by Anne Stuart
“Ribbons!” Madame dismissed them with an airy gesture. “Look at this dress, mademoiselle. It is you! Surely you cannot deny that you would look ravissant in it.”
“I wouldn’t deny it, but I also have no intention of purchasing such an indecent dress.”
“Oh, Gillian, it’s beautiful!” Felicity added her unwanted opinion. “You would look stunning in it, you know you would.”
“Listen to your niece, mademoiselle. That one, she has the eye, just like you.”
Gillian felt her conviction weaken. It was a monstrously attractive dress. “What is the price, madame?”
Quickly calculating the added prestige the sale would give her, she figured the cost of the gown, multiplied it by ten, subtracted five pounds, and named a staggering figure.
“That settles it, then. It is far too dear. The ribbons, madame,” Gillian said firmly.
“But, Gillian, it would be so beautiful on you!” Felicity wailed. “You are mad to turn it down.”
Gillian allowed herself one last covetous look. It would transform even the plainest creature into something close to beauty, she thought, and found herself wondering what a certain disreputable peer might think were he to be privileged to see Miss Gillian Redfern in such a glorious dress. Sternly she put that dangerously enticing thought from her mind. “Felicity, the dress is not for me.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” a gentle voice came from directly behind them, a voice surprisingly familiar, considering that Gillian had only heard it on one other occasion in her life, two short weeks ago. “I think the dress would be perfect for you, Miss Redfern.”
With a feeling of anticipation that she told herself was embarrassment and dread, Gillian turned slowly to meet Ronan Marlowe’s quizzical expression.
Chapter Four
HER STARTLED BLUE eyes traveled up the seemingly endless length of him, to his saturnine face towering above her. In the brightly lit shop the streaks of gray in his curly black head stood out more prominently, as did the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. He was dressed in great elegance, all in black, and on his hand was a large emerald, hard and cold and bright. Like his laughing green eyes.
Gillian felt her face flushing like a veritable schoolgirl, and silently cursed the man for having such a devastating effect on her. An effect he was no doubt well aware of. She met his amused glance firmly. “Good afternoon, Lord Marlowe. I was wondering when we might meet again.”
“Were you, Miss Redfern? And I had rather thought you were avoiding me. Not that I blamed you, of course. I fancied I detected your brother’s fell hand in the matter. I may have maligned him.” The gentle voice drawled on, and Gillian had no doubt he was enjoying her discomfiture.
She threw back her head and met his gaze with a limpid one of her own. “Aren’t you pleased you were mistaken, Lord Marlowe?” she asked brightly. “And speaking of Derwent, may I present you to his daughter, Felicity?” She turned to her companion and recognized the sparkling gaze with a sinking feeling. Despite Felicity’s devotion to her stern vicar, she still had a penchant for attractive men, and Ronan Marlowe certainly fit that description. He seemed to have a devastating effect on the girl. She looked up at him, her dark eyes shining, lips parted breathlessly, cheeks flushed. Gillian hoped irritably that she hadn’t looked like that when she saw him.
She could tell by the amused expression in those green eyes that Marlowe recognized Felicity’s condition as he acknowledged the introduction with a courtly little bow that just bordered on mocking, and Felicity’s answering smile, bright enough to dazzle a blind man, filled her with dread. What man could resist such loveliness? Certainly not a rake like Ronan Marlowe. Therefore it was with surprise that she found him turning back to her, all that magnetic attention focused on her until she felt almost faint.
“Are you going to buy that dress?” he demanded in a lazy voice. “It would suit you, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Gillian lied. “And I have no intention of buying it. It would be completely unsuitable for me.”
“Unsuitable for the role your family has pushed you into,” he observed. “I can see how Derwent would want to keep you in such hideously drab clothes. He wouldn’t want to lose his unpaid drudge.” This was all delivered in such a mild tone of voice that Felicity, off to one side and staring at him dreamily, failed to notice.
Gillian stared at him, aghast. “How dare you?” she demanded. “What gives you the right . . . ?”
“Oh, I’m a very daring fellow,” he replied easily. “If it’s a simple matter of pockets to let, I would be honored to buy the dress for you.”
There was a hiss of horrified reaction from the women around them, and even Gillian was temporarily silenced by the shocking suggestion. She forced herself to speak in calm, measured tones, only her becomingly flushed face betraying her agitation.
“I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer,” she said stiffly. “I am entirely able to purchase that gown if by any chance I wished to. However, I do not.” She bit back the blistering attack on his behavior that threatened to bubble over. By the light in his cool green eyes she knew perfectly well that he was entirely aware how outrageous his offer had been, and she wouldn’t gratify him by ringing a peal over him as he so richly deserved.
He shrugged philosophically. “Well, if there’s no persuading you we might as well leave.”
“We?” she echoed, uneasiness warring with a treacherous spurt of pleasure.
“I am scarcely going to leave you to make your way home alone. I can’t think why two lovely women thought it would be acceptable to go for a walk in the heart of London without a footman at least to accompany them. This is no longer the country, Miss Redfern.”
“And you are such a stickler for the proper observances, aren’t you, my lord?” she shot back pertly.
