by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens
“It’s smaller than I would like,” she admitted. “But to be this near to Bond Street, I can make allowances.”
Evan squinted at something in the street below. “What do you think of Ferrars?”
She paused. “What do you mean?”
He could see their reflection in the glass, his figure dark and hers bright. Her chin didn’t come to his shoulder, and she was slimmer to boot. Ferrars was almost Evan’s height, and probably outweighed him by a stone. Perhaps her brother would be around enough to keep the lecherous landlord at bay. Perhaps she was accustomed to warding men off and would have no trouble with Ferrars. Perhaps it wasn’t his place to say anything at all—and yet…
“He seems excessively interested in you,” he said abruptly. “I suppose you didn’t notice him staring at your—” He coughed. “Staring at you rather boldly.”
“No,” she said, startled. “Was he really?”
Evan gave a curt nod. “He has keys to every door in the place. I gather your brother has his own lodgings elsewhere, and doesn’t come to the shop every day.”
“No,” she said again. “Henry only comes a few days a week, unless I ask him… Are you certain Mr. Ferrars’s interest was salacious?”
His jaw tightened, picturing again the expression on Ferrars’s face as he watched the sway of her skirts. “If a man looked at my sister that way, I would beat him to a bloody mess.”
She said nothing. Evan waited for her to express shock, outrage, disapproval … anything.
“My lord,” she finally said, “are you actually trying to persuade me this shop is unacceptable?”
“I think I am.”
“Because of Mr. Ferrars.” She sounded disbelieving.
“Because you are a woman, living alone, with other young women coming into the shop. Perhaps your brother can keep him in line, but it’s a risk I would not personally take, if I were in your shoes.”
Her reflection turned toward his. Evan darted a glance directly at her. She was gazing up at him with worry. “Do you really think he’s that bad?”
A caustic smile touched his mouth. Ferrars hadn’t even been discreet about ogling her. “Would you welcome his attentions?”
“No!” she exclaimed with some horror. “Not at all.” She cleared her throat. “Well. I don’t think this shop will suit me after all.”
The tension in his muscles eased as quickly as a bubble popping. Feeling immeasurably lighter and happier, Evan grinned. “Shall we visit the other property?”
The smile that lit her face was real. “Yes.”
They went down to the salon, where Ferrars was waiting. “Thank you, sir,” said Miss Dawkins politely. “Very handsome, but smaller than I require.”
Ferrars’s disappointment was obvious. “You’ll have trouble finding a larger place this near Bond Street on these terms, ma’am.”
“I shall risk it,” she told him.
His mouth tightened. “As you wish. Good day to you.” He followed them back to the salon, and closed the door with a bang behind them.
“He didn’t take that well, did he?” muttered Miss Dawkins.
Evan glanced over his shoulder. Ferrars was watching through the window, and Evan made sure to give him an icy glare. “Never a good sign.” Dismissing the landlord, he turned to the woman beside him, who was regarding him with far more warmth than she ever had before. “Shall we walk to the next possibility? It’s nearby, and such a fine day.”
Her eyes rounded in pleased surprise. “Yes.” Evan motioned to a boy lingering hopefully nearby, handing him a coin to watch his carriage and horses, then offered Miss Dawkins his arm and led her toward Bond Street.
“Was he really staring at me?” she asked as they walked.
“Are you calling me a liar?” His eyebrows twitched upward.
She laughed. “Not at all! I only meant that I never caught him.”
He glanced at her. “Do you often catch men staring at you?”
“Oh goodness, that sounds so vain.” She had a way of wrinkling her nose in wry amusement that Evan found mesmerizing. “It does happen. Many so-called gentlemen have little respect for a woman in trade. More than one has assumed that since I make my own living, I would happily welcome any indecent overtures and propositions.”
“Idiots,” said Evan in a clipped voice. “I hope your brother sets them straight.”
“Sometimes. Henry looks imposing, but he has the kindest heart, and no stomach for beating up a client’s husband merely for having wandering eyes.”
