by Jade Lee
He made it to the dress shop as fast as he could, but once there, he encountered a surprise. A gentleman—an aristocrat by the looks of him—frowning at the building. Anthony slowed, but didn't speak. He had no idea why a lord would be so interested in a dress shop, and he had no intention of asking. Besides, he was already late. Francine was inside for her fitting, and he was desperate to see her. But as he passed, he saw a piece of paper in the man's hand. It was one he recognized since it had been written in his own hand: a bill from this shop.
His responsibility to the shop warred with his desire to see Francine. He paused, and in that moment, he was caught. The aristocrat saw him looking at the bill.
"Are you associated with this shop?" the man asked. There was authority and an innate arrogance in the man's voice which meant the man had to be titled. Bloody hell! Would he never get inside to see Francine?
"Yes, sir, I am." It took everything he had in him to make sure his expression was open and pleasant. "Is there a problem?"
"Yes, yes," the man said as he waved the bill in the air. "I've got some questions regarding this bill."
"Of course. Well, you need only enter here—" Anthony began, heading for the front door, but the man stopped him.
"I know. Problem is, I'm a little bit on the outs with Mrs. Mortimer. I said something rude about her dress designs, I'm afraid. Didn't mean it, but you know how awkward that can be."
Anthony sighed. If the problem was with the bill, it would end up in his lap anyway. He might as well deal with it now. But he would do it where he could get some idea of what was happening with Francine. "Come along then. I'm the bookkeeper. We can have a look at the records together."
"Bookkeeper, you say!" the man cried as he clapped a hand on Anthony's shoulder. "Just the man to see, especially since I'd like to understand a little more about this shop. Havey-cavey thing this is, asking for payment in advance. Unheard of. They should just make the dress, then get paid in the usual way."
And that was the moment when Anthony finally placed who the man was. He was Lord Redhill, brother to Lady Gwen, the shop's most prestigious client. Lady Gwen wanted Mrs. Mortimer to create her trousseau, but the shop didn't have the money to buy all the fabric required. So Anthony had suggested they ask for payment in advance. It was the only safe way to fill the huge order, and there was nothing havey-cavey about it!
They'd made it to the back door and Anthony had the key, but he was not about to open the door just yet. Not until he had his say. So he planted his feet and looked Lord Redhill in the eye.
"Mrs. Mortimer is the most honest person I know. She explained to Lady Gwen that she couldn't afford to buy the materials for the gowns right now. Not without some cash. In truth, it was my suggestion, and there is nothing untoward about it! What I find appalling is the havey-cavey way some people are about not paying—about delaying payment until a merchant is on his last penny just because the customer has a title!"
It wasn't until Anthony finished his tirade that he remembered one did not usually speak so sharply to a future earl. And if he had any doubts as to the risk he'd just taken, Lord Redhill's narrowed eyes were a good indication.
"I pay my bills. I have never delayed payment to any merchant. Ever."
"Of course, my lord. I did not mean to suggest otherwise."
There was a long pause as the man studied him from head to toe. It was a humiliating inspection, but Anthony held his ground. What he'd said was no more than the absolute truth.
Finally, Lord Redhill spoke, his tone cold. "The shop is on solid footing?"
"If it does not overextend."
"By buying cloth for gowns."
Anthony nodded. "By buying a trousseau's worth of silks and lace and ivory buttons for the daughter of an earl."
Lord Redhill grimaced. "Gwen does like silk and lace."
"And ivory, I believe. She most specifically requested ivory buttons."
Lord Redhill snorted. Then he waved impatiently at the back doorway. "Well, go on. Open up. We'll have a spot of tea while I look at Gwen's accounts. And if all is as it should be, then I will consider your proposal."
Anthony nodded, more curses sinking like stones into his gut. Lord Redhill was not going to be fobbed off easily. Which meant the odds of seeing Francine had just dwindled to almost nothing. But there was no help for it now. With an internal sigh, he opened the back door and ushered the man inside. Lord Redhill stepped in, his manner quiet, thank God. Anthony followed, shutting the door behind him. He would have spoken, but at that very moment he heard Francine's voice, and he lost all power of thought.
