Miss Bridget Corsar was an agreeable mistress.
It was a real pity that he intended to give her up this afternoon.
Vane opened his mouth to offer his opinion on the yellow print.
“Oh, why am I asking you?” she said, admiring her reflection in the mirror. “If you had your way, I would greet you wearing only a sheet.”
The narrow-faced seamstress glanced sharply at him.
Vane straightened as her somber dark gaze silently took his measure and seemed intrigued by what she saw. Clearing his throat, he resisted the urge to cover himself as the woman’s gaze slid to the front of his trousers. God’s blood, the woman was old enough to be his mother, he thought.
Bridget’s laughter filled the tiny private dressing room. “So pleasing to the eye, is he not?” she asked the seamstress as she looked over her left shoulder to admire her lover.
Her prize. The calculation in her pretty eyes was one of a dozen reasons why he had to get rid of her. He just prayed the small fortune he intended to spend on her new wardrobe would appease her womanly pride after his abrupt dismissal.
Blissfully ignorant of Vane’s plans for their afternoon, she confided to the seamstress, “And you should see him without his fine clothes—”
“Bridget, enough.” A bold and sensual creature, Vane would not have been astonished if Bridget asked him to undress for the other woman. He gave the seamstress an apologetic smile. “You are embarrassing Mrs.—”
What the devil was the woman’s name?
“Mrs. Gilbert, milord,” the seamstress hastily interjected. “And there is no need to worry about upsetting me. I have worked as a seamstress for thirty-eight years and have witnessed all manner of worldly things.” She nodded at Vane before her attention returned to Bridget, who stood in front of the mirror dressed only in her chemise and stays. “Pardon me for saying so, Miss Corsar. As pretty as this print is, it is not for you. Your coloring is all wrong for it.”
Bridget did not protest as Mrs. Gilbert gently tugged and gathered up the fabric in her arms. With her gaze locked on Vane’s face, there was mischief and hunger in his mistress’s vibrant blue eyes. He was well acquainted with that particular look. His body warmed in anticipation of the energetic and satisfying afternoon she was promising with her expression.
It was a shame he was giving her up. He crossed the room, his intent gaze fixed on his willing quarry.
Slightly overwhelmed by the undisguised lust she glimpsed in the couple’s faces, Mrs. Gilbert hugged the yards of yellow cloth to her chest. “I-I have several unfinished dresses. Perhaps Miss Corsar would like to view them.”
She swiftly headed for the closed curtain, sparing man and woman one final glance. “Much later,” she muttered, before she parted the cloth partition and disappeared through the narrow opening.
* * *
“No.”
Delia chased after Isabel as she stepped across the threshold of one of the many establishments they had patronized this afternoon. Both ladies nodded to gentlemen who paused to hold the door for them. “Can we not even discuss it?”
“There is little point.”
“Oh, you are being unreasonable.”
“No, Delia, I am being practical. Someone has to be.”
“But Lady Netherley—”
Isabel gave Delia a quelling look. “Hush! Until I have the opportunity to speak with the marchioness, I think it prudent that we refrain from mentioning our connection to her.”
“Why would Lady Neth”—Delia halted at Isabel’s thunderous expression—“our dear friend worry over such matters when she is the reason why we are in town at all?”
“It is complicated.”
Isabel frowned as she thought about the desperation that had driven her to accept Lady Netherley’s generous offer. Of the sacrifices she had made to raise the funds needed for the journey, and the arrangements she had made with Mrs. Willow to look after their mother. Isabel’s feelings were still raw from the horrid arguments she and her mother had had about the trip to London. Although her mother was unaware of Lady Netherley’s invitation, the notion of escaping Cotersage for London was too appealing to the older woman. Isabel ordered Mrs. Willow to use any means available to keep Mrs. Thorne from following her daughters, including tying her to the bed!
“It would be unwise for us to presume our good friend’s invitation to join her in London was anything more than civility.”