He scowled. “Your clients’ husbands do this?”
“On a few occasions,” she admitted quietly, before continuing in a more confident tone. “But my mother experienced it first, and she taught me to defend myself. Never cross a woman armed with pins and scissors.”
Evan didn’t think pins or scissors would stop a truly determined man, especially not if that man got her alone in a shop he owned. “You shouldn’t have to defend yourself against your landlord. Nor anyone, for that matter. If any client’s husbands make a nuisance of themselves, tell me.”
This time the look she gave him was openly shocked. “That isn’t necessary, my lord.”
“Carmarthen,” he said. “If your brother is hesitant to thrash someone who’s harassing you because it might impact your clientele, I’ll do it.”
“Why?” She seemed to regret the question the moment she asked it; a beautiful blush stained her face, and she put one hand over her mouth. “I mean—”
“You called me a friend, back there,” he said when she stopped. “Did you mean it, or was it just for Mr. Ferrars’s benefit?”
“Apparently it didn’t deter him from staring,” she murmured. She wouldn’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have presumed to call our acquaintance such…”
“No.” Without thinking he laid his free hand on hers. “It was a pleasant surprise. Can we be friends?”
She raised her head, giving him a wary look. “You want to buy my shop.”
“And raze it to the ground,” he agreed. “But not without fairly compensating you and seeing you settled into another, equally respectable, shop.”
A glimmer of a smile teased her lips. “And you don’t mind that I insisted you help with the latter?”
Evan grinned. “It’s what I would have done, in your place, so I can hardly hold that against you.”
Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and Felicity Dawkins burst into laughter. “Not really!”
“Something like it,” he replied, inordinately pleased that he’d made her laugh. “Never waste a strong bargaining position.”
“Well!” Still smiling, she shook her head. “I confess, I never thought you’d see it that way.”
“I have always respected confidence and honesty. You’ve dealt fairly with me, and I’ve tried to do the same with you.”
Her smile grew warmer. “I do appreciate that. So often—” She stopped and bit her lip. “Not every man would.”
“Am I convicted of being just like every other man?” Evan made a face. “I doubt I have much in common with Mr. Ferrars, for one.”
“No,” she said at once, still smiling. “I didn’t mean to imply that.” She glanced up at him. “This has been a very illuminating conversation, sir.”
“Carmarthen,” he said again, not even sure why he wanted her to call him that. Every time she said “my lord” it felt like a sharp prod to his conscience, reminding him that they were from different worlds. Evan much preferred to dwell on the more pleasant title of “friend,” which could possibly lead to something more intimate.
They turned the corner into Bond Street, and Miss Dawkins took a deep breath of pure pleasure. Evan stole a glance at her, and nearly tripped over his own feet. Her face glowed with eager excitement, nothing reserved or hesitant about it.
“I adore Bond Street,” she said rapturously.
“Why so?”
She smiled, showing the dimple in her cheek. “Everything that is lovely and el
egant and well-made can be found here.” She nodded at the shop beside them. “The finest glover in London. And there, two excellent milliners. Jewelers, hatters, boot makers, china and lace and books and drapers!”
Evan looked around and saw shops, filled with ladies and gentlemen and servants carting boxes and packages in their wakes. The sight of so much commerce was gratifying, but he also noted the older buildings and how much they could use some improvement. “And that’s why you want to be here?”
“Yes. To be in Bond Street signifies that your work is some of the finest in London.” She stopped in front of a large window. “Merely strolling down the street is a joy. See how handsome the displays are!”
“Bolts of cloth.”
She gasped at his dry statement. “Oh, but look how beautifully they’re presented! You can see the glorious colors of this damask, and the print on that cotton. The velvet is arranged to catch the light and show off the rich sheen of the nap.”
“Indeed.” Evan gave it a closer examination. “Who would have noticed?”
Miss Dawkins laughed. “Only every woman in London. Several times clients have come to me with a length of silk, proclaiming it the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen and wanting it made up into something.”
