But would her dignity? Inis had never liked being fitted for dresses and gowns. It was embarrassing to have seamstresses lament over her lean measurements and tsk over her lack of curvy hips or fret over fluffing out her bodices with ruffles or lacy fichus to make up for her lack of a big bosom. She still didn’t relish the idea of Alex watching.
“Nae.”
He sighed. “You are quite stubborn, you know.”
“So I’ve been told,” Inis replied. “I willnae have ye be looking at me in my chemise.”
He looked amused again, but he nodded and spoke rapidly to the modiste in French before he turned back.
Relieved, Inis followed the woman into the back room where several seamstresses were busy at work. Madame Dubois clapped her hands and one of them came forward. The modiste spoke in rapid-fire French and the other woman nodded, then disappeared through the curtain to the front room where the bolts of cloth were kept.
A curtain partitioned off an area to allow for privacy in measuring, and Inis was grateful. She wasn’t a prude, but she didn’t care for snide comments made about her lack of feminine assets. In this case, though, she wore no stockings and the coarse material of the dress made her look like Alex had indeed taken her off the streets. At least Madame Dubois was professional enough to pretend not to notice Inis’s bare feet and the too-big faded chemise.
She gasped when the seamstress returned, nearly invisible behind a dozen bolts of material in an array of colors.
“I just need one dress,” she said.
“Monsieur Ashley wanted you to have a choice in colors and fabric,” Madame Dubois said. “Which is your favorite?”
Inis looked over the bolts the other woman had laid on an adjacent table. The materials—linen, superfine muslin, soft wool—were suitable for day dresses. No satins, silks, or velvets among them. At least Alex wasn’t trying to impose his idea for a full wardrobe, then. The colors ranged from pale blues and lilacs to light greens and yellows. Thankfully, the seamstress had avoided pinks, which clashed with red hair.
“The lilac, I think,” Inis said, fingering a bolt of soft, finely woven linen.
Madame Dubois nodded her head. “An excellent choice. Come, see yourself in the looking glass.”
Inis turned to the long mirror set in a mahogany Chippendale frame, balanced with four cabriole legs and sturdy claw-and-ball feet. Madame Dubois held up a length of yellow muslin. “I think this is a good color for you, too,” she said and then put it down to pick up a green. “And this shade is pale enough that it brings out the golden streaks in your hair.”
Inis hadn’t been aware she had any gold in her hair, but as the modiste spread out a length of the green cloth, Inis saw what she meant.
“Perhaps I will take that then instead of the lilac.”
If the mirror had not been to her side, her peripheral vision would not have caught Alex parting the curtain to enter the back room where she stood in a state of undress. Three things crossed her mind. She needed to cover herself, grab her dress, which was too far away, and bolt from the room, but her limbs wouldn’t move. She could only stand there and stare into the mirror, feeling like a wooden puppet whose strings were drawn too tight.
Alex appeared not to notice. “I found this out in front,” he said as he unrolled a length of royal-blue satin from a bolt and came forward to drape it over her shoulder. His fingers grazed her arm as he did so, the feather-light touch breaking her state of inertia. She felt his closeness and caught his scent—fresh soap and leather—as he reached his arm over her other shoulder to draw the fabric completely across her front.
“You see how it makes your eyes shine like sapphires?”
She hardly heard what he said. She was all too aware of standing inside his warm-scented embrace wearing nothing more than a chemise. She moved slightly, which was a mistake. Sweet Mary and all the saints. Not only could she feel the wool of his top coat brushing her bare arms, but she had backed against his chest, which was as solid as an oak door. Alex adjusted the satin, shifting his weight as he did so, his legs brushing the sides of her thighs. Her knees felt like butter—rapidly melting butter—as his body heat encircled her. She was quite trapped, not able to move forward, the strip of material binding her as surely as any rope.
“Absolu,” Madame Dubois exclaimed. “And perhaps a necklace of sapphires?”
Alex nodded. “I think you are right.”