Now it was Delia’s turn to frown. “It was more than civility and you know it. One day, I overheard you and Mrs. Willow debating on how the funds should be spent.”
“I have told you more than once that listening at closed doors is an improper pastime for a lady.”
“Well, it is your fault. You never tell me anything!”
“And why should I bother when you have no patience to listen.” Or help me, Isabel added silently. She gestured blindly at the table they had approached. “What is your opinion?”
“My opinion?” Delia echoed in disbelief. “Now you want my opinion. Well, I will tell you exactly what I think—”
Both Isabel and her sister started at the low masculine growl that emanated from behind them. In unison, the women turned their heads and stared at the closed curtain.
“Oh, you wicked man!” a feminine voice murmured. A few seconds later, her peal of sensual laughter caused most of the patrons in the store to pause and glance curiously in the direction of the room.
“Care to speculate on the mischief being carried out in that private room?” Delia whispered, her voice tight with suppressed laughter.
“No, I do not,” Isabel said crisply. She took her sister by the elbow and steered her away from the curtain. “And neither should you. Come along, Delia. We have our own business to attend to.”
Isabel turned her back on the closed curtain, dismissing the unknown couple to concentrate on her tasks.
* * *
It appeared Bridget had no intention of waiting for a more discreet setting. With his arms full of a half-naked woman, Vane’s gaze shifted from the plump mounds of Bridget’s breasts to the closed curtain. It was a pity he was giving up this affectionate woman, because discretion was something he rarely practiced.
“Bridget, my pretty girl,” he drawled, groaning when her clever hand gave his half-aroused cock—thankfully still tucked in his unbuttoned trousers—a playful squeeze. “Mrs. Gilbert should be returning soon and I, for one, do not relish her discovering me bare-arsed.”
She bit his earlobe in retaliation when Vane brushed away her hands and attempted to fasten his trousers. “I do not recall you being so shy at Lady S—”
“Enough,” he ordered, his unruly body not needing any encouragement. Elderly Lady Steele would have been outraged had she learned of the liberties he and Bridget had engaged in upon her chaste bed, which was precisely the reason why they had chosen her bedchamber for their tryst. Vane clasped her by the shoulders and spun her around to face the mirror. “Now behave yourself and go tidy your hair.”
The impossible task should keep his soon-to-be-former mistress occupied until the seamstress’s return.
Bridget’s eyes narrowed as she watched him tuck in his shirt. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Momentarily distracted by the disheveled state of his clothing, he murmured, “Dare what, my dear?”
Bridget pivoted and planted her fists on her hips. “You are breaking with me.” Her fingers splayed open as she gestured at their sparse surroundings. “Here … in a dressmaker’s shop of all places!”
Vane took a step backward. “A few minutes ago, you thought it was a grand place to fondle my cock.”
She tossed her head back and sneered at him. “Bastard!”
“Can you insult me later when we have the luxury of privacy?” Vane pleaded, sending a meaningful glance at the curtain. “Besides, I had no intention of breaking with you at the dressmaker’s. What sort of gent do you think I am?”
His question gave her pause. It was for
tunate since Bridget was eyeing the chair with enthusiasm. Her lower lip trembled. “Then, this new wardrobe is not my congé?”
Vane hesitated, feeling like he was about to walk into a trap of his own making. He never enjoyed breaking with a mistress. The final encounters tended to be emotional and occasionally violent. His friend Frost was aptly named, since he was never troubled by a messy parting. Saint could also be rather cold-blooded when it came to dismissing lovers. Vane wished he weren’t so damn tenderhearted. It always got him in trouble.
“Bridget,” he began, suddenly feeling older than his eight-and-twenty years. If he told her the true reason why he was giving her up, the woman before him would likely want to spill his blood.
As the realization that she was indeed being discarded sank in, her lovely blue eyes hardened. “Very well.” While Vane was not the first protector to abandon her, she still had her pride to assuage. It was rather petty of her, but she was prepared to make Vane suffer. “You may wait beyond the curtain while Mrs. Gilbert attends me.”
