by Jess Russell
He saw…? Oh, thank goodness. He understood and she had her reprieve. He would take himself off now.
But he did not. He lowered himself, folding all six and more feet, into the nearest of the gilt chairs. He looked absurd. Like a giant come to play in a nest of gnomes. His fingers absently found and stroked the bloody table again. Her nipples tightened. And though his molten gaze never left hers, she would swear he knew exactly what was happening under her bodice.
“It would appear you have a problem, madam.”
Olivia pulled herself up, hoping to restore her equilibrium, and took her firmest tone. “Your Grace, I am unable to return your funds. They are long spent.”
“Mrs. Weston, I do not require the funds.” He waved his hand dismissively. “What I require are the gowns. I paid for them, is it not right and just I possess them?”
“For that I am very much afraid you will have to apply to Mrs. Battersby, Your Grace. Now if you’ll be—”
“Nay, madam, I apply to you,” he said looking directly into her eyes.
Her mind raced, conjuring dire scenarios. The Marshalsea prison. The duke blacklisting her. Being tossed out of their lodgings, their possessions sold for a mere pittance. Or worse, flung into the street to be snatched up by street urchins and she and Egg left to beg.
In the midst of her tragedy, the duke dramatically raised one eyebrow. He, no doubt, used that considerable weapon to silence all his numerous minions. Well, she would not be so cowed.
“Have you nothing else to compensate me with?” he asked, as if he were mentioning the weather.
Olivia’s whirring mind stopped dead. Ah…now we have it. Her vision narrowed. The bloody cheek of the man.
“Surely you have something you can barter with, Mrs. Weston?” he continued, paying not the slightest attention to her most lethal stare.
Two could play this game. “I am a dressmaker, Your Grace. I make and sell dresses. That is the full extent of my commerce.”
He steepled his large, square hands under his chin, his longest finger resting lightly against his lips. Lord, he had beautiful lips. Their perfection infuriated her. What was worse, the man seemed to have no notion of the havoc his innocent gesture wreaked within her body. Why could his lips not be thin and bloodless as dry biscuits? She found herself licking her own. Did he not even mean to reply?
“Then I suppose you must make me a gown or two.” He raised his eyebrow again as he stroked his bottom lip.
What? She dragged her gaze from his mouth; had she heard him properly? This was utter nonsense, “Your Grace, I am unable to comprehend your request.”
He stopped stroking—praise God—and raised his eyebrow a fraction higher, if possible.
“You cannot be serious?”
“I believe I must be, since you claim to have no other talents with which to recompense me,” he said, with not even a hint of a smile.
To her horror she blushed, again. Damned infernal ape. By God, she would checkmate him yet.
“Very well, Your Grace, I have several gowns on hand I use as models. You may have those. I will send them to you in the morning. Now, it is very late, and I’m quite sure you have more pressing things to occupy your time, so I will bid you good night, sir.”
“You are in error, madam.” He shifted slightly in the small chair. “I have nothing pressing. I will see the gowns now, Mrs. Weston.”
“Now, Your Grace?”
“Yes, unless I am keeping you from a paramour?”
“As I said before, I have no lover. It is simply that it is late, and no doubt Mrs. Wiggins will be worrying by now.”
“I’m sure a few moments longer will not be amiss.” However, he must have seen she was very near the end of her rope. “Very well, I will see one of the gowns tonight. After all, I want to be sure of the quality of garment I have purchased.”
This man was insufferable.
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Olivia turned to leave the room.
“And Mrs. Weston”—his voice plunged to an impossible low—“I wish to see the gown on.”
She turned to face him then, sure she would see a smirk on his face, but she was disappointed.
“You will model it for me.”
The man was dead serious. At this point she would do anything—well, almost anything—to get him out of her shop. She turned without a word and pushed through the curtained door.
Saint Anne, give me strength.
She clenched her shaking hands and took a gulp of air as if she had been held under water.