Inis’s breath caught as he brought his thumb up and lightly traced her neckline. His thumb was callused, creating a pleasant friction against the soft skin of her throat. He leaned closer, and his warm breath teased her ear. “Perhaps a single strand interspersed with diamonds? Would you like that?”
Inis stared into the mirror and caught Alex’s gaze. His eyes looked more the color of a forest at the moment and one dark brow arched up in question. He was obviously waiting for an answer. What had been the question?
“Sapphires and diamonds. Parfait,” Madame Dubois said.
Jewels. They were talking about jewels. Her mind began to function again as Alex let the satin slip down and stepped back to fold it over the bolt. She reached for her dress and pulled it over her head, dislodging the pins that kept her hair somewhat in place. It now cascaded wildly in all directions. She tossed her head to get the long strands out of her eyes while at the same time trying to do the buttons to her bodice. Thankfully, servants’ dresses closed in front, and she didn’t require assistance. Her fingers shook, though, and when she was finished, she noticed she had an extra buttonhole at the top, but she wasn’t about to undo the blasted thing. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Sapphires and diamonds will nae be necessary, my lord.” She eyed the blue satin Madame Dubois now was holding. It really was a pretty color. “I will nae need a ball gown, either.”
“But you will,” Alex said. “I do not intend to keep you hidden forever.”
“Excusez moi,” Madame Dubois said diplomatically. “I shall go see to your account.”
Inis waited until the woman was out of earshot. “What do you think you are doing, Mr. Ashley?”
“Alexander, please,” Alex said and picked up her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles. “You will look beautiful in that gown.”
She snatched her hand away, but not before the soft warmth of his lips had seared through her skin and up her arm like a hot iron. The saints preserve her. What kind of dark magic did the man possess? She was not a simpering, flea-brained debutante given to fluttering fans and smelling salts. Nor was she going to be his next mistress in waiting.
“’Tis nae need for flattery. I ken what I agreed to do.” Inis eyed him. “And what I dinna agree to do.”
An odd expression crossed Alex’s face. One that Inis couldn’t decipher. Nor was his answer any clearer when he gave it.
“As you wish,” he said.
…
Damnation. He should never have touched her. Alex walked the short distance to White’s after placing Inis in the carriage with instructions to the driver to take her home. He didn’t trust himself in an enclosed space alone with her at the moment.
If the footman who opened the door to the club or the waiter who took his drink order were surprised to see him so early in the afternoon, neither of them gave expression to the fact. Which, of course, was the epitome of good service. He hoped his own face didn’t show the turmoil he was feeling.
The place was nearly empty, but Alex took a seat at a table in a corner of the main room. The last thing he needed right now was some aristocrat wanting to socialize. Or worse, to run into the Earl of Benton, Miranda’s husband. She had sent Alex two notes since their assignation. The first was to thank him for attending her soiree, but the undercurrent of the message had been to thank him for the time spent in bed. The second note had not been as subtle. She wanted to arrange an accidental meeting in the park. Alex hadn’t answered either note. The countess should know he never returned. Still, he would rather not have to be te
diously polite to her husband at the moment.
He hardly noticed when the waiter put down his brandy and slipped quietly away with saying a word. Another mark of excellent service. He would need to leave a very generous tip. He picked up the snifter, swirled the cognac twice, and took a bigger gulp than was polite. The liquid slid smoothly down his throat, waiting until it settled in his stomach to emit its fiery flash.
The brandy wasn’t the only fire he was toying with. He took another swallow, smaller this time, and settled back in the padded leather chair. He hadn’t meant to do anything more than get Inis measured for some decent clothes. When he found the blue satin, he’d instantly pictured her in a gown of it, preferably at a ball at his damn brother’s place. He could have simply put the bolt on the counter and waited for Madame Dubois to reappear. Instead, it was as if some invisible hand had shoved him toward the curtain and an imp had infiltrated his brain, using the material as an excuse to enter the backroom and see Inis in her chemise.
He hadn’t acted like such an idiot since his school days at Oxford.