“That’s my girl,” he approved softly.
Once more Gillian cursed her flippant tongue. “But we wouldn’t think of taking you away, Lord Marlowe. Though what a bachelor would be doing in an establishment such as Madame Racette’s excites my curiosity, I must confess.”
“Your curiosity will have to remain excited—I have no intention of telling you.” He moved away and murmured something in a low voice in Madame Racette’s attentive ear. That lady had watched the past few minutes’ byplay with great fascination, and now accepted Marlowe’s instructions with a complacent nod.
“I will inform the lady,” she replied in a low voice that nevertheless reached Gillian’s straining ears. She felt a very real temptation to stroll back to the private showing room from which Marlowe had so recently exited. She had never seen a wicked woman before, and would have been greatly interested to see the sort that Ronan Marlowe preferred. Before she could screw up her courage, however, Marlowe put one strong hand under her elbow, with a flirtatious and, for once, relatively silent Felicity on his other side, and a moment later they were strolling down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, heading back toward Berkeley Square.
“What makes you think we’ve finished our shopping?” Gillian demanded crossly, hotly aware of the hand beneath her arm, her mind still lingering belatedly on the phrases “hideously drab clothes” and “unpaid drudge.” If that was what he thought of her it was a wonder he even bothered to recognize her. Though perhaps the adoring creature on his right was the reason for his attentions. The thought depressed her even more. She would have to hint him away if that was what he had in mind. She didn’t intend her Felicity to end up leg-shackled to a rake twice her age.
“I have not the slightest objection to escorting you further. I merely assumed since you came out without anyone to carry your purchases that you weren’t planning a major shopping expedition. But if you wish . . .”
“Don’t be difficult, Gilly.” Felicity finally found her tongue. “I think it absolutely delightful of
Lord Marlowe to escort us home. We can look in shop windows on the way, and perhaps we could persuade him to stop in for tea. Mama will be delighted to make his acquaintance.”
“Your mother and I have been acquainted these twenty years,” Marlowe said easily. “Since long before you were born. If I remember her correctly, she would be far too exhausted to support having uninvited guests drop in for tea. Instead, why don’t you allow me to take you to Gunters for ices?”
Before Gillian could politely but firmly refuse, Felicity had clapped her hands together. “That would be delightful. And we could stop in that little jewelry store on the corner and pick up my locket. The man promised he’d have it mended by Tuesday, and here it is Friday already. How delightful that we ran into you, Lord Marlowe.”
“Delightful,” Gillian echoed gloomily, having just met the scandalized gaze of Letty’s best friend across the street. The hand on her elbow squeezed slightly, and she looked up in surprise at the dark, lined, cynical face of her companion.
“Have I ruined you?” he asked softly with a meaningful glance in Mrs. Travers’s horrified direction.
“It would take a great deal more than a chaperoned stroll in broad daylight with the infamous Lord Marlowe to ruin my reputation,” she replied loftily.
“That bad, eh?” he commiserated. “Who’d have thought you’d be that hopelessly starched-up, that a rogue like me wouldn’t discredit you. I can see I arrived in London just in time.” There was an enigmatic promise in his eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
He ignored her startled interjection. “Ah, well, I mustn’t forget you’re Derwent’s sister. There must be some resemblance there, some sympathy of feeling.”
“There is not!” She denied it hotly, knowing that he was teasing her but rising to the bait nonetheless. “Derwent and I have been at daggers drawn for as long as I can remember. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a particle of sense, and know a . . . a . . .”
“Rake? A blunder, a degenerate cad?” he supplied amiably, his eyes alight.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but that’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it, my love? I take leave to tell you, my dear Miss Redfern, that I am accepted just about everywhere nowadays. I am a veritable pillar of society. You would hardly be so cruel as to deny a reformed rake such as me of your ennobling companionship?” The laughter in his voice was dangerously beguiling.
“Idiot!” She laughed reluctantly. “And I hadn’t heard you were a reformed gambler.”
“Am I not allowed to place a few wagers?” he questioned innocently. “Faith, but the Redferns are a sticky lot. I am not allowed to womanize or gamble if I’m to be admitted to their august company. Am I allowed to drink, or is that too denied me?”
“I don’t doubt you drink too much,” Gillian observed sternly.
“You are wise not to do so. I drink too much, gamble too much, and spend too much time and money on women who are no better than they should be.” He smiled down at her, that lazy, beguiling smile that had such a dangerous effect on her. “And I chase shy, flustered young women who try to pretend they are aging spinsters well before their time.”
“I’m going to be thirty in a matter of days,” she cried, nettled. “And I am not a shy, flustered young woman.”
“I didn’t say I was chasing you,” he said gently. “I merely make a habit of seeking out such blue-deviled females and cheering them up.”
“Then you certainly aren’t referring to me. I would scarcely call your attentions cheering,” Gillian shot back. “They border on harassment.”
“Touché,” he said lightly. “I am so glad to see your eyes are blue. I had been hoping they would be, but everyone I asked during the last two weeks couldn’t remember. I suppose it is because you usually keep them meekly downcast. You shouldn’t, you know. They really are magnificent.”