What to choose? The black cherry tiffany would have to do. It was the most circumspect of the dresses available. The wafer-thin silk leapt to her skin like a magnet, clinging to her fingers, showing every knuckle and sinew. She shook it off, and the silk crackled as if alive.
Heat gathered in her body. Well, and why not. She was certainly entitled to some anger. However this heat didn’t feel like anger. Her traitorous body felt so alive, so primed. Not only were her breasts so sensitive she wanted to claw them, her tiredness seemed to have evaporated into thin air. By God, she could run to Richmond. And back.
She peeled down her bodice, and then her chemise. She wore no stays. Her fingers grazed her ruched nipples, and her insides performed a flip.
“Damnation!” Skirts and petticoats dropped to the floor.
“Do you need assistance, Mrs. Weston?”
She froze in the middle of her pooled skirts, ready to snatch them up should he dare to breech the back room. The muscles in her thighs clenched along with her jaw. Sure enough she saw the tips of his evening shoes just under the curtain. “No, Your Grace.” Lud, she was as skittish as a chicken on Sunday.
His spotless pumps finally disappeared, and she expelled her pent up breath in a rush.
As the tiffany slid down over her breasts, past her belly and hips, over her thighs to brush her ankles, she knew it was perfect. It was made for her—for her body.
She ran her finger over the ribbon that wove cunningly through a channel in the bodice, and then formed small loops to hold on the tiny sleeves, continuing to the back of the gown where it plunged well below the middle of the back and tied in a bow, its ends fluttering almost to the floor. This one ribbon held the dress in place. She had spent hours engineering the whole thing to drop with one deft pull.
Olivia jerked at the ribbon forcing it into a less than ideal bow.
She did not spare a moment to glance in the mirror. If she had, she likely would not have gone through the door at all. A hairpin pinged to the floor; at the same time she felt a long looping curl graze her shoulder. She shoved it aside, jerked her skirts up to retrieve the pin, and then stopped.
By God, she would not take the time or effort to cater to him. The duke would have to take her as he found her. She threw back her hair and marched out of the workroom.
He was examining a sketch on the cutting table when he turned toward her. He stood utterly still, gaping like a great hulking lummox. The paper fluttered to the floor.
Olivia clenched her teeth. Not only was her physical person on display, but her livelihood and way of life as well. So be it. She resolutely kept her arms at her sides.
What did he expect? Yards of ribbons, ruffles and bows? The demimonde was her niche. And rather than sell herself on her back she chose instead to clothe the women who did.
She raised her chin. “As you see, Your Grace, there is nothing inferior here. I am quite proud of my workmanship, and this design in particular is a favorite of the gentlemen.
“The gentlemen?” The gape collapsed into a scowl.
“Yes. And the ladies as well—my patronesses. In Paris I was quite sought after. I’m sure I will have the same following here in London, as soon as I can properly circulate.”
“Circulate?”
Was he addlepated? He seemed capable of only one-word rejoinders.
“Yes.” She tried speaking to him as if he were a small child incapable of comprehension. “Mrs. Battersby was a
great coup for our shop. But now she has lost your protection, Mrs. Wiggins and I will simply have to begin anew. Now, Your Grace, will you take the gown?”
Reason told her only a few seconds could have passed as they stood, his gaze locked to hers in a stalemate, but it seemed interminable.
Finally his jaw twitched.
“Could you move, please?” Was it her imagination, or was his voice higher than usual? Then what he actually said registered.
“Move?”
“Yes. Could you move across the room? I find to judge a garment, or anything properly, one must see it in motion.” Her face must have reflected horror, for he hastened on, “You would not expect me to buy a horse simply by looking at its lines would you, Mrs. Weston? I would wish to see it run as well. I’m sure you understand.”
Blast him and his bloody horses. She strode forward, happy to vent some of her anger in movement; however, she realized a split second too late there was nowhere to move. The receiving room was not large and was mostly taken up with the cutting table. The only area with any appreciable room was at the far end of the shop where the huge paneled mirrors stood. He was standing directly in the path that would be her best direction. Consequently, she found herself almost flush up against him.