“Do you?”
“Whenever possible. It’s an extra challenge, of course, but I never like to disappoint a client.”
“I feel ever so grateful for my own tailor now,” Evan said. “He only asks if I’ve gained or lost any weight, then sends the finished garments.”
Her eyes opened wide. “With no choice of fabric or cut?”
“No. What difference does it make?” Evan lifted one shoulder. “I expect my valet pays more attention to my clothing than I do.”
“That, I believe,” she murmured, studying his coat and waistcoat with a critical eye.
An unwonted thrill went through him. “What fault do you find?” he managed to ask, his mouth going dry as her gaze moved over him. He imagined peeling off each layer of fabric as she watched, perhaps even helped. The idea of her hands sliding over his skin seized his mind like a fever.
She raised her eyes to his. “Color,” she said, her voice husky. “You lack color. But your eyes—” She stopped, her breath catching for a moment. “Your eyes are an unusual color, my lord.”
Evan barely heard the last two words. She was attracted to him. The flush on her cheeks gave her away; her eyes were wide and dark and her breathing had sped up. Triumph surged through his veins, as potent as the finest whisky. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Miss Dawkins—Felicity—wet her lips, and something inside Evan seemed to growl with hunger. If they hadn’t been standing, stock-still, in the middle of the busiest street in London, he would have kissed her, and damn the consequences. “Let’s go in.”
Evan blinked. “In?”
“Inside the…” She motioned toward the door, a blush coloring her face. “Inside the draper’s shop.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He would have gone anywhere she invited him right then. Evan swept open the door, and led her inside.
Chapter Seven
Felicity took a deep breath as they stepped into Percival & Condell’s draper’s shop, grateful for the moment to regain her poise. She must have lost her mind, telling the Earl of Carmarthen that his wardrobe lacked anything. Everything he wore was of fine fabric, well cut and expertly made. His outfit today had cost a very handsome sum, even though it was all in dark, somber shades.
And while she thought nothing of teasing her brother over an unfortunate choice of waistcoat, it was a very different thing to stare boldly and wantonly at the earl’s figure. She could find no fault there, from his broad shoulders to his trim waist and strong legs. Her mother would smack her if she’d seen how Felicity had studied Carmarthen’s trousers—which fit very, very well indeed.
But when she looked at his face, trying to save herself, she only felt more keenly aware of how handsome he was, from the loose locks of dark hair that regularly tempted her to comb her fingers through, to the brilliant blue of his eyes. Felicity had blue eyes herself; she had never thought blue a particularly arresting eye color. But the earl’s were different, almost aqua-colored, like the sea on a fine day. And when he asked if they could be friends, and offered to beat up any man who bothered her, Felicity feared she would forget herself entirely and succumb to the spell of his voice and the temptation lurking in his gaze…
She took another deep breath. Theirs was a business relationship—a friendly one, but one that would end as soon as their bargain was fulfilled. She needed to remember that while His Lordship escorted her around town, offering his arm and laughing when she was impertinent.
“May I help you?” A clerk approached, his head angled in question.
“We require some color,” said the earl. “Or rather, I do.”
Felicity flushed crimson. “Fine wool,” she said quickly. “Shades of blue and green. Also damask and satins, nothing elaborate or fussy, but elegant.”
“Yes, madam.” The clerk headed behind his counter and began studying the bolts of fabric on the shelves that lined the walls.
“Elegant,” murmured the earl as they followed. “Thank you for adding that. For a moment I had the most dreadful vision of a waistcoat embroidered with chickens or cabbage roses.”
She smiled. “I would never suggest that. Everything in fashion must be chosen with the wearer’s image in mind: Is he stern? Regal? Fun-loving and a bit rebellious?” The clerk laid three bolts of wool on the counter. “Not this,” Felicity told him, dismissing one immediately. “What about that cerulean wool?” The clerk took it from the shelf and added it to her pile. She stripped off one glove and ran her hand over it. “No, the weave is too coarse. Do you have anything else similarly shaded, but finer?”