“You asked people what color my eyes are?” she demanded in horror. “You must be mad!”
“Merely eccentric. Is your hair red or blond? I still cannot see beneath that intimidating bonnet.” He leaned down to peer at her earnestly, forcing a reluctant laugh from her.
“Behave yourself, Lord Marlowe. It’s a bit of both.”
“You should laugh more often,” he observed, a thoughtful expression on his world-weary, handsome face. “It proves you aren’t nearly as starched-up as you pretend to be. I don’t despair of you yet.”
“If you two would stop arguing,” Felicity’s aggrieved tones came to their startled ears, “I would appreciate it if someone would accompany me into the shop.” There was just a suggestion of a pout on Felicity’s pretty face. Being the pampered eldest daughter of doting parents, and an acknowledged toast, she wasn’t used to being ignored by handsome men. Especially not for her beloved aunt, who, though Felicity adored her, was seen by her niece more in the light of a useful appendage for her own comfort, rather than another female and a possible rival for attention. The thought was obviously not a comfortable one.
“We will both be enchanted to accompany you, Miss Redfern,” Marlowe said in that smooth, deep voice. “Lead the way.”
It would have been too much to hope for Marlowe to behave himself in the jeweler’s shop. He did stay reasonably in the background while Felicity pored over what seemed to Gillian’s weary eyes every single piece of jewelry in the shop. It took all the tact Gillian possessed to steer her attention away from several inordinately gaudy pieces that Felicity had taken a fancy to. Likewise the flawed emerald ring, the pearls made of fish-paste, the ruby and sapphire earbobs that would have pulled down her ear lobes, and the gold bracelet that accompanied every move of Felicity’s graceful arm with an annoying jangle.
“If you must buy some new jewelry,” Gillian said wearily, “and I fail to see why you must, then why don’t you consider that delightful little enamel locket over there? It has a delicacy and charm totally lacking in the brooch you’re holding, as I’m sure you’ve already decided.”
Felicity had been about to purchase the offending brooch, but immediately laid it down on the glass-topped counter. She knew far too well that her aunt’s taste was unerring. “I already have several lockets,” she stated. “Not that that’s not pretty, though a trifle on the small side.”
“Well, I like it,” Gillian said strongly. “And if I weren’t too old to be wearing lockets, I would buy it for myself. What about the diamond earbobs? They’re small also, but quite lovely, and I don’t believe you have any diamond earrings.”
“I prefer colored stones.” Felicity dismissed them, and Gillian allowed herself one last longing look at the earbobs.
“GUNTERS NEXT!” Felicity announced brightly as they stepped back out into the sunshine. “I declare I am famished.”
Gillian looked toward Marlowe with a sinking expression, and he finally took pity on her. “I think your aunt wishes you to return home, Miss Redfern. These jaunts can be rather strenuous for someone of her advanced years. Perhaps another time.”
The pout reappeared, less enchantingly this time. With practiced charm that positively enflamed Gillian with fury he reached down and pinched her niece’s chin. “Now don’t be difficult, child,” he said gently. “Your aunt’s had enough of me for one day.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Felicity announced with unbecoming pertness.
Marlowe smiled his slow, delightful smile. “But I care more for your aunt’s good opinion than I do for yours,” he said, and led them inexorably down the street to the Redfern mansion, with Felicity fuming and Gillian completely bewildered. She stopped a few feet away from the imposing gray edifice that had housed Redferns in London for over a hundred years.
“I suppose you’d best leave us here,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you for accompanying us. I do appreciate it.”
“What a bouncer! You’ve been wishing
me at the devil the entire time,” he replied, looking down into those vulnerable blue eyes. “You want shaking up, Gillian. You’re too complacent at too young an age.”
A bitter little smile twisted her soft lips. “You’re not as astute as I thought you were, Lord Marlowe, if you think I’m complacent. And I didn’t give you leave to address me by my Christian name.”
“No, you didn’t,” he agreed, taking her gloved hand in his and bringing it swiftly to his lips before she could pull away. “I’ll let you escape this time, my love. I suppose I shouldn’t blame you for being afraid of Derwent.”
“I am not afraid of my brother!” She denied it hotly.
“No?” He was unconvinced, deliberately goading her. “You’ll have to prove it to me at some later date, Gillian. Good afternoon, Miss Felicity.”
Felicity’s response was a distempered flounce, but Marlowe’s tall back was already turned, and he was deprived of her temper. Gillian’s troubled gaze followed him as he made his leisured way back down the square, back, no doubt, to Madame Racette’s and the high-flyer he had left behind. Gillian was unaccountably disheartened.
Her niece let out a deep sigh, her pique vanishing. “He certainly is one of the most devastatingly attractive men I have ever seen,” she announced soulfully. “Don’t you agree, Gilly?”
“What about Liam Blackstone?” her aunt inquired with a trace of sharpness.
“Oh, Liam’s not attractive,” Felicity said ingenuously. “He’s beautiful. It’s the contrast between the two that intrigues me. One so pure, the other so delightfully decadent. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love Liam. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t notice an attractive man when I see one. After all, I’m only eighteen.”
