by Robyn DeHart
What would he do? Would he want to splay his hands across her body, run his fingers down her backside and cup her breasts? Would his body respond to the sight of her skin? Her flesh felt as hot as if she were standing in front of a flame. She took several steps away from the secretary.
James snapped the box lid closed and cradled it under his arm. “Being a lady with your sensibilities, I know that must have been rather startling for you,” he said.
She could not meet his eyes. “No,” she managed. She could handle this like a mature adult. Pretend she was a woman of the world for the purposes of this case, despite the fact that she was the furthest thing from it. “It’s no bother.”
“Willow, you don’t need to pretend to be strong. Those images are rather explicit, certainly not taken for ladies such as yourself.”
But for gentlemen like him…
The unsaid justification hung in the air like a heavy fog. Had the images aroused him?
“I think we’ve seen enough for one day,” he said.
Willow followed him out of the room and down the stairs. They only briefly spoke to Fenby on their way out to the carriage. Once inside, she wasn’t certain where to put her focus. Too many things had happened. The kiss. The sexual images.
It was enough to put a permanent blush on her face. She absently rubbed at her bottom lip, then quickly swiped her hand away. There was no need to give him any indication that the kiss had affected her in any way.
“Why will those”—she cleared her throat—“photographs be useful to the investigation?”
“They provide a potential motive for why he was murdered,” James explained.
Willow shook her head. “I’m not certain I follow. You believe one of these women might have killed him? Because he forced them to be in the photographs?” They hadn’t looked forced. They’d looked…pleasured.
“Not exactly. I was thinking more along the lines of men connected to these women. Husbands, fathers, brothers. Men are fiercely protective of the women in their care. Or at least they should be. Something like this could easily put a man over the edge, were he to discover it.”
Fiercely protective? Just the words themselves and the intensity with which he said them sent shivers up her arms.
His logic certainly made sense. She suspected if she were ever in such a situation, Edmond would surely come to her rescue.
Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore the niggling desire that it be James who would protect her instead, should the need arise.
Chapter 9
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of Willow’s family home. James put his hand on the door, but didn’t release the latch. He met Willow’s glance.
“It seems rather foolish of us to pretend we’re still working under the pretense of the wager. At least the way the initial conditions stood.”
She nodded curtly. “You certainly haven’t held up your end of the bargain.”
He pushed his hair back away from his eyes and gave her a lazy smile. “Yes, I have not been forthright with you regarding evidence. But I do have my reasons. And I suppose I stole my prize today anyway.”
The creamy flesh at her throat blushed a lovely pink shade, and her hand fidgeted with her sleeve.
“I very much enjoyed kissing you today, Willow,” he said. “But I recognize that stealing such a kiss was not very gentlemanly of me, and as much as I hate to admit it, I was raised better.”
He did hate admitting that. It wasn’t that he wanted to be ill-mannered, but he hated that his birth alone dictated a particular type of life or behavior.
She swallowed visibly but still said nothing.
“So here’s what I propose. We’ll continue working together on this case.” He knew now that it would be virtually impossible to rid himself of her. “I will share information and the like, we will visit suspects together, similarly to how we’ve been working. And whoever uncovers the truth of the murderer first wins.”
He saw her take a deep breath. “My primary concern is keeping my mother protected in all of this. The wager would certainly come secondary.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Do the same conditions still apply?”
She wanted to know if he was going to kiss her again. Damnation, the woman had no idea what a temptress she was, with her perfect lips and silky brown eyes. “I’m not promising I won’t kiss you again,” he said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“It wasn’t,” she said defensively.
But the pulse at her throat told the truth. She wanted him to kiss her again. Oh, she’d been careful today not to reveal any effect he’d had on her, but he knew it had affected her just as it had him.
He nodded slightly, opened the carriage door, and stepped out. “Until tomorrow,” he said. Then he watched her climb the steps to her front door.
The smarter thing to do would have been to tell her the investigation was leading somewhere that a proper lady ought not go. But the truth of the matter was, he wasn’t quite ready to not see Miss Willow Mabson on a regular basis. She perplexed him in a way that no other woman had, and he needed time to figure out precisely what it was about her.
Willow stood on the sidewalk alongside Charlotte and Amelia, waiting for Meg to finish giving instructions to her driver. They were on Broad Street, known for its choice, if not expensive, shopping. Willow didn’t have much in the way of money with her—just her allowance, which might afford some hair ribbons or a pair of gloves. And she wasn’t the most downtrodden among their group. Amelia and Meg both had more money than they knew what to do with, but Charlotte had none.
Meg turned and smiled at them all. “Thank you for meeting me here. I have decided that we must all have new finery for the masque ball, and so today we are going to spend too much money. All of it mine.”
Amelia opened her mouth to say something, and Willow was forming her declination when Meg held her hand up to silence them.
“And no one is going to argue with me on this. I’ve heard it said before that expectant mothers should always get their way.” Then she smiled slyly at them.