"It feels divine!" she cried. Her voice struck him at a gut level, as it always did. But this time she was obviously happy, her voice lifted in joy. Lord, he could just picture her face at that moment: flushed and sparkling. It was how she looked at him whenever they first caught sight of one another.
He moved instinctively toward the sound, but there was a curtain divider between the fitting area and the back room. Much as he wanted to burst through there to embrace his Francine, it wasn't appropriate for him to do such a thing. He had no hold on Francine, and even if he did, she was getting a dress fitting for God's sake. Not showing off for her lover.
So he managed a stranglehold on his lust and forced himself to back away, collapsing into a chair set for his use. Lord Redhill was leaning against a table, his head cocked as he listened to what was going on between the women.
The ladies were still talking, though Anthony hadn't heard the words. He gathered Francine had a new gown on that looked wonderful. Of course it did. Anything was better than the monstrosities she typically wore. He'd known from the beginning that Mrs. Mortimer would fix her up, would turn her into the beautiful woman she was.
And then it happened. While he was still schooling himself to be patient, Mrs. Mortimer called through the curtain to him.
"Anthony, would you mind terribly? I have something I need to ask you. Anthony?"
He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. Beside him, Lord Redhill started to do the same. Then, before Anthony found his voice, the curtain was jerked open.
Lord Redhill and Mrs. Mortimer stood face to startled face. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, right beside Mrs. Mortimer was Francine standing tall and proud in a gown that took her from beautiful to downright stunning.
Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, her eyes were sparkling with delight, and the bodice of her gown... sweet heaven, the bodice had a deep V that exposed those luscious mounds. Francine's breasts were hugged by fabric, outlined in the most glorious way, and accented by a necklace that dangled tantalizingly in her cleavage.
She looked like Boadicea come alive. Or perhaps Ruben's Venus. Or a queen straight from her boudoir. Good God, she was gorgeous. And she was standing right there in front of Lord Redhill.
"Lord Redhill!" Mrs. Mortimer cried. "What are you doing back here?"
"My God, woman, what have you done to the girl?" the man gasped.
Anthony didn't need the answer. He could see with his own eyes that Mrs. Mortimer had changed his Francine into a goddess.
"I'm terribly sorry," Mrs. Mortimer said stiffly, obviously not sorry at all, "but you do not belong here."
"I don't belong here? No decent woman belongs here! Is that what you intend to do to my sister?"
No, thought Anthony, Lady Gwen was of a different type. Different woman, different needs. Lady Gwen would never look as... as lush as Francine.
Meanwhile, Francine was eyeing the two combatants with bright eyes, following the spat even as her gaze caught and held on Anthony's. He opened his mouth to speak, to call her, to say something, for God's sake, but no sound came out. She was so damned beautiful!
When he had nothing to say, he watched Francine turn away from him and step right up to Lord Redhill.
"What has she done to me?" she demanded. Then when no one answered, she actually stamped her foot. "Tell me! What has she done?"
Lord Redhil
l cleared his throat, his color climbing high into his face. "You seem like a nice young woman," he said gently, "but this... woman... has dressed you as a... a..."
"A tart?" Francine asked, her voice shaking slightly.
Lord Redhill shook his head, even as he said, "Yes. Well, not exactly a tart. Much higher class than the usual flyer. But I'm afraid no man can look at you like that and think of anything but... but..." His voice apparently failed him and he looked away, his gaze momentarily falling onto Anthony. "Oh, bloody hell," the man groaned as he stepped directly in front of Anthony, blocking the view. "Well, you can see exactly what happens when you are dressed like that. Anthony, I believe I should like that tea now."
Anthony didn't answer. In truth, he barely heard Lord Redhill speak at all. He had moved to look again at the vision that was his Francine. His Francine. When had he come to think of her as his own?
Damn! He had the irrational urge to strip the gown off her and put her back in one of her shapeless sacks. Perhaps one with big ugly bows on it so no one but him would know what glory was beneath.
