Silk Is for Seduction (The Dressmakers 1)

sp; “You’re crushing me.”

“Yes,” he said. He nuzzled her neck.

She was desperately aware of his arousal, the great ducal phallus awake well before his brain was.

“Get off,” she said. “Get off. Now.”

Before it’s too late, and I decide to celebrate a narrow escape from death in the traditional manner of our species.

“Noirot?”

“Yes.”

“Then it wasn’t a dream.”

“No. Get off.”

He muttered something too low for her to hear, but he moved away. She turned over. Her head spun. She had to struggle to focus.

He stood at the side of the bunk, looking down at her. The shadow of a beard darkened his face, and he was scowling.

She started up from the bed.

Then fell back onto it, clutching her head.

“That wasn’t wise,” he said. “You’ve been sick. All you’ve had to eat was cold gruel and a little wine.”

“I ate?”

“You don’t remember.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t,” she said. “I’m having trouble sorting out what I dreamed and what happened. I dreamed I was in London. Then I wasn’t. I was at the bottom of the sea, looking up at the bottom of the boat.” For a moment she saw the dream clearly in her mind’s eye, and for that moment she felt the despair she’d felt then. I’ve drowned. I’ll never see Lucie again. Why did I leave London? “People hung over the rail, looking down at me. They were gesturing and seemed to be saying something, but I couldn’t make out what it was. You were there. You were very angry.” And that, strangely enough, had been the most reassuring part of the dream.

“That much was real enough,” he said. “You’ve tried my patience past all endurance. I’m not accustomed to playing nursemaid, and you didn’t make it easy, thrashing about like a lunatic.”

“Was that why you were lying on top of me?”

“I was not lying on top of you,” he said. “Not on purpose. I fell asleep. I was tired. I’d had very little sleep before the storm broke. Then you burst in and decided to be sick in my cabin.”

“I didn’t decide to be sick—though now I consider, it was a good idea,” she said. “I wish I had thought of it. But I didn’t. I came for help—for Jeffreys. I was only a bit queasy—but then . . . something happened.” She shook her head. “I’m never sick. I should not have been sick.”

“You’re very lucky I was here,” he said. “You’re very lucky I’m a patient man. You’re a deuced difficult patient. I would have thrown you overboard, but the crew had closed the hatches.”

She made herself sit up, but more slowly and carefully this time. Her head pounded. She clutched it.

“You’d better not get up,” he said.

She remembered his patience, his gentle touch. She remembered the feeling, so rare that she’d had trouble recognizing it: the feeling of being sheltered and protected and being looked after. When last had anybody looked after her? Not her parents, certainly. They’d never hesitated to abandon their children when the children became inconvenient. Then they’d turn up, months and months later, expecting those children to run into their open arms.

And we did, Marcelline thought. Naïve fools that we were, we did. Whether Mama and Papa were about or not, it was always Marcelline, the eldest, who looked after everybody, because one couldn’t rely on anyone else. Even after she was wed. But what could she expect when she wed her own kind? Poor, feckless Charlie!

Clevedon wasn’t her kind. He was another species altogether. She remembered his hand at her back, guiding her to the shelter of his well-appointed carriage. A woman could be spoiled so easily by a rich, privileged man. So many women were.

She couldn’t afford it.

“I . . . truly, I thank you for enduring the ghastliness of nursing me,” she said. ”But I must get back, before anyone realizes where I’ve been.”

“Who do you think will notice or care?” he said. “We sailed into the devil’s own storm. People have been running about screaming and puking and generally making nuisances of themselves for hours. I doubt most of them even know where they’ve been this night.” He looked about him. “Morning, rather. Since most of them were sick, they’ll be starved by now, and the only thing they’ll think about is getting something to eat. Your head is aching because you’re hungry.” He scowled again. “Or perhaps I gave you too much laudanum. I wasn’t sure what was the proper dose for a woman. You’re lucky I didn’t poison you.”

“Clevedon.” She winced. It hurt to speak.

“Don’t move,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick again, and I’m tired of that.” He moved away from the bunk. “I’ll have one of the servants fetch you something to eat.”

“Stop taking care of me!”

He turned back to look at her. “Stop being childish,” he said. “Are you afraid I’ll ply you with food in order to seduce you? Think again. Have you looked in a mirror lately? And may I remind you that I was the one holding your head while you were sick last night. Not exactly the most arousing sight I’ve ever seen. In fact, I can’t remember what I ever saw in you. I only want to feed you so you’ll be well and get out of my cabin and out of my life.”