She knew he was tall. Any fool could see the man was at least two or more inches over six feet, but from this vantage point—directly beneath him—he was so very tall. She could smell the starch of his shirt mixed with a faint whiff of smoke and possibly brandy. She slid her gaze over the shirt and waistcoat to his cravat—a conservatively tied Oriental—to the firm, slightly cleft chin, moving on to the lips, very swiftly past those, and finally resting on his eyes. Pure molten gold. Yes, exactly like those of the Burmese tiger she had seen at a menagerie in Paris. His bearing was just as predatory.
“It would appear, sir, in order for me to move, as you require, you will have to bestir yourself as well.”
She thought she saw one side of his mouth shift ever so slightly upward into what might be the merest twitch of a smile. She could not be one hundred percent sure because, to do so, she would have to look at his lips. The duke shifted his weight and made a small bow. Her shoulder brushed the superfine of his midnight blue jacket as she hurriedly squeezed past him.
She strode almost to the mirrors before wheeling around and giving him what she hoped was an accusatory look.
“Well, Your Grace. I hope you are satisfied.”
“Satisfied, Mrs. Weston?” He raised that infernal eyebrow. “Oh no, madam, I am very far from satisfied. However, I am hopeful I will be, in the not so distant future.” Again his gaze raked over her. “Yes, I do live in hope.” He turned and began to gather his things. “You may send this gown to me in the morning.”
“But won’t you want the young woman to come in for a fitting?”
The duke stopped in the middle of donning his left glove. He looked at her as if she was being deliberately obtuse or worse, coy, and once more raised that bloody eyebrow. She chose to ignore his rapier-like weapon.
“Your Grace, this gown is deceptive in its simplicity. It looks uncomplicated, but in fact it requires, at the very least, one fitting to assure it hangs properly. I will not send out a gown that does not fit perfectly. You must understand I have my reputation to think of.”
Hot brandy eyes seared hers. “Madam, believe me, I am very cognizant of your reputation. As a modiste you need not fear,” he said as he slowly drew on his left glove and flexed his fingers. “I assure you the gown will fit like this glove.”
With that, he turned and opened the door.
“I will be back for the next gown tomorrow. Shall we say at the same time?”
He clearly did not need or require an answer. Olivia’s mouth dropped open as the shop door closed, its jangle of bells mocking her frayed nerves.
Oh God, it was not over. Not nearly over. In fact, it seemed the Duke of Roydan had just begun.
Chapter Seven
As the shop door shut behind Rhys, the blessed night air hit his heated cheeks, and he sucked the cold into his body.
The possibility she might be waiting for a lover had thrown him off stride and nearly had him abandoning his whole plan. He could still hear her voice ringing from the back room—“so eager to be in bed.”
James, his footman, jumped down from his perch, but Rhys waved the coach on. The idea of being cooped up in a carriage with his thoughts set his teeth on edge.
Blistering Hell, who was this Lothario who had taken over his body?
He was not one of these mercurial dandies who could shape themselves and their behavior to the company and situation. He had no seductive and suggestive rhetoric. He was himself, always.
A thought, like a fist to his gut, stopped him dead.
By God, had he aped his sire?
It could not be. He was so vigilant. But still, as he took one step and then another, he could not shake the feeling, as if he had put on an ill-fitting and gaudy suit of clothes.
James pulled his forelock as the horses and carriage passed by. Rhys stared at the matched pair’s glossy and rippling flanks.
Dear Heavens, he had asked her to move. Heat flooded his body in another rush, and he tugged at his cravat. Likely a blast sent up from his father in Hell.
The image of Mrs. Weston, framed in that curtained doorway, had slammed into him as soundly as John Jackson’s left hook when the man was dead sober. But as she had pushed past him, striding down the long, narrow hall, she had proved to be a true thoroughbred. Yes, this was a horse he would buy in a heartbeat.