But he hadn’t stopped there. He’d felt propelled to advance toward Inis and drape the material over her shoulder. The slight brush of his fingers against her bare arm had been like opening a floodgate. He’d embraced her, inhaled her sweet, warm, womanly scent, and when she’d stumbled back, he’d tugged on the strip of satin to effectively press her to him. Her delicious little bottom fit perfectly against him and he felt her body heat through the thin chemise. He’d used every inch of willpower he had to not let his hands cup her breasts and knead them until her nipples peaked. Somehow, he’d managed to only trace her throat and keep from nibbling the soft lobe of her ear.
He couldn’t remember another woman he’d wanted so much. But Inis was in his employ, and he had no right to take advantage of her in any way.
A fact she had reminded him of in no uncertain terms.
He sighed, drained his glass, and signaled for another. He might just spend the rest of the afternoon and evening here getting foxed.
It was safer than going home.
Chapter Seven
Inis felt a little ridiculous being let out by the front door of Dansworth House when she returned from the shopping expedition, but she supposed the driver of the hired carriage had no idea she worked in the stable and was not a guest.
The coachman climbed off the bench, opened the carriage door, and put down the step. Inis exited, thinking Alex had probably tipped the man well to do so, or maybe he was impressed with the size of Dansworth House. In either case, he stood there waiting for her to go to the massive front door, so she couldn’t very well start walking around to the back of the house. She could well imagine what Evans, the butler, would think when he found her on the steps. She didn’t think it would be positive.
Inis smiled at the driver. “Thank ye so much for bringing me home. Ye doona have to wait.”
The man didn’t budge. “The gent said I was to wait until ya were inside.”
Drat Alexander Ashley. This was probably supposed to be part of a lesson in deportment. Ladies didn’t go around to the back door. Not that she looked the part in the ill-fitting dress she wore. She kept the smile plastered on her face. “Very well.”
She turned and ascended the steps, lifted the heavy brass knocker, and tapped it twice. With the speed at which the front door was opened, she realized Evans must have been standing watching by one of the mullioned windows on either side of the entrance.
He blocked the entry, looking past her. “Where is his lordship?”
“He dinna tell me where he was going.” For a moment, she thought the butler might not let her in, but then he stepped aside with an almost imperceptible arch of one brow on his otherwise impassive face. She bit back a grin. No doubt he felt it beneath his dignity to hold the door, the front door, open for a groom. The only thing worse than snobby aristocrats were snobby servants. Butlers seemed to be the worst of the lot. Her uncle’s man acted much the same way, although not to her, of course. She nodded ever so slightly and sailed by Evans. She heard a slight huff as he closed the door, but she didn’t look back.
She changed quickly back into her breeches and shirt once she got to her small room and was about to go out to the stables when Elsie tapped on her open door.
“You have half the staff in a complete dither,” the maid said as she stepped inside.
“Why is that?”
“Fern told everyone last night that his lordship approached her and asked for her dress.” Elsie giggled. “She tried to make it sound like he was asking her to take off the one she was wearin’.”
Inis frowned. That thought had not occurred to her. “Was it?”
“Oh, no.” Elsie shook her head vigorously. “His lordship would never take advantage of a servant like that.”
Inis bit her lip. Alexander Ashley had certainly taken advantage of her today walking into the backroom when she was wearing nothing but a chemise. Rake that he was, she knew he’d done it on purpose. For an instant, her body warmed as she remembered being in his embrace. Lordy. If she took a deep breath, she could still smell his cologne where he’d touched her bare arms. She stopped halfway through doing just that and exhaled. “Mr. Ashley doesnae flirt with any of ye?”
Elsie looked aghast. “Flirt? Why would he?”
She probably had a point. From what Caroline had said, Alex kept himself quite busy concentrating on the wives of the ton. “I thought Mr. Ashley had a wee bit of a reputation, ’tis all.”
“That may be with the likes of Society.” Elsie shrugged. “But many of us want to work here because his lordship shows respect, not like some of the other aristos.”
That was true. Inis had never seen or heard him insult a servant or make unnecessary demands. “So what has everyone in a dither then?”
