Dressed to Kiss

by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens

  “No.” Evan rested his hip against the windowsill and folded his arms. “I never saw her, the older Frenchwoman who refused you so belligerently. Instead I made a fool of myself because her daughter is running the shop now, and the mother has left London.” He cocked one brow. “That seems like something we ought to have known, don’t you think?”

  Grantham frowned at the pointed question. “Yes. I sent a man to visit the shop several months ago and he spoke to her. She must have left since then.” He leaned forward and rang the bell. “What’s the daughter like? I take it she’s no more receptive than her mother was.”

  “Not much, although she forbore to swear at me in French.”

  At that Grantham grinned. “That must count as progress, Carmarthen. The mother insulted everything but my parentage.”

  “The daughter threw me out of the shop,” he retorted.

  His friend laughed. “Now I wish I’d gone! That must have been a sight.”

  “Even more amusing will be the contortions required to proceed without being able to touch a brick of her shop,” said Evan drily. “I hope my memory is failing me, and that that shop does not, in fact, share significant structural support with the building next to it.”

  The amusement faded from the solicitor’s face. Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door and a clerk poked his head in. “Sir—”

  “Did we send someone recently to Vine Street to query tenants?” Grantham asked. “Specifically Madame Follette’s, the dressmaker shop.”

  The clerk looked startled. “Er—I’m not certain, sir. But you’ve a visitor—”

  “I’m engaged at the moment,” said Grantham, tipping his head toward Evan.

  “I believe you’ll want to receive the lady, Mr. Grantham,” said the clerk.

  Evan exchanged a look with the solicitor. A lady? “Who is it?”

  “She gave her name as Miss Felicity Dawkins, of Madame Follette’s shop.” There was a whiff of smugness in the clerk’s voice. “Shall I send her in? It will save time, although I could go ‘round to her shop if you prefer.”

  “I should sack you for laziness, Watson,” said Grantham. “Instead I’m forced to compliment your timely interruption. Show her in.” The clerk grinned for a split second, then closed the door. “Felicity. Such a joyful name for a shrew.”

  “I never called her a shrew.” Evan straightened his posture without moving away from the windowsill. He told himself not to show any sign of interest or pleasure at her appearance. This is business, he told himself, and Grantham would catch any betraying sign of weakness on his part. He must keep his mind focused on how obstinately she closed that door in his face, and how she’d glared at him through the window, arms folded under those beautiful breasts…

  The door opened again and she walked in. If Evan’s first glimpse of her had stirred his interest, his second glimpse threatened to knock him senseless. Today she wore a dress of brilliant blue, as rich as the twilight sky over Carmarthen Bay, and the way the skirt swayed as she walked made Evan’s mouth go dry. She had already removed her pelisse and bonnet, exposing her fresh complexion—and splendid bosom—to his fascinated gaze. Her dark blond hair was swept up into a cluster of curls that looked soft and tempting, and the smile she gave Thomas Grantham almost made Evan lose his balance.

  “Good morning, Mr. Grantham,” she said, the hint of French adding a purr to her words as she made a graceful curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

  If Grantham had blinked once, Evan hadn’t noticed. “Of course,” said the solicitor. He cleared his throat. “Pray, be seated, Miss Dawkins.”

  With a swirl of skirts she seated herself. “I understand you have been corresponding with my mother, Sophie-Louise Dawkins.”

  Grantham caught Evan’s fulminating look and sat forward in his chair. He would know what Evan was thinking: If Miss Dawkins had come to them, she must have reconsidered her refusal of the previous day. She must have come to accept, or perhaps to bargain.

  But the infuriating woman hadn’t looked his way once, and Evan could only glare at Grantham impotently and try to signal that the solicitor should bring the sale to a swift and immediate agreement. The sooner this woman was out of Vine Street, the happier he would be.

  “Yes, I have, for several months now,” said Grantham.

  Again she smiled, somewhat ruefully, as if they shared a private joke. “I understand she was not very receptive to your overtures.”