Meanwhile, Lord Redhill lost his patience. He snapped his fingers in front of Anthony's eyes. "Anthony!" the man barked. "Tea!"
"Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course. Yes. Tea. Right away..." he babbled in response. His mind was still so full of Francine. But at Lord Redhill's steely glare—and Mrs. Mortimer's too—Anthony pulled his errant thoughts together. He forced himself to leave the room, to make tea, even though his thoughts were completely consumed with the vision of Francine dressed as a queen.
Then a moment later, he heard Francine speak, her words distinct and filled with glee.
"I want three more dresses like this!" she cried. "No, ten more! I shall have my entire wardrobe redone just as you think best!"
That was it, Anthony realized with dread. Now she would have gentlemen aplenty, some of them titled. Compared to them, Anthony was nothing but an upstart clerk. Now there was no hope that her father would consider Anthony. And worse, neither would she.
Chapter 8
Did she look good? Was she pretty?
Francine thought maybe she was, but Anthony hadn't looked happy at all. She thought she looked good. Mrs. Mortimer thought she did. And even Lord Redhill, well, he didn't think she looked good per se. According to him, she looked sensual and lust-inspiring. And that, of course, was better than looking good!
Except she didn't want Lord Redhill to think about her that way. She wanted Anthony to. And he had appeared downright miserable as he left the room to get tea.
Francine sighed and wondered what she should do now.
"Don't be slumping right now," snapped Penny, the girl who was measuring her foot for slippers. "You'll throw off the numbers. Plus you'll ruin the line of that dress, and Wendy hates that because it strains the stitching."
Francine straightened immediately, even as she looked at the girl at her feet. In the weeks that she'd been coming to the shop, she and Penny had become friends of a sort. They were of the same age and could talk easily. But whereas Francine seemed to drift through life looking for things to do, Penny seemed overburdened and exhausted half the time. No wonder, given that she had a boy still in nappies to care for. Some said it was her son, but Mrs. Mortimer said Tommy was Penny's younger brother. It didn't matter which. The point was that Penny was alone in the world except for the boy, and that made life extra hard.
"Do you think they're right?" Francine asked, her mind still on Anthony. "Do you think I'm pretty in this dress?"
Penny rocked back on her heels, looking at her with serious eyes. "I think you've always been pretty. But I think your father has these wrong ideas, and you're angry about them. So you dress badly and eat a lot of sweets."
Francine's eyes widened in shock. Could it be true? Over the last weeks, she'd confided in Penny, told her things she'd never told anyone else. That meant Penny knew her better than almost anyone. "You think I look ugly on purpose?"
Penny straightened to her full height which was just a bit taller than Francine. "I think fathers are selfish sometimes."
Francine bit her lip, feeling the ache build again right beneath her stomach. It had become a constant presence these days, one that often threatened to overwhelm her as day after day slipped by without a solution. "Papa gives me everything, but it all comes with one demand — that I marry a title. He doesn't even think about me. Just his grandson!"
Penny grimaced. "Some of the gents aren't that bad."
"They're horrible!" Francine cried. "And Papa's already mailed the contract. I'm supposed to marry a lackwit!"
Penny leaned forward, her expression canny. "Is there someone you do want to marry?"
Francine's eyes slid away. She'd never mentioned Anthony by name, but it was clear that Penny had already guessed that Francine was in love. "Is it obvious?"
"Only to me. But if you want someone other than that lackwit, you're going to have to force your father to understand."
"I've tried! You don't know how many different ways I've tried to make him understand!"
Penny folded her arms across her chest. "You're of age, aren't you?"
Francine nodded.
"Marry whomever you want, then. But do it quickly! Assuming the man's got a good job. Is he a good man?"
