Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  Returning to Lady Cecelia, she thought her face was composed again, serene. A swift, sly wipe of her hands on her skirt disposed of the dampness on her palms.

  “I hear you’ve made an enemy of the Baroness Schofield, Miss Robbins,” the lady remarked casually. “She spent the entire evening railing against you at Almack’s. What can you have done to her?” Her expression suggested she knew exactly what Molly had done.

  “I believe we had a difference of opinion on style, your ladyship.”

  “Perhaps it was not a difference that came between you, but a correlation.”

  “I don’t follow, madam.”

  “A similarity in male protectors.” Lady Cecelia’s laughter felt like the sharp, brittle pricks of icicles. “Don’t look so appalled, Miss Robbins. I could hardly care less about the baroness—a cheap and tawdry creature. Mutton dressed as lamb. She got above herself, in any case. Serves her right that the earl threw her over. I am not the only one relieved to see her back in her place. If she continues to speak ill of you, I guarantee you’ll be rushed off those little feet of yours with new orders. Now do tell me you intend to make something for me in that new patterned silk over there. I absolutely cannot live without it.”

  Molly recovered, somehow, and hurried to fetch the silk.

  As days passed and more customers ventured into her new shop, Molly realized that some came merely to see a curiosity, like a two-headed calf at the fair. Sly sideways glances caught her with sudden jabs and then hurriedly withdrew to study her designs instead.

  “Who cares if they come because they’re nosy?” said Kate with enviable, breezy confidence. “They’ll stay for the gowns, won’t they? They know you’re the best in all London. Whatever brings them to the shop, it will be your skill that keeps their custom.”

  Molly hoped it was true, but self-doubt crept in and would not leave. It was easy for Kate to be careless, for none of this would affect her once she went home to Aylesbury—or wherever she truly came from. There was no going home for Molly Robbins.

  ***

  “I am honored that you can spend a few hours with me tonight.” Sinjun grinned. “Your obsession has kept you busy these past few days.”

  Carver relaxed in the chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Obsession? Yes, it was a good word for what she had become. “I have to let her rest sometimes, don’t I?” He missed her tonight, but she had a gown to finish and told him in plain terms that she did not wish to be disturbed. He supposed he ought to abide by her wishes, and anyway, she would have her assistants with her at the shop.

  “Quite true. Although you can always rest when you’re dead.” His friend ordered brandy from the attendant, who quickly retreated to fetch it. “I hear your sister’s given Grey his congé.”

  “I believe it was a mutual decision,” he replied cautiously. “No hearts broken.”

  “And what now for Lady Mercy?”

  “She’s gone away for a while. Can’t say I blame her, with all those tongues stabbing her in the back.” He wasn’t about to tell anyone that she was making plans to return to the country, or that he’d given her his blessing. Truth was, he couldn’t be very angry with her about Rafe Hartley, since he was misbehaving quite severely with Rafe’s former fiancée. It was a tangled web from which he felt no inclination to extract himself.

  “It’s a good thing she’s gone, Danforthe. I can’t imagine she was very amused by your latest dalliance.”

  Carver merely shrugged and folded his newspaper.

  “Do tell me what you find to do all those hours with your Mouse, holed up in her shop,” Rothespur continued with an arch smile. “I don’t mean the physical, of course. That much is obvious.”

  “Then what the blazes do you mean?”

  “Conversation, for instance. What on earth can you find to talk about?”

  Carver tossed the paper down and waited while the attendant delivered their glasses on a silver tray. Then he sat forward. “Sometimes we don’t talk at all. I simply enjoy her company.” He tried to explain but couldn’t find the right words.

  “She’s had no formal schooling?”

  “No. A year or two in the small village school, I believe.”

  “No tutors or governesses? No other instruction of any kind?”

  “Since her family needed the wage she earned, they were hardly in a position to send her away to school, or hire a music tutor. I daresay they thought dance instruction might be ever so slightly superfluous.” He took a large, decidedly uncivilized mouthful of brandy. The heat seared his throat, leaving his voice frayed and rasping when he added, “She appears to manage perfectly well with her natural talents.”