“You.” Elsie grinned. “When we saw you leaving the house today in Fern’s dress and his lordship puttin’ you in a carriage… Well, it sparked talk.”
Inis could just imagine what kind of talk, too. She needed to offer some kind of explanation, or the servants wouldn’t start thinking she had given her virtue to Alex or had thoughts of becoming his leman. Once the new dress arrived, that would only confirm the gossip. To say nothing of a blue gown, which she intended to keep well hidden.
“Ye remember when I told ye Mr. Ashley wanted to give me an education? To get rid of me brogue?”
Elsie nodded. “I remember.”
“And ye remember when Miss Nash came to call?” When the maid nodded to that, too, Inis continued. “Well, Miss Nash thought ’twould be more suitable for me to have those lessons dressed in something besides breeches, but I told Mr. Ashley I dinna have a gown.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy Elsie. “His lordship is a generous sort.”
“I fully intend to pay him back from my wages,” Inis said. When Elsie told the rest of the staff—which was inevitable since half of them were probably waiting downstairs—she wanted to make sure it was understood that the dress was not a gift in exchange for favors.
“Please tell Fern I will launder her dress myself before I return it,” Inis said. She’d have to keep the too-large shoes for now since Alexander hadn’t taken her to a shoemaker.
“No need for that,” Elsie replied. “The dress is yours. His lordship gave Fern two guineas for it.”
Inis felt her eyes widen. “Two guineas?” Sweet Mary. The homespun dress along with the worn shoes were not even worth one guinea. Paying that much would only spur more gossip.
Elsie nodded. “Fern’s gloatin’ about it, too.”
“Thank ye for telling me. I’ll have to add that amount to what I owe.” Inis managed a wan smile. “I had better get down to the stables and start earning my money.”
They walked out and down the servants’ stairs, parting ways when Elsie turned toward the kitchens and Inis went to the stable. By the time she joined the rest of the staff for dinner in the huge kitchen at dinner, the story of what had
transpired this afternoon would most likely have been blown completely out of proportion. Inis considered taking some bread and cheese to her room instead, but hiding out wasn’t going to do any good. Better to face the servants as soon as possible and squash any ideas that Alexander Ashley intended anything other than teaching her a little proper etiquette.
She was his hostler. She would do well to remember that herself instead of thinking about the backroom of Madame Dubois’s dress shop.
…
Miranda kept her face and demeanor perfectly schooled for what seemed like hours in hell before the blasted tea party was finished and she could take her leave.
Once safely inside her carriage, away from prying eyes and ears, she released her anger. Reaching up, she tore one of the curtains off a window and raked her nails into it. The material, weakened over time by sun and weather, gave way. She liked shredding things. It gave her great satisfaction to tear something apart and leave it worthless. For a moment, she was tempted to take the penknife she always carried in her reticule, jab it into the squab, and make deep cuts through the leather. But she stayed her hand. Her not-very-bright husband would believe a cat got into the carriage and went wild with the curtain, but he’d draw the line at a cat doing extensive damage to a leather seat. More likely, he’d call the physician again and make sure she was medicated.
She didn’t need to be lying in a half stupor from laudanum. Living with the Earl of Benton was boring enough. Besides, there was nothing wrong with her that a night of hard rutting with a virile man wouldn’t cure.
A man like Alexander Ashley.
She raked her fingers through the ragged curtain once more, not caring that she tore a fingernail in the process or that it bled. Jeannette Compton had purposely made her aware that Melanie Linford had enjoyed Alex’s consummate sexual skills. And Melanie, the bitch, had actually blushed. Since Miranda knew Melanie had taken lovers before, the blush was not because Alex was her first. The blush had no doubt been because of what she remembered him doing… Miranda balled the ruined curtain and threw it on the floor. She remembered quite well herself how very talented Alex’s hands and mouth were, to say nothing of the size of his manhood. He hadn’t stopped at her first climax, either. He’d made her come twice more, and she’d almost passed out the last time. Alexander Ashley had the devil’s own stamina.
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