had danced on crowded floors before. In truth, it made it all the more thrilling as he spun her around and around.

  Her mouth opened on a gasp, but he was focused on her eyes. They sparkled. It was the candle flames reflected, but it was also the way her skin crinkled at the corners. Her cheeks flushed, and her mouth curved. She had not spent much time dancing. Neither had he, in truth, and none at all for the last five years.

  So while he hummed his tune, he let himself go as well. He whirled them both around, and he gloried in the feel of a flesh and blood woman in his arms. One who meshed with his steps, even though there were layers upon layers of clothing between them. One who delighted in the play and smiled as if it were Christmas morning.

  They danced for as long as he could manage, but eventually, their steps slowed. In time, they came to a stop, breathless, and still he could not look away from her eyes.

  Kiss her!

  He swallowed, the desire nearly overwhelming. But he had a task here, and so he forced his words to something equally lustful, just not as inappropriate.

  “You must make a dress from this fabric,” he said. “I designed it for you. I didn’t know it at the time, but I do now. It was meant for you.”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked at the embroidery. “You made this design?”

  Damnation, he hadn’t meant to confess that. As a rule, ladies preferred women artists for their clothing. He stepped back, but he was held in place by the fabric he’d tossed over his shoulder. “O-of course not,” he stammered. “We have ladies who—”

  “Poppycock,” she interrupted. “It was you.” She grabbed his arm. “I think it’s a wonderful design.”

  “I—” Now his face was heating. And when was the last time he’d blushed? “Thank you, Mrs. Knopp. You are very kind.”

  “And you are very talented.”

  He all but rolled his eyes. “Pray don’t say that. I cannot let it be known—”

  “That a man has created such a beautiful thing? I shall make a bargain with you. If you do not tell the other factories that Mr. Knopp is a woman, then I shall not share that the Wakefield Design Factory is run by a man.”

  He felt his lips quirk in a smile. “Oh, you can tell everyone a man runs the place. Yo
u just cannot share that I take a hand in the more artistic aspects of the work.”

  “And you do all the artistic designs?” she asked as she gently lifted the fabric off his shoulders.

  “Of course not,” he said immediately. “I have some talented women who do the work for me. I only dabble every now and then. And really, it is the ladies—”

  “If you continue to lie, I shall become cross and refuse to buy a single yard.”

  He bit his lip and stepped back. “Did you not begin our conversation by saying that a woman knows a woman’s fashions best?”

  She grimaced. “I did, I suppose. So perhaps we should agree that gender means absolutely nothing if one is clever or talented. And I believe, Mr. Grant, that you are both.”

  “And you, Mrs. Knopp, are full of surprises.”

  She smiled as she began folding the bolt of fabric. Her hands lingered on the exquisite material, stroking the soft angora. He watched her closely, seeing the wistful expression, and he knew a moment of alarm. She did not intend to buy! She had the look of a woman putting a treat away.

  “But you must buy it,” he said. “It was made for you!”

  “No, Mr. Grant. It was made for a woman who goes to balls and dances with handsome young men.”

  “Surely you attend parties. And you will not always be in black. How long before your mourning ends?”

  “I—” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Soon, I suppose. But—”

  He abruptly stepped forward, pressing it into her arms. “A gift then. Make it into the most beautiful gown, and dance in it.”

  “A gift!” she gasped. “I can’t!”

  Neither could he, if he were honest with himself. After all, his family’s future depended on the money he needed today. But the urge to see her in this gown was overwhelming. And so he did something he rarely did: he dispensed with games and became brutally honest.

  “I need a sale today, Mrs. Knopp. Five hundred pounds.”

  “Five hundred! Surely you do not expect that to come from my dress shop!”

  “Surely, I do, Mrs. Knopp. You are the most exciting new dressmaker in London. Thanks to the new Lady Redhill, you are flooded with orders and cannot possibly have purchased all you need for the coming season.”