Vane practically jumped out of his skin when he became aware that the seamstress was standing behind him. “Mrs. Gilbert, I do beg your pardon.” He wondered how much of their discussion had been overheard.
“My pardon isn’t the one you’ll be needing, milord,” the older woman muttered, stepping around him. “I think you will find these colors more to your liking, miss.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” Bridget said, greeting the unfinished dresses with false enthusiasm. Without glancing at Vane, she said, “You may leave us, Lord Vanewright.”
Although this had been his intention all along, Vane felt like a cowardly worm. “Bridget, be reasonable.”
“The only thing I require is your assurance that you will pay the dressmaker’s bill,” Bridget said coldly, her tone implying that she expected him to ignore it.
“Careful, Miss Corsar,” Vane said, his countenance darkening with indignation. “Lest others might think you are impugning my honor.”
“I’ll leave that to you, Lord Vanewright.” Bridget’s hand shook with fury and her daring as she caressed the green cloth folded over the seamstress’s arm. A few malicious rumors about her poor health or lack of inventiveness in the bedchamber, and Vane could potentially ruin her chances of securing a new protector. Still, she could not seem to control her tongue. “Pray leave us, my lord. Find your amusements elsewhere.”
Bridget’s parting insult might have been well deserved, but it still pricked his temper. “I shall, indeed, Miss Corsar. Amiable companions are as plentiful as pins in a dressmaker’s shop. I wager I will not have to wander far to find one.”
Chapter Four
Vane’s parting words to Bridget had been spoken in anger.
Vane had no intention of securing another mistress this season.
With his mother continuously harping that he should cease his frivolous dalliances and find a genteel lady to take as his wife, it might bode well to give up females while his family resided in London.
Vane could almost hear his friends’ snorts of disbelief and unabashed laughter at such a ridiculous notion. Each season, there was always a pretty lady or two who caught his eye. His liaisons were casual, flirtatious, and blessedly short-lived. When one of his lovers began hinting about marriage or arrangements that required solicitors and annual annuities, the back of his neck began to itch, an irksome sign that it was time to break with the lady.
Absently Vane slid his hand to the nape of his neck and scratched just below his hairline, convinced the unpleasant parting with the vivacious Bridget Corsar had been inevitable.
“No, not that one,” a crisp authoritative feminine voice instructed, distracting Vane from his gloomy thoughts. “Let us take a closer look at the blue.”
Vane grinned. How fortuitous that attractive females were indeed as plentiful as pins in a dressmaker’s shop!
Intrigued, he abandoned his post near the curtain and strolled to one of the tables. To his right, two beautiful golden-haired Venuses were admiring the evening dress a female shop clerk had displayed on a bare wooden table.
“Too staid,” the taller of the twosome declared. “The bodice is clearly designed for a mature lady. Isabel, perhaps you might want to consider this dress for yourself?”
Turning away, Vane masked his soft laugh by coughing into his hand. The younger one, and most likely the other woman’s sister, had unsheathed her sharp claws. He circled around the table piled with bolts of colorful cloth so he could discreetly observe the battle of wills.
“Delia, since this is our first visit to London, I recommend prudence for our introduction into polite society. After all, do you want to be mistaken for a demirep?”
As Vane caressed the satin cloth on the table, he was unable to conceal his amusement. Even if she had been dressed provocatively, no one would have mistaken Isabel for a courtesan. Oh, she certainly caught a man’s eye with a stature that rivaled her taller younger sister. Such long limbs were meant to be wrapped around a man’s hips. Preferably his. Vane shook his head at the unbidden thought. It was a damn pity he was giving up his wild ways this season.
From his limited view, only Isabel’s profile was visible, with most of her golden hair tucked under her simple bonnet. Her face seemed pleasing enough. It was not the lack of adornment that dispelled the suggestion that she could be in the market for a new protector. No, it was her mannerisms and speech, which marked her as a lady. Her no-nonsense approach with her sister reminded Vane of his older sister, Susan.