  One corner of Grantham’s mouth tilted. “Unfortunately not.” Like a good lawyer, he was letting her speak, waiting to see where she began.

  “I must tell you, neither my brother nor I knew anything about it,” she went on. “A little over a year ago, Mama decided to step down and turn over the shop to us. She has gone to Brighton and has little to do with Madame Follette’s.”

  “But she does still hold the deed of the property.”

  A faint flush colored Miss Dawkins’s cheek. Evan told himself he was watching her closely to detect signs that she was weakening, and not because he was fascinated by her skin. “She does, but she has also put great trust in my judgment. If I intercede with her on your behalf, I believe she would accept your offer.”

  “That would be very good of you, ma’am.” Grantham paused. “What would inspire you to intercede? Lord Carmarthen came away from his visit to your shop yesterday disappointed.”

  The flush deepened. Now Evan knew she was avoiding looking his way to spite him. The single pearl earring that hung from her ear trembled. “I did not expect him, and he caught me off guard with his wild declaration that everything in the street was to be destroyed in a few days’ time.”

  Evan shifted his weight and scowled. That was not how it had gone. He hadn’t said anything like that.

  “However, now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I believe we may be able to reach an equitable compromise.” She smiled again.

  “I’m very pleased to hear that.” Again Grantham stopped, leaving the next step to her.

  Miss Dawkins didn’t appear rattled. “It would be a tremendous inconvenience to relocate my shop. Not only is Vine Street ideally situated for my clients and for my employees, but a move would disrupt our work unpardonably. In addition, I have an extensive stock of fabrics and other materials, and it would cost me a great deal to remove it all, to say nothing of the expense of setting up new premises.”

  “Yes,” Grantham allowed, “but that is why Lord Carmarthen made such a generous offer.”

  “He has offered money,” she replied rather dismissively, “which addresses only one of my concerns. The other two are equally important. If, however, they can be addressed to my satisfaction…” She raised her chin. “Then I would be prepared to advise my mother, very strongly, to accept your offer for Number Twelve Vine Street so that Lord Carmarthen may proceed with his improvements.”

  For a moment there was silence. Grantham darted a glance at Evan, who was thinking furiously. Her other concerns were the inconvenience of moving—which he didn’t know how to eliminate—and the “ideal situation” of Vine Street—which was by definition confined to that location. “What would be sufficient to your satisfaction?” he asked.

  Miss Dawkins hesitated, then turned her head slightly toward him. “To run my business, I require a suitable set of rooms, including space for receiving clients, fittings, a workroom, and storage of supplies. Since I also live above Number Twelve, any new premises must include respectable lodgings. I don’t wish to pay higher rent than thirty pounds a year. And, most importantly, it must be located where it will be more convenient, not less, for my clients and employees. Those are the only circumstances under which I shall leave Vine Street.”

  Grantham looked at Evan, who nodded once. This was what he’d wanted, after all. As hoped, Miss Dawkins had recognized that she had to give way. She even had a fairly reasonable list of requirements for a new situation, which meant she should be able to relocate soon and not delay his p
lans. He tried not to think about the matter of her lodgings; did she live alone above Number Twelve? She’d mentioned a brother… He pushed that rogue thought from his mind.

  “I understand, Miss Dawkins, and that is all very commendable,” said the solicitor. “But how can you be sure your mother will be persuaded? She was quite firm in her refusal of Lord Carmarthen’s last offer.”

  “She wants what is best for Follette’s. If my brother and I assure her this will be to our benefit, she will accept.” There was no shade of doubt in her tone. It was still a risk, but Evan thought it was one worth taking. Surely Mrs. Dawkins couldn’t prevail against both her children as well as the ravages of construction.

  “We can allow some time for you to locate these new premises, Miss Dawkins, but we must know with certainty whether, and when, we will acquire the property,” Grantham went on. “His Lordship has contracted with a number of tradesmen who will need instruction. Can you guarantee an answer by the end of this month?”