It took a moment for Willow to comprehend Meg’s admission. And Amelia was the first to embrace Meg with congratulations, which Willow knew was difficult for her. Amelia and Colin hadn’t had any luck in conceiving in the year and a half they’d been married. Amelia had said that it was difficult to remain hopeful. But here today she showed no signs of discontentment, only joy for her friend.
After they all had dabbed at their eyes and hugged and laughed, they stepped inside Madam Dupont’s, one of the finest dress shops in all of London. It had been a staple here for the past thirty years, and Madam Dupont had changed with the times, offering more and more readymade clothing that people with limited funds could simply purchase and alter themselves. But everyone knew that Madam Dupont preferred creating custom-fit clothing for the wealthiest members of London’s population.
Willow got a chance to squeeze Amelia’s hand as they maneuvered through the aisles. Her friend looked up in surprise and tears sprang to her eyes, but she quickly swiped them away.
Madam Dupont, with her ample curves, stepped out of the back. “What have we here?” she said in her rich French accent. “Ladies in search of…” and she trailed off, fully expecting them to finish her sentence.
“Costumes for a masque ball,” Meg supplied. “For each of us. And we want something completely unique and very eye-catching.” Then she turned and whispered to them. “We must be alluring, to catch the Jack of Heart’s attention.”
“Well, let me have a look at each of you. Greta, Ingrid, come with the measuring tapes and let us see what we have for you ladies.” Two young and bright-eyed girls popped out from the back room, eager to assist. Madam Dupont stopped first at Meg. “Petite…quite the red hair you have. Perhaps something in blue to bring out your eyes.” Then she moved on to Charlotte, and as she took in the beauty’s full height, she released a low whistle. “A pretty one, you are, and s
o tall. With your complexion and coloring, definitely a bold, daring color. I believe I have just the fabric. Ingrid, fetch that chartreuse silk that just arrived yesterday.”
Ingrid scurried away and Madam Dupont moved on to Amelia. “Nothing wrong with you, my dear, you have lovely hair and lovely skin. We’ll want something subtle, perhaps a soft yellow or gold. That would look quite the thing with your eyes.”
Then it was Willow’s turn. It seemed as if Madam Dupont stood in front of her for several moments, much longer than with the other girls. She was going to tell her there was no hope. She was too plain for anything fancy. How about a lovely shade of brown?
Madam Dupont’s lips pinched and her eyes narrowed. “What is this frock that you are wearing? It will not do.” She grabbed Willow firmly at the waist. “Look at this tiny waist and your rounded hips. And if I’m not mistaken,” her French accent filled the room, “that is quite the bosom you have hidden beneath all these layers,” she said as she pointed at Willow’s chest.
Willow shut her eyes. Why did it matter how she looked? It really didn’t. It would not make her mother healthy and it certainly would not bring her love. Madam Dupont continued her assessment. Perhaps the floor would open up and she could slide right down. Away from this humiliation.
She opened her mouth to say something—what, she wasn’t sure, some excuse for her mediocrity. But Madam Dupont shushed her.
“There is no need to apologize. Some women are uncomfortable with their bodies and do not like to flaunt their figures. But we will change that for you, no?” She moved her finger down to the center of Willow’s chest. “A dress with a swooping décolleté. And something lush.” Madam Dupont turned and glanced around the room, scanning the bolts of fabrics. “There. Greta, fetch me that red damask.”
The petite blonde scurried over to one of the shelves and retrieved a large bolt of the richest, deepest red Willow had ever seen. It shimmered to such a degree, it almost looked to be made of liquid rather than fabric. She longed to reach out and touch it.
“It’s too expensive,” she whispered to Amelia.
“Nonsense,” Amelia said. “You deserve it.”
Madam Dupont eyed her again. “I should think we might need a new corset as well.”
“Yes,” Meg said. “New everything for all of us. I should like to be fitted for some that would allow for my growing belly.” She patted her stomach with a smile.
Madam Dupont’s face softened into a genuine smile. “Ah, the babies. Yes, we will outfit you for your entire term.” She looked at her two assistants. “Let us get to work. There is much to be done.” She clapped her hands together twice.
The following several hours passed by in a blur of measuring and fabric swatches. Madam Dupont made Meg and Willow her personal projects for the day. It took her a very long time with Meg, as she had to be measured for all sorts of garments that would work for the duration of her pregnancy. Willow wandered around the store, glancing at fabrics and ribbons and looking at the dresses on the forms.
And then it was her turn. She rolled her eyes against the nerves batting around in her stomach. There was no reason to be this fussy over a simple measuring. Madam Dupont led her to the dressing room and assisted her in unbuttoning her day dress.
A cool breeze drafted across her back and sent gooseflesh in every direction. Then she was being turned and modeled and prodded as Madam Dupont wrote numbers down in a notebook.
“Yes, definitely a new corset. Look at this thing.” She tugged on Willow’s worn corset as she spoke. “It does absolutely nothing for you and your figure. I should think that a dress with capped sleeves right at the edge of your shoulders, or even falling off, yes, that would be precisely what you would need. Most flattering.”