The younger woman, he mused silently, had the look and temperament of a courtesan. Unlike her older sister, Delia dressed to catch a man’s gaze and wanted him to admire her sleek body. Her hair, a lighter hue than her sister’s, had been curled into dozens of ringlets. Vane suspected if he approached the ladies and invited them to join him for pastries at Gunter’s, Delia would accept without thinking of the risks to her reputation while Isabel might slap his face for his boldness.
For a gentleman who was too accustomed to willing females, getting slapped by the intriguing Isabel held more appeal. Unwittingly, she was presenting him with a challenge.
As Vane silently mulled over his tactical approach, the shop clerk offered another unfinished dress for the ladies’ inspection.
“Oh, Isabel.” Delia cooed as the vibrant poppy-colored evening dress was laid over the insipid blue both ladies had rejected. “I adore the lace and wadded hem,” she said, stroking the stomacher made up of double rows of gold lace. “We must purchase it.”
Vane watched as Isabel nibbled her lower lip. Unlike her sister, she did not reach out to touch the elegant evening dress, but he saw the flicker of yearning in her expression.
“How much?” Isabel murmured, glancing about to make certain no one had heard her vulgar question.
“Really, Isabel,” Delia huffed. “Mama would be disappointed to hear you speak like a tradesman.”
Isabel held up her hand and silenced her sister’s tirade.
Quite unexpectedly, she looked away from the table and her gaze locked with his. Although he did not visibly react, he felt the impact of the connection as if the lady had indeed slapped him. There was no coyness or surprise in Isabel’s frank perusal. It was as if she had been aware of his presence all along.
Before he could collect his thoughts, she severed the invisible current of energy between them by abruptly shifting her attention to the shop clerk as the woman quietly responded to Isabel’s query.
“May I have a private word with my sister?”
The woman nodded and quickly withdrew. She was probably relieved that she would not be drawn into the simmering argument between the two ladies.
Delia touched the poppy-colored skirt in a possessive fashion. “We should purchase the dress.”
“Delia.” Isabel sighed. “We could purchase two evening dresses for the price of this one.”
“Do not try to tell me that you do not covet it,” her sister said, seizing Isabel by th
e wrist and encouraging her to feel the quality of the cloth. “Does it not feel glorious? A lady would look like a queen in such a dress.”
Isabel’s frown softened into something akin to wistfulness as her fingers traced the gold lace patterns at the bottom of the skirt. In that moment, Vane decided that he was going to buy her the dress. Her sister was correct. Isabel would look as regal as any queen if she entered a ballroom wearing the poppy-and-gold evening dress.
The regret in her eyes did not prevent Isabel from shaking her head. “To own such a dress … it is a grand dream, but it isn’t practical. Not when we have other expenses.”
Vane had heard enough. He had entered the dressmaker’s shop with the intention of purchasing a new wardrobe for his former mistress to ease his guilt over his unwarranted dismissal. One more dress would not beggar him. As the Earl of Vanewright, he had plenty of wealth at his disposal. He was also the Marquess of Netherley’s heir. To gain their favor, he would have happily purchased Isabel and her sister a dozen dresses.
Although he was still pondering the many virtues of abstaining from the pleasures of the flesh this season, there was no harm in a casual flirtation with the pretty sisters. A smile from the too serious Isabel would be worth the cost of the dress. He moved away from the table and took a step toward the quietly quarreling women.
From his left, a lanky youth bumped into him.
Vane grunted softly as the corner of the table dug into his hip. To balance himself, he caught the lad by the arm.
“Begging yer pardon, milord,” the youth mumbled, and tugged on his cap. He stepped out of reach and gave Vane a self-deprecating grin. “Clumsy as a three-legged lamb, I am.”
The young man had taken three steps when Vane realized the snuffbox he kept in the inner pocket of his waistcoat was missing. He groaned, annoyed at himself for being so careless. “You!” He pointed an accusing finger at the retreating youth. “Give me back my property!”
Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Page 2