  “I?” Miss Dawkins raised her chin. “I have no time to ramble about London viewing properties, Mr. Grantham. This is a very busy time for us, with the Season in progress and the coronation approaching. I will use my influence with my mother if, or when, you locate new shop quarters and lodgings for me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Evan lurched forward indignantly.

  At last she met his gaze head-on. Lord almighty, her eyes were blue. “You came to my shop personally,” she pointed out. “You offered exceptional value for it. You plan to raze the entire street to the ground, and then rip out the street itself. You yourself, my lord, pointed out that Vine Street will be utterly destroyed because you’ve bought everything else in it and made contracts with tradesmen already. That must have been an enormous investment. After all this, you would be deterred by finding one shop for a dressmaker?”

  Evan stared in disbelief. Even Grantham seemed speechless.

  Miss Dawkins was pleased to have brought them to a stand. “I know you cannot pull down everything if I stay. My shop shares a wall with Number Eleven; there is only a single course of brick dividing one side from the other, and I must tell you, it is not in pristine condition. You may own Number Eleven, but if you try to take it down, you will cause great damage to my property and I assure you my mother would file suit and pursue it forever.” She tilted her head at their prolonged silence. “If you want me to leave Vine Street, you should be able and willing to find a place for me to go.”

  “We’re not estate agents,” Evan began, his shock at her bold demand wearing off.

  In reply Miss Dawkins cast a pointed look toward the door. The bustle of clerks in the outer office was audible. “You have plenty of people to help you find one, sir.”

  His mouth thinned. She might have grasped that he was going to win the battle eventually, but she meant to make him fight for it. Unfortunately for him, he had no choice but to do it. The indignity and inconvenience would be worth avoiding the ruinous delays he’d suffer otherwise. “Very well,” he bit out. “We’ll find your new premises.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Lord Carmarthen.” She beamed at him, a sunny but somehow coy expression that did terrible things to Evan’s baser instincts. When had Fortune turned against him so cruelly, casting an enchanting siren as the obstacle to his ambitions? If Felicity Dawkins ever turned that smile on him for more seductive purposes, Evan had a bad feeling he would make an absolute fool of himself over her.

  With some unease he forced those thoughts away. “Will you require us to find men to move your household as well?”

  He’d said it drily, trying to push back against her presumption, but she merely nodded, her blue eyes wide and somber. “That would be very kind of you. Thank you, my lord; Mr. Grantham. You may send word to me when you have located a suitable property for my inspection.” She curtsied again and left in a swirl of blue skirts.

  The silence was deafening. “Well,” said Grantham a full minute later. “I suppose that counts as success.”

  “Barely.” Evan crossed the room and closed the door. “She wants us to do our part before she even begins hers, which may or may not succeed.”

  “We’ll have to make sure of it, then.” The solicitor reached for the bell again and rang for his clerk. “Watson,” he told the man, who appeared almost instantly, “locate an estate agent immediately. We need to find premises suitable for a dressmaker’s shop within the next month.”

  “Yes, sir. Where?”

  Grantham glanced at Evan, who shrugged. “Anywhere.” He listed Miss Dawkins’s requirements. “And then go query everyone left in Vine Street personally to be certain each and every tenant has made arrangements to be elsewhere by next month. I want to know everything about everyone in the street, to ward off any other unpleasant surprises.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell the estate agent to send his list of properties to let to me,” Evan told the clerk. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

  Grantham looked surprised. “I’m sure it’s not necessary.”

  “No.” He flexed his hands, remembering the pleased light in Miss Dawkins’s face. She did this to spite him, but they had a bargain now. On no account was he going to let her wriggle out of it. “I want that shop closed as soon as possible. If she dallies or delays for months, it will cause enormous headaches—she’s right about the structural wall, isn’t she?”

  Grantham hesitated, then nodded once.

  “I’ll hold her to her word,” Evan vowed. “If I have to show her every available property in London, she’ll be out of Vine Street within a fortnight.”