  Sinjun rubbed his eyebrow with one finger and shook his head. “I just wonder what you can have in common when you’re upright.”

  He scowled. What exactly, he thought, had a governess, a French dance instructor, and a year at an expensive finishing academy done for Sinjun’s sister, Anne? Sweet and lively as she was, the girl could be annoying as a squeaky coach wheel on a long journey, and she still frequently burst out with odd remarks to unintentionally embarrass her brother. Anne Rothespur couldn’t hold a conversation about anything without getting distracted by a butterfly or a pair of diamond earrings across the room. His Mouse, on the other hand, always gave her full attention and absorbed what she heard. “We manage,” he muttered, curt. “She’s very intelligent and charming, as a matter of fact. Quick witted.”

  “I didn’t mean she is in any way stupid, Danforthe. No, of course. She’s certainly smart enough to have seduced you. She has you by the nutmegs, to be sure.” He chortled loudly, and Carver’s scowl deepened.

  Yes, she had seduced him. Somehow. With her cunning wiles. She’d made a pattern for his seduction just as skillfully as she planned her designs. He knew that. She took control of their situation with that contract, but when they were in bed, he had the upper hand. There she was still the novice, still his eager pupil. The thought stirred his blood, quickened his pulse.

  “But it’s not as if you can take her out anywhere, can you, old chap? I suppose that’s why you stay locked away with her out of sight. Meanwhile, here I am, stuck with Skiffington and that dreadful bore Covey for company. If you deemed her rather more presentable, her company wouldn’t be taking you away so much, and we’d all get to discover her charming quick wit.”

  He seemed to infer there was something to be ashamed of about Margaret—as if Carver hid her away on purpose. “I did suggest to her recently that we get our friends together for a small evening party.”

  Rothespur looked alert. “Excellent.” Amusement rippled through his blue eyes. “Why don’t I ask Anne, and we’ll host a gathering in Hanover Square. She’s wanted to have a small party, something to cut her teeth on, so to speak, as a hostess. And she’s very fond of your seamstress. I’d like to meet this young woman who has you so much in her thrall. Meet her properly.”

  Carver took another hasty swig of brandy. Sinjun was right; it was time he brought her out in public and showed her off. He didn’t want anyone thinking he was reluctant to do so, and she surely wouldn’t want that either.

  ***

  She shrank away. “No. I don’t want to. I can’t. It’s impossible.”

  “Margaret, it will be a quiet, intimate evening with friends. There is nothing to fear.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she answered immediately, her face ghostly pale.

  He told her to invite some of her own acquaintances, if that would make her more comfortable. “My oldest friend wants to meet you properly—socially. You’ll like Sinjun. He’s a very proper, well-behaved gentleman. Not like me.”

  “But I won’t fit in. It will be awkward, distressing.”

  Carver put his hands on her waist and drew her close. “Why not ask your friends if they would like to attend?”

  “They won’t want to. I know already.” Her stubborn little face was closed off, turned away. Like a child avoiding her bath, he mused.


  “Just ask them, Margaret. For me.” Gently he kissed her brow. “I thought you would want to be a part of my world.”

  “I like things the way they are.”

  “What happened to ‘life should move forward, my lord, not lie stagnant’?”

  She looked at him again, studied his lips. “I have noticed, sir, that although you accuse women of employing selective senses, your own memory retains the things I say only when they might be used for your own advantage.”

  “I’m a member of the House of Lords, sweetling. I’m well trained in subjective hearing.”

  That earned him a tiny smile and then a willful shake of her head. “In any case, I spoke of our arrangement. I prefer the secrecy. Perhaps it matters little to you, but I don’t want the entire world to know about us.”

  “Of course not. These are a few of my close friends. You and I will simply be two guests among others.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You must trust me, Margaret, I will keep you safe. I would never put you in harm’s way.”

  Her eyes flashed up at him. “But you did already. Our very first night together, remember?”