If possible, the gown had been more fetching from the rear, revealing a good bit of Olivia Weston’s back and backside, held up by very long legs. He had never seen fabric that appeared to be liquid, as if the dress had been poured over her body. What a contrast plump little Arabella Campbell was in her fussy dress and feathers. This gown’s only ornament, a silk bow tied just below a sweet, heart-shaped birthmark more than halfway down her milk-white back.
Rhys clenched his hands, fingers still aching to pull that delicate ribbon.
He sucked in another draft of air. And when he asked her for other compensation—Rhys winced. That he had actually uttered those words without collapsing was a minor miracle.
She had pokered up immediately. He suspected she would. She was no loose woman. Indeed, he would have been disappointed if she hadn’t been offended. He was offensive.
As the Duke of Roydan, he simply ordered exactly what was needed and it was done with no question or fuss. His deepest wants, he simply denied. Easy as well. Oh, but if only he could say, “Mrs. Weston, I require you to lie beneath me, utterly naked while I push into your pretty, sweet—” His cock jumped like a dog for a bone.
“You cankerous pimp!” The shout came from just above him. Brakes ground, horses screamed, and black iron hooves slashed the air mere inches from his head. Rhys threw himself back and away.
His hip cracked painfully against the paving stones of the road. Horse breath blew hard in Rhys’s face as its huge head bobbed. Its hooves clattered, scrambling to gain footing. Rhys instinctively held up his hand. “Easy now. Easy,” he breathed. Images and sounds clicked one after another building a picture for his muzzy brain. He had nearly been trampled to death.
“Bloody beetle-head!” The hack’s driver spit the words at Rhys. “Would serve you right to have your head bashed in. Full of nothing but air by the looks of you. Wandering in the bloody street as if you owned the world.”
The coach door flung open. A pink-slippered foot and white-stockinged ankle thrust out of the doorway only to be jerked back inside, punctuated by a delighted squeal. A shot of mingled laughter foamed over the driver’s curses as the coach rocked.
“All right. Out you go,” said the driver. “This rig ain’t no bawdy house.”
More laughter and then a man jumped out and reached up to swing his paramour down. The couple appeared oblivious to Rhys and his near death. The man only paused in his
ardent lovemaking to carelessly flip a coin at the driver who dove to catch the silver causing the horses to jerk in their traces. Rhys vaguely heard the driver yell another epithet. Whether it was meant for Rhys or in response to the man’s form of payment was unclear. Still muttering, the cabbie moved his fractious horses up the lane.
Rhys took stock of his pounding heart and his torn and bleeding palms. He jerked off his ruined gloves and tossed them aside. They lay pale and otherworldly against the filth of the street. He flicked a bit of moldering potato peel from his breeches and picked himself up, testing his legs. He stumbled toward his hat, which had rolled a good twenty feet down the street.
The couple entered an alleyway just in front of him. Rhys should move on. It was patently clear the woman wanted this encounter.
But he did not move. Instead he retreated to a shadowed alcove.
It was over quickly. Truly, there had not been much to see, just a tug of her skirts and then the pumping of hips, a heavy grunt and clothes hastily righted and smoothed.
As they passed his hiding place, their arms clasped about each other, Rhys pushed farther back into the shadows. However, just as he thought he was safe, the woman looked back, tipped her head, and made a soft clicking sound with her tongue. Then she smiled right into his eyes.
Rhys remained frozen to the wall until their footsteps and soft laughter faded and then died.
He waited ten more seconds and snapped his head back. Cracking pain shot through his skull to his teeth and jaw. He pressed his raw palms to the wall and raked them over the coarse and tearing brick. But the pain did no good; it could not blot out his vulgar spying, or deny the heavy throbbing of his cock.
He had tried to dam up his natural urges. Tried to divert that raging river into smaller, more manageable streams—streams of intellect, exercise and duty. But this new need terrified him.
This desire was not in response to a common street woman. He had—or used to have—Daria for that. If only it were just a physical craving. But it wasn’t. Olivia Weston drew him as no other woman had. Her tenacity, her loyalty, her sense of fair play, her biting humor, the way she impatiently brushed the hair from her face…