"The best!" She'd thought about this already, thought about eloping one night to Gretna Green. That would be wonderfully romantic, but then they'd have to come back to London and face everybody. Papa would be furious and since the marriage contract was already signed, he might have to give her dowry to the lackwit. Anthony would lose his job, and then they'd both be penniless. She was willing to risk it. She wanted Anthony enough, but her mind balked at the thought of that future. She knew exactly how much Anthony's dreams depended on the money and experience he was gaining right now. All of that would be destroyed if he lost his job now.
Meanwhile, Penny was still talking, her expression fierce. "You have to be more forceful," she said. "I didn't realize just how much I could do until I was forced to. My parents died and I've got Tommy to look after, but all of a sudden I've found an answer. I can do what I want here. I'm stronger than what they say, and I'm better than what my father thought!"
Francine sat down slowly on the nearby bench. It was almost as if her knees had gone out, but her attention was firmly fixed on the passionate woman before her. Penny was so strong. It took her breath away.
"I want to be like you," she breathed.
Penny blinked, then abruptly ducked her head. "Why would you want that? You have parents, money—"
"You have independence. Freedom."
Penny swallowed. "It's hard."
"You're strong enough." She lifted her chin. "I want to be strong enough, too." She looked at Penny who was busy writing down measurements and then arranging sketches to show Francine different types of slippers. "How do you survive?" she wondered out loud.
Penny shrugged. "I work. I make these sketches and take the measurements."
"But that's an apprentice's job. You can't make enough money..." Then she understood, and her estimation of the woman rose a thousandfold. "You make the shoes."
Penny's eyes widened in panic. "Of course not!" she cried. "Everyone knows girls can't make shoes. They're not strong enough."
"But I bet you can." She looked at Penny's arms and strong hands. "I bet you've been making shoes for a very long time."
"Hush!" the woman cried. "It's not true! You can't—"
Francine grabbed Penny's hands. "I won't tell. I swear! And you can't tell about me and Anthony."
Penny blinked. "Anthony? Bookkeeper Anthony?"
Francine grinned and nodded, then pressed a hand to her mouth. "You think we could do it?"
Penny released a low whistle. "Doesn't he work for your father?"
Francine nodded.
Penny didn't answer. She just shook her head and looked down at the shoe designs.
Francine felt her whole body deflate. "You're right. I can't—
"
"Anthony has been whistling lately. Did you know that? I've heard him come in to do the books. Last two times, he was whistling. He's never done that before."
Francine looked up, not understanding. "He whistles?"
Penny nodded. "I knew he was falling in love. I knew it. He looked happy. Very tired, but still happy." Was there a wistfulness in her tone? A quiet longing?
Francine thought there was. After all, she'd heard it often enough in her own voice. "You fancy him, don't you?"
Penny sighed, the sound coming from deep within. "Not him, exactly. He's nice and smart and all. Handsome, too."
Francine giggled. "Very handsome."
Penny grinned. "Very handsome," she echoed. "But he's not the one for me. He's in love with you."
"Oh no! We haven't spoken about—"
"Doesn't matter. I can see it. And do you love him?"
Now it was Francine's turn to look away. But a moment later, she turned back, her chin lifting in defiance though there was no one here to defy. "Yes," she said firmly. "Yes, I do."
"Well then, you'll find a way."
"I will, won't I? I will!" Francine abruptly wrapped her arms around the woman in an impulsive hug. It was clear that Penny was surprised, but she returned the gesture quickly enough. And when they separated, Francine looked earnestly into her new friend's eyes. "Will you do me a favor? Will you bring him in here?"
Penny looked around. The seamstress Wendy had disappeared a few minutes ago. Mrs. Mortimer and Lord Redhill were in the front talking. If Penny left, that would mean Anthony and she could be alone.
"All right," Penny said firmly. "But mind he does marry you. Won't help anybody if you get with child before the vows."
Francine gasped. She shouldn't have. Of course that's what people would think when she had secret meetings with Anthony. And given what they'd already done, it wasn't a far stretch to imagine getting pregnant. But in truth, she hadn't thought about it. She'd simply wanted to be with Anthony. To talk to him, to touch him, and yes, to be touched and kissed and caressed by him, too. But a baby? To lie with him?