  As if he might forget his unfortunate failure to withdraw from her body before he spent. It was the first time in his life that had ever happened, and his dratted conscience hadn’t shut up about it ever since, despite every effort to silence it. He was appalled by his lapse, wondering at the depths of this spell she’d cast over him. “You are right, Margaret. I was careless that first night, but it won’t happen again.” He added with a sudden grin, “Certainly not in the Earl of Saxonby’s drawing room. Although it might liven up the party though, don’t you think?”

  She groaned.

  “It would definitely make the Society pages,” he teased, feeling her tension melting away, her soft, reluctant chuckles drifting against his jaw as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “Would there be illustrations of our wicked embrace to accompany the story?”

  “I expect so, Danny. Vastly exaggerating your dimensions.”

  “How could they possibly exaggerate my dimensions, Mouse?”

  “True. They could not make your nose any larger than it is in life.”

  They both laughed at that, although he tried not to. She got the upper hand with him too oft as it was, with her cunning, circuitous drollery.

  He held her for a moment, enjoying the soft warmth of her body in his arms and the smart trot of her lively heart pressed to his chest. Then she said, “I don’t need you to protect me from your friends, Danny. I can stand up for myself. We country girls are bred from hearty stock, and I have very strong bones.”

  “I know. Look how you stood up to me.”

  “Until I succumbed to temptation,” she muttered wryly.

  “Yes. There is that.” He kissed the top of her head. Her rich brown hair slid silkily against his lips and caught on the rough hairs of his chin where he hadn’t shaved today.

  “I was once a good, honest woman, but I let you despoil me, and now look at me.”

  Carver leaned back. “You seduced me, Mouse.”

  She denied it, as always. “What did I know of seduction? I was an innocent. I was a maid, and you ruined me.”

  Although she spoke teasingly—or he hoped she did—Carver had begun to feel remorse about that. He had, in fact, greeted several new “feelings” of late, and all thanks to her. Feelings, he’d always said, were the domain of hysterical women. He couldn’t understand it. She evidently did not belong with Rafe Hartley, and it wasn’t as if he’d stolen her away on his horse. It was her choice not to marry. But two uncontestable facts remained: he’d taken her virginity, and he’d never before been any woman’s first experience. It was a tremendous responsibility, he now discovered, to ruin a maid.

  “Don’t fret, Danny. I went to your bed with the full knowledge that there would never be a marriage.” She looked up at him with large, vulnerable eyes and expanded black velvet pupils. There seemed to be a question hanging there, but for him or for herself, he wasn’t sure.

  “But I have treated you well, have I not?” He didn’t think she had cause to complain, for he was sweeter to her than he’d ever been to anyone.

  Her lashes lowered, and he saw her bottom lip indent where she tucked it under her teeth for a moment.

  “Have I ever made you regret our contract?” he asked again, an uncomfortable, nagging sensation pulling on his nerves like the cold hands of beggars in the street. What did she want from him now? With the baroness, or any other woman in the past, he would know what she was thinking at once. Not so with Margaret.

  “I do not regret a thing,” she whispered.

  “So you will come to the party?” he urged, drawing their conversation back to his purpose before she could distract him any further from it. “I’ll make certain there’s pineapple tart.”

  She pushed her way out of his arms and sat on her chaise, staring into the fire, hands clasped on her knees. “I won’t know how to act, what to do. I’ll always be more at home in a poultry yard than a drawing room.”

  Carver flipped up his coattails and sat beside her. “Then I’ll teach you.”

  “You?” She snorted.

  “I can tell you all you need to know, young lady. All the tricks.”

  “I’m not sure I need to know your sort of tricks, Danny.”

  “Hush, woman.” He took her clenched hands and separated them. “Pay heed.”

  She looked at him, her chocolate eyes brimming with skepticism.

  Carver kissed each of her palms and returned them to her lap. “Now, first thing to remember, always wait to be introduced to a gentleman before speaking to him or dancing.”