  Chapter Four

  For two days Felicity all but held her breath, waiting to see how the Earl of Carmarthen would react to her demands.

  Every time she thought of his stunned expression, a warm bubble of satisfaction welled up in her breast. He was used to getting his own way in everything, she was sure. It galled her to no end that he was going to get his way this time, too. Mama might own Number Twelve, but Felicity had spent enough time around wealthy peers to understand that the world was organized to help them. Eventually he would find a way to pry them out, which meant her chances of getting something in return were at their best right now.

  She felt rather proud of herself for coming up with this plan. Instead of being racked by dismay at the impending upheaval, she thought it entirely possible that it would be a godsend. If Lord Carmarthen could find a comparable set of rooms for the low rent she had named, even closer to the heart of fashionable London, Felicity would walk out of Vine Street without a backward glance. It had been her home all her life, but Lord Carmarthen was going to destroy it all sooner or later, and she might as well wring every possible advantage out of the situation.

  But that was all supposition and hope. If Lord Carmarthen couldn’t locate a suitable alternative, or simply decided it was beneath him to try, she would have little recourse or aid. Henry had checked, and it was absolutely true that Carmarthen had bought, or was in the process of buying, everything else on the street. All the tenants had been given compensation on the explicit understanding they would be gone by the end of the month. Felicity recognized that she had been dealt a losing hand months ago, before she even knew anything was at stake, and now she could only hope her opponent wanted to win graciously.

  She was working on a sketch for one of her longtime clients, Lady Euphemia Hammond, when the bell jingled. Loath to stop working—Lady Euphemia was expected later in the day and Felicity wanted to have this sketch ready for her—she cast a hopeful glance at her brother’s back. He sat across the office from her, working at the books. As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, his shoulders hunched slightly. He didn’t want to go.

  That might be her fault. Henry only came to the shop a few days a week to maintain the account books, and today she had taken up the first hour of the day with recounting her visit to Mr. Grantham’s offices. By the time she finished relating every detail, her brother looked slightly dazed. Al
though he gamely expressed hope that her tactic would work, she could tell he thought it wouldn’t. He’d been scrutinizing the books ever since, as if trying to find another way out of their dilemma. With a sigh, she put down her pencil, smoothed her skirts, and squeezed past her brother’s chair.

  The Earl of Carmarthen stood in the shop, his hands clasped behind his back and his head tipped up as he studied the ceiling. Felicity stopped short at the sight. Her irritation with him had obscured her memory of how attractive he was, but as the clear morning sunlight illuminated his face and figure, she was very keenly reminded of it. His dark hair was just long enough to brush the collar of his perfectly cut gray jacket, and when he turned to face her, the light behind him made his shoulders look very broad and strong.

  “Miss Dawkins.” He bowed.

  Squashing the inexplicable butterflies in her stomach, she came to the counter. “Good morning, my lord. How may I help you today?”

  One corner of his mouth curled, but his piercing blue gaze didn’t falter. “Don’t you want it to be the other way around—that I come to help you?”

  “Which would help you in turn,” she pointed out.

  “Indeed.” He strolled across the room and rested his hands on the counter. “Are you always so direct in your dealings with others?”

  Her heart skipped, and she could feel her face growing warm. “I like to avoid misunderstandings.”

  “Oh?” He smiled. She’d seen his smile before, but this time she felt it, deep inside—which horrified her. “Very good; so do I. Will you come for a drive with me?”

  Disconcerted by the warmth of his expression and the unexpected question, she froze. A drive? Why would he ask to take her driving?

  “I’ve located a property that should meet your requirements,” he added. “I presume you wish to view it before taking it.”

  “Oh,” she said, then again as his meaning sank in. “Oh! Yes, I would, naturally.” What a ninny she’d become for a minute; as if an earl would ask her to go driving for any other reason! Flustered, she turned to fetch her bonnet, and nearly ran right into her brother, coming out of the office. “I’m going out for a bit, Henry. Ask Miss Owen to mind the salon, please. She has no clients expected until later today.”