It occurred to Willow that while Madam Dupont was speaking, she was not speaking to her but rather to herself. It would have been more amusing had she not heard things like “bold color,” “low bodice,” and “bare shoulders.” Willow was well aware that she had the sort of body that men wanted to look at. She’d known that for quite some time. The fact that no one else had recognized this fact until now was because she took great care in dressing to disguise it.
It had become so evident when she was nineteen that while she had not inherited her mother’s lovely face, Willow had inherited her voluptuous curves. She told herself that she hid her attributes because she needed to remain unmarried so she could care for her mother. But deep down she knew that had never been the reason. Deep down she feared she had more in common with her mother than appearances. Deep down she feared that once she loosened her tight control, her life would unravel, just as her mother’s had. That it would happen subtly at first, but then eventually she too would suffer from mania.
The doctors couldn’t say what caused it, but Willow knew her mother had always been impetuous and wild. So she had spent her life preventing that for herself. She had followed even the silliest of rules, acted the very picture of propriety, in hopes that all her rule abiding would prevent her mind from splintering. As she had matured, she’d discouraged any early signs of courtship because she knew what it was like for a child to look upon their parent and feel fear and despair. She did not want that for any children of hers, so she had dressed extremely conservatively in hopes that men would not notice her, and it had worked.
Apparently Madam Dupont was about to change that. At least for one night. Willow supposed there wasn’t any harm in it now. She was far too old to ensnare a suitor, and besides, it was a masque ball and no one would know who she was. Surely, allowing herself one night of fantasy before fading into the background while her friends continued to marry and start their families would not put her at risk.
Had James and his family been invited to the ball? As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she scolded herself. It certainly didn’t matter one way or the other, she supposed, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.
“Hold still,” Madam Dupont chided. She held another bolt of fabric up to Willow’s chest. “No, this one does not work with her color. Bring me another shade.”
It seemed as if this went on for hours, although it was probably only a half hour or so. And then, finally, it was all over. They were finished. Willow was unsure how her dress would come out, but she had to admit that the particular shade of scarlet was luxurious. And a lush black velvet had also been selected.
Choosing their masks had been the most fun part of the day. Willow’s was a half mask, covering her face to her nose and was the same brilliant red as her dress. It was outlined with gold cording and black plumes sprouted out of the top. Right at the top, in the center, rested a large stone that mimicked the sparkle of a diamond. The dress would not be ready for a week, but the mask she could bring home today.
She smiled thinking about it tucked nicely into the box held at her side. It wasn’t the only thing she’d bring home today. No, Meg had insisted they each purchase new undergarments as well as some extras, a few pairs of gloves, and hair ribbons.
Once they reached the sidewalk, Willow was smiling quite broadly. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had such a grand time together. Without thinking she embraced Meg.
“Thank you so much. Your generosity is too kind, but I had the most enjoyable day,” she said.
Meg smiled warmly. “As did I. I hope we all did. I can not wait to see us all in our finery the night of the ball. I do wonder if my husband will recognize me.”
“With the flame of your hair, I sincerely doubt anyone will mistake you for someone else,” Charlotte said.
“I suppose you’re right.” Just then, Meg’s carriage pulled up to the curb. “Can I offer anyone a ride?” “I believe I’ll take you up on that,” Charlotte said.
“My carriage is coming as well,” Amelia said. “And I already agreed to take Willow home.”
They hadn’t actually spoken about that, but perhaps Amelia wanted to discuss something, so Willow nodded in agreement. The four friends exchanged good-by
es and shortly thereafter, Amelia’s carriage arrived and she and Willow climbed inside.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Amelia said.
“Of course not.”
“I’m happy for her.” Amelia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I honestly am.”
Her friend had needed to talk about Meg’s baby. “I have no doubt about that.” Willow tried to give her a reassuring smile. “You can be sad for yourself and happy for a friend, all at the same time.”
Amelia tried to smile. “I fear that we will never have children.” She spoke slowly as if selecting each word carefully. “Colin says he doesn’t need children, that I am more than he ever thought he’d have in life, but…” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I am not so certain I feel the same way.” She shook her head as the tears began to fall freely down her cheeks.
Willow wasn’t certain what to say. She couldn’t say she knew how Amelia was feeling. She certainly did not. She’d never tried to conceive a child and failed. But she did know what it was like to want them so badly that her hands ached to touch them, only to know it was a desire that would never come to fruition. But this was not about her. And Amelia, evidently, needed to talk about this.
“It is not that Colin is not enough for me. His love is perfect.” Her hand absently rubbed at her empty womb. “I just want to have children. At least one. I don’t remember much of my mother and I always thought that instead of having one, I could be one. But now it seems as if I’ll miss out on both.”
Willow rubbed her friend’s back and realized that she too was crying. “It will be all right,” she said reassuringly. Although she was not so certain that was true. She knew all too well that life held no guarantees. And that not everyone found the happy ending the fairy tales might lead one to believe occurred at every turn.
Amelia wiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry to go on about this. It is not fair to you. I know Meg and Gareth will be wonderful parents. And Colin and I might be the best aunt and uncle in London. I have so much to be thankful for. I never thought I would marry, and look what I found?” She smiled. “I am happy…”