  “There won’t be dancing, will there?” Two hot dots of pink appeared on her cheeks.

  “Perhaps not, but when attending a small, informal gathering, one never knows. And never dance with the same man thrice at—”

  “I am not utterly ignorant of etiquette,” she exclaimed, suddenly churlish. “We have manners in the country too, you know, Danny.”

  He sighed. “Of course.”

  “We are not a mindless rabble, just because we don’t count in the eyes of the beau monde.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

  “What am I allowed to talk about? What do I do with my hands? These are small things that will single me out for mockery. How do I sit? What do I look at?”

  She cared very much about the details. He might have known from seeing her at work with a needle. “Very well, surly madam. The most important thing to remember is don’t fidget. Always be composed. A lady’s hands should move gracefully, not flap about like fins. She should enter a room neither too quickly nor too slowly. She should greet the hostess first and, when invited to do so, she should sit—elegantly, like a fallen leaf, not a lump of custard—with her knees together, slightly to one side. Listen to the conversation of others and take your cues from them. You might make a flattering remark or two about the decorations and furnishings in the room, but not too much. Everything in moderation. Do not be self-conscious. Be yourself. If you believe you belong, others will too.”

  “All sound and practical advice given with ease by a man who has never felt out of place in his life.” She was quite beautiful when she forgot to be plain, he mused. It was not the cultivated, highly maintained look of the women he usually knew. It was utterly natural, unmanipulated.

  He laid a hand on her knee. “When you are with me, you can never be out of place. No one would dare mock you in my presence.”

  “How nice. I daresay they will not hesitate to do so the moment I leave.”

  “Oh, and your friends never do that, I suppose,” he replied dryly, sliding his hand along her thigh.

  “I’m sure there is a law somewhere, Danny, about not bringing people of different ranks together.”

  “Too late,” he whispered, leaning close to lick the warm, scented space behind her ear.

  She pouted. “And kindly remove your hand. I�
��m positive that is not proper etiquette.”

  “No. but it’s the Earl of Everscham’s rule. You’re my mistress, and I do with you as…” he kissed her nose, “…I…” he kissed her chin, “…please.” Finally he found her lips, and fortunately for him, she had no further argument.

  Nineteen

  On the evening of the Rothespur party, Molly was able to recruit Mrs. Slater and Frederick Dawes to attend with her. A bad cold kept Mrs. Bathurst in bed, and Mrs. Lotterby had volunteered to watch young master Slater.

  Frederick’s carefree manner and dashing confidence was such that he could enter a drawing room anywhere, charm the occupants, and make himself at home before the first sherry was drunk. On the other hand, there was bashful Mrs. Slater, whose manners were either self-consciously rigid, or cowed and timid. Molly knew it would be a struggle to make her talk at all in exalted company, but the sad lady admitted she had not enjoyed an evening out since her husband’s demise. It was plain to see the time under her controlling brother’s thumb had left her unsure of herself and discouraged, so downtrodden that any confidence she once knew was severely stunted. Molly thought it would be a good deed to bring her to the party, and with Fred to do all the talking, they would both be saved from having to do much of it themselves.

  When they arrived at the Rothespurs’ house, Lady Anne dashed over to greet her, excited about playing the hostess at her very first party. When introduced, Mrs. Slater was duly declared to possess “enviable cheekbones,” and Frederick—already known to the hostess, of course—was quickly ambushed with a commission.

  “I want you to paint my portrait, to immortalize my first Season, Freddie.”

  Freddie? Bemused, Molly looked at her friend, who replied with a smile, “I would be happy to oblige, Lady Anne.”

  Satisfied, Anne tucked her arm under Molly’s and led her farther into the drawing room. “My brother had chosen an awful old fellow to paint me. My eyeballs were so offended by the sight of him that they could barely open in his presence. He had hairy nostrils, his breath reeked of onions, and he complained that I never sat still enough—can you imagine such a thing? So after I met Freddie, I said I would sit only for him and no one else. I do hope you don’t mind.”