Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

In truth, she was so kind and considerate to everyone—granted, with one notable exception, but he readily admitted the fault was his—it was almost as if she were too good to be true…

“I have been reading too many adventure novels.” Devlin blew out his breath along with the harried growl. “Clanging chains, subterranean dungeons, evil villains, damsels in distress…ye gods, perhaps I should send Sir Sharpe Quill a few ideas for his next book.” Some of the things he had been thinking were outrageous enough for the pages of London’s favorite author.

The glass caught the mocking curl of his lips. Speaking of advice, the fellow definitely needed some help with his sex scenarios. Given the exotic settings, the virile hero, and the bold-as-brass heroine, they were surprisingly…tame.

The workshop door opened with a muted tinkling of bells, drawing Devlin from his musings.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Davenport,” said the Duke of Leverett, as he and his gunkeeper exited the premises. “Thought you wer

e too dipped to be able to afford any of Manton’s creations.”

“I’ve come into an unexpected windfall,” he replied.

“Then use it to pay off your debts, man,” snapped the duke.

Devlin suspected he owed the fellow money but couldn’t quite remember for what. “Actually, there is an alternate way to settle my accounts,” he replied. “I could use the funds to purchase a double-barreled coaching gun.” A pause. “And then use it to eliminate all my creditors. Poof! My troubles are gone, and I end up with a very fine precision instrument.”

The duke took a step back and looked as though he might faint.

“A jest, Your Grace,” murmured Devlin. The man was notorious for having no sense of humor. “Merely a jest.”

“A damnably bad one,” groused the duke, as he crabbed his way to the street and waved for his carriage. “You’re a disgrace to the peerage.”

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Devlin cocked a sardonic salute. “Shocking isn’t it, how low the standards have fallen.”

“Go to—”

“Yes, I know—go to the Devil,” murmured Devlin. “I do wish someone would come up with a more original insult.”

“You look very lovely, Mademoiselle Anna.” Josette stepped back to survey her handiwork. “That is, if I may say so myself.”

“You may indeed—you deserve all the credit,” said Anna. She slowly turned in front of the cheval glass, setting off a soft swish of silk and satin. This was the first ballgown that her French maid had taken charge of designing, and the result was quite striking.

“I look…different.” Somehow more worldly, more mysterious, though she couldn’t quite describe why.

Josette nodded sagely. “It is a matter of subtle details. Fabric, cut, color, texture. Your Mama had you swathed in unflattering styles that made you look like a morsel of spun sugar. Too sweet! Too fluffy! And as for all the girlish ribbons and bows…” The maid’s hand gestures eloquently expressed what she thought of such decorative frills. “I have put most of them in the rag bin,” she confided.

“I am happy to defer to your judgment on fashion,” said Anna, still taking in the fact that a few yards of fabric could make such a difference.

“Bon,” went on Josette, after circling around Anna for a final look. “Simplicity lets your delicate beauty shine. As do the richer hues.” She pinched the slate blue watered silk between her capable fingers. “Pastel shades are too in…in…”

“Insipid?” suggested Anna.

“Oui, that is the word! Too many of the young ladies here in London look as though they have had all the color scrubbed out of them.”

A very perceptive comment, thought Anna. But then, her maid was an émigré from Paris who had lost her parents during the last tumultuous days of the Terror. Despite her young age, she had few illusions about human nature.

Josette made a face. “Pffaugh. What man wants to flirt with a piece of pasteboard? He wants to be intrigued, entranced.”

“I’m afraid that here in London, a lady is meant to be seen and not heard,” pointed out Anna. “She is not supposed to intrigue or entrance a man. She’s supposed to smile and simper—and get him to the altar as soon as possible.”

“Pffaugh. What fun is that?”

“It’s not meant to be fun,” replied Anna. “It’s serious business.”

Josette blew out a low snort. “Oui, oui, I know. For you English, marriage is all about money, power, and prestige, eh? It is not so different in France.” The maid paused to take a needle and thread from a pincushion on the dressing table, and quickly stitched a small tuck into the sarcenet overskirt. “But we also understand that life is far more fun when there is a spark of romance to it.”

Finished with the sewing, she raised a hand to her lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Put a man and woman together, it is inevitable that passions will flame.”