“I want to be out of your life, too,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “Until it’s time to pay my duchess’s dressmaking bills.”

“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”

“Good,” he said. “That suits me very well.”

He went to the door, opened it, went out, and slammed it behind him.

By the time the packet docked at the Tower Stairs, Marcelline wanted to scream. The storm had blown the ship off course, and a trip that in good weather took about twelve hours had taken more than twenty. The advertised “refreshments” had run out, the ship’s servants were limp with fatigue, and the mood of the hungry passengers was vile, as was their smell. Even above deck, in the brisk sea air, it was impossible to escape the evidence of too many people confined with one another in too small an area for too long. Couples quarreled with each other and scolded their whiny children, who picked fights with their siblings.

Naturally, nobody could wait to get off the boat, and they all tried to disembark simultaneously, shoving and shouting and even kicking.

Though she longed desperately get off the vessel as well, Marcelline decided to wait. She fended off the packet’s servants, eager to help her with her belongings, telling them to come back later. While she felt a good deal better, she didn’t feel quite herself. Too, Jeffreys was still weak from her own far worse bout with sickness. It made no sense to endure the pushing and hurrying and ill temper—and above all, the whiny children.

Marcelline wanted her own child. Lucie was no angel, but she did not whine. And when her mama surprised her by returning home a week early, that mama would be smiling and happy.

She would be smiling and happy, Marcelline assured herself, once the crowd dissipated, and she could have a moment’s peace, to sort herself out.

Clevedon must be long gone by now. He wouldn’t have to shove people out of his way. His servants could do that for him—not that it would be necessary. Clevedon appeared, and people simply made way for him.

“Make way, make way!”

She looked up. A tall, burly footman was bearing down on her, another footman behind him. The livery was all too familiar.

The first one elbowed an indignant packet servant aside, strode to her, and bowed. “His grace’s compliments, Mrs. Noirot, and would you be so good as to let him see you and Miss Jeffreys home. He understands Miss Jeffreys was dire ill, and he dislikes to leave her to the public conveyances, let alone being jostled by this infern—this crowd. If you ladies would come with us, me and Joseph will take you along to the Customs officers and then in a trice we’ll have you in

the carriage, which is only around the corner.”

Even as he spoke, he was collecting their things, hoisting one portmanteau under one arm and another under the other. His counterpart made easy work of the remaining bags, ignoring the protests of the packet servants they’d displaced and deprived of their tips.

It all happened so quickly that Marcelline had no time even to decide whether to object. She’d hardly taken in what they were about when Thomas and Joseph marched away with her luggage.

The drive to the shop on Fleet Street, silent for the most part, seemed interminable.

The first thing Jeffreys did when she settled into her seat, next to Marcelline and opposite the duke, was thank him for sending Saunders to look after her when she was ill.

He shrugged. “Saunders dotes on playing physician,” he said. “He likes nothing better than to make disgusting potions to cure the effects of overindulgence. It’s his subtle way of punishing us, no doubt, for getting wine stains on our linen.”

“He was very kind,” Jeffreys said.

“That would make for a change,” said Clevedon. “He isn’t, usually.”

And that was all he said, all the way from the Tower to Jeffreys’s lodgings.

From there it was an easy walk to the shop. The drive was not so easy.

Marcelline’s mind was working as always, looking for a way to turn matters to her account. He’d said . . . what had he said before he slammed out of his cabin?

He’d said something about paying the dressmaking bills. That it suited him very well.

But he’d been so angry, and he hadn’t come back.

His valet had appeared, though, with a bottle of wine and assorted cold meats and cheese that must have cost a king’s ransom in bribes.

A woman could, too easily, get used to such luxury.

She couldn’t afford to get used to it.

“I can’t decide,” she said, “whether you’re exercising forbearance or merely indulging your curiosity to see my lair.”

“Why should I do either?” he said. Seeming to make himself perfectly at ease, he stretched out his long legs, as he hadn’t been able to do when Jeffreys shared the seat with her. He rested one arm along the back of the richly appointed seat and looked out of the louvered panel, open at present to let him see out while shielding him from others trying to look in. Not that it was any secret who he was, when the crest emblazoned on the door shouted his identity to all the world.