For the next several minutes she kept the clerk busy, running around the shop finding different fabrics as the bolts piled up in front of her. Carmarthen leaned against the counter and watched in amused silence, his arms folded. Felicity didn’t doubt that it was his presence that kept the clerk’s attention focused solely on them, even to the point of brushing off other customers begging his assistance. But she’d forgotten how much fun it was to shop. At the silk warehouses she had to keep several competing interests in mind: not just the color and the quality of the fabric, but the cost and what she could do with the cloth, and for which client. Today she could think only of the man beside her, and what would suit him.
“What image do you wish to reinforce for me?” asked the earl, when the counter was piled with bolts. “Rebellious, or regal?”
She laughed. “Neither.” She had removed both her gloves by now, the better to assess the feel of the cloth. “Something vibrant and bold, befitting a man who would buy an entire street in order to tear it down.” She held up a length of royal blue wool in front of his waistcoat. It went well with his charcoal trousers and gray coat. She put it down and studied the selection. “Something elegant and modern, as you wish to rebuild Vine Street in that style.” She held up a sage green cloth, woven with a thin gray stripe. She tilted her head, considering it. “I like this one.”
“You’re very fond of color.” His eyes dipped to take in her pelisse, which was as brightly pink as ripe raspberries.
Felicity smiled. “I am. But only those that suit me. When I was a child, my mother made my clothes from scraps.” She made a face. “So much white muslin! It was all beautiful, but I got such a scolding when I got dirty.”
“Were you raised in the Vine Street shop?” he asked, surprised.
“Yes.” She held up a forest green satin with a pattern of leaves in gold thread. “Striking, don’t you think?”
“Bold and vibrant,” he said, echoing her earlier words. “What else suits me?”
Felicity reached for one of the damasks. It was woven in shades of blue, from deep indigo to hints of pale azure. “Rich,” she said quietly, holding it up against his chest. “Suitable for a
lord.”
“I see. But does it match my eyes?”
She made the mistake of looking up. There was nothing regal about the way he was looking at her. Desire, pure and simple, burned in his gaze, and it ignited a reciprocal spark inside her own breast.
No, not ignited. That fuse had been lit some time ago. Felicity had been attracted to men before and been able to squash the spark. But every time she thought she’d got over her attraction to this man, it flared back into life the next time she saw him, brighter and hotter. If she didn’t keep her distance from it—from him—she’d find herself scorched before long.
She cleared her throat and busied herself with rolling the damask back onto the bolt. “No, not a match. A complement.”
“Excellent,” murmured the earl. “Send the lot to Cavendish Square, number eighteen,” he told the clerk, handing the man one of his cards.
Felicity’s eyes widened. “All of it?” she said stupidly.
The earl picked up his hat and offered her his arm again. “You spoke so beautifully of each one, I couldn’t choose.”
He’d just bought twenty pounds’ worth of fabric without batting an eye. The silk damask alone must have cost ten pounds. Forcibly reminded again that they were from different worlds, she took his arm in silence and let him lead her out into the sunshine.
“Here we are.” He stopped at the next block of shops and flourished one arm. The same fellow who had been in Soho Square waited in the doorway, although he stepped back without a word as the earl held up one hand.
It was obvious that this shop was superior to the last. It was better maintained, for one, and occupied a corner, with Bond Street traffic on one side and a more sheltered street adjoining it. Unusually, it had large windows facing onto both streets, which meant more light in most of the rooms.
“So many windows,” said Felicity in surprise.
“Shall we go inside?” He led her to the steps, introducing the fellow waiting with the keys as Mr. Abbott, letting agent.
The salon was smaller than Ferrars’s, but Felicity couldn’t take her eyes off the windows. There was even a bow window at the corner, where one could pose a full-sized mannequin in a gown. Already she could envision the displays she would set up to entice passersby to come inside. “A bit small, but very bright,” she said, wandering over to inspect the counter. “What sort of shop was it?”
