Scandal Wears Satin (The Dressmakers 2)

“Sadly, we haven’t time,” he said. “We have to find my sister.” He took her arm. This wasn’t as easy as one would think. The upper part was like a large cushion. He had to take hold of the lower part . . . near her wrist. He was tempted to clasp her hand but he suspected that would set him off again, and they’d wasted far too much time already.

Not a waste, really, but still . . .

He clasped her lower arm firmly and led her away. She came easily enough. Too bad. He wouldn’t mind another tussle.

But no, they needed to be on their way.

“I thought you were going to leave me here,” she said.

“You talked me out of it . . . a moment ago . . . when you were against the wall, under Lady Flinton’s window.”

“Oh, yes—and speaking of that—”

“Oh, good,” he said. “We’re going to discuss it now.”

“We certainly are,” she said. “I had all my clothes on this time, so don’t try to use any excuses about my being mostly naked.”

“I don’t need an excuse,” he said. “But it might be that you have too many clothes on.”

She gave him a look of pure exasperation. He was familiar with that look. People turned it on him all the time. Her version, though, was precious.

“The only part uncovered was your face,” he said. “And your mouth kept moving. And so I had to stop it.”

“Why has no woman stabbed you before now, I wonder?” she said.

“I have quick reflexes,” he said.

She looked away, up at the clock again. “If that’s what Lord Adderley did to Lady Clara, it’s no wonder she got into trouble,” she said. “It’s extremely unsporting of a man who possesses worlds of experience to take advantage of a young woman who has no experience whatsoever.”

That was the last answer he expected.

It stung, too. “I didn’t take advantage of you,” he said. “It was only kissing.”

“Only,” she said.

“I didn’t even touch your clothes, let alone try to take them off.” He’d put his hands on the wall—some part of his brain must have been thinking, to do that, to keep his hands off her. “Of course, taking them off does look like a two-hour job. At any rate, now that you’ve had some practice, and I was . . . productively occupied instructing you . . . that means it’ll be much harder for unsporting men to take advantage of you in future . . .”

Belatedly, what she’d said sank in. “What do you mean, it’s no wonder Clara got into trouble?”

“I’m not a sheltered lady,” she said. “I grew up in a shop in Paris. I run a business. I’m supposedly clever. She’s an innocent girl who’s always had others protecting her. If Adderley kissed her like that, she hadn’t a chance. It’s so unfair.”

Longmore wasn’t taking unfair advantage. She wasn’t a gently bred girl who’d been protected from the real world since childhood. She was a milliner—from Paris!—whose sister had turned the Duke of Clevedon into a dithering idiot. It couldn’t be unsporting to kiss her. Could it?

“Do you mean to hit me with that millinery extravaganza again?” he said. “Or should you like to make yourself presentable and put it back on before we return to the carriage?”

She hit him with it. He snatched it from her and walked quickly ahead.

He could hear the leather soles of her frivolous boots tapping on the cobblestones behind him and the rustling of her petticoats as she hurried after him. He didn’t look back.

He let her catch up with him near the main entrance.

Her face was flushed and she was panting. She put out her hand. “Give me my hat,” she said.

Ignoring her outstretched hand, he planted the hat backward on her head and took her arm to lead her out. She pulled away and hurried to the nearest window. It gave back a distorted image.

“You look like a gargoyle,” he said.

She stepped nearer to the window and stared for a moment.

Then her shoulders shook, and she giggled. Then she laughed fully, and the ribbons danced and the bows fluttered, and he thought he’d never heard anything so wonderful as that sound.

He felt as well as heard it. It seemed to dart deep inside him and touch a long-hidden place, and it was a sharp feeling, as though she had stabbed him to the heart.

A moment later it was over. The laughter dwindled to a smile. She shook her head. Then she took off the hat and put it on straight, trying to see in the unhelpful glass.

He came behind her, and arranged it correctly.

She turned and looked up at him, her great blue eyes shining with an expression that alerted some instinct and made him wary.

He didn’t stop to work out what it was. He simply heeded the instinct.

He tied the ribbons. Then he stepped away, out of reach of that shining blue.

“Well, then,” he said. “We’d better be off.”

No one had to tell Sophy that kissing her meant nothing special to the Earl of Longmore. He was a man, and one not famous for celibacy or even constancy.

For her, though, it had been a shocking learning experience. For whole stretches of time, she hadn’t had even a wisp of a thought about Maison Noirot, or clothing, except for feeling there was too much of it. In the way.

If this sort of thing happened all the time with men, she’d never be able to afford a love affair: She wouldn’t have any mind left for the shop.

How on earth did Marcelline manage it?

A stronger mind? Or was it marriage? Maybe matrimony had a quieting effect.

It was hard to imagine a more horrifying prospect than marrying Longmore. It was bad on so many counts that her mind shrank from contemplating it.

She’d have to quiet herself somehow. Yet even now, fully aware he was simply doing what men did, she had to work very hard to get her mind back on Lady Clara and the simplest part of that problem: where she was headed.

The answer came only a few miles down the road from Hampton Court, at the Bear Inn at Esher.

It was a large, busy coaching inn. When they arrived, several coaches were either entering its yard or leaving it. They were bound for London, Longmore told her. “The down stages will all arrive at about the same time,” he said. “You might have noticed them when you were waiting for me at the Gloucester Coffee House. Or maybe you didn’t notice, being surrounded by men trying to attract your attention.”

“Don’t fret about those men, my lord,” she said. “I had eyes only for you.”

“At least you have taste,” he said.

And that was the end of that exchange, because he had to make his way past the other vehicles. When he drew the carriage to a halt, Fenwick promptly jumped down and went to the horses’ heads.

It dawned on her that the boy—a street urchin—had done this, again and again, from the start.

“He does it so easily,” Sophy said as she alighted. She looked up at Longmore. “You trusted him with your team yesterday, at Bedford Square. Is that usual?”

“There are always boys loitering about, willing to hold one’s cattle for a coin,” he said while hustling her toward the inn. “But you said yourself how quickly and smoothly he leapt up onto the back of my curricle to rob me. It would seem he’s had experience in a stable or a coach house. Not that o

ne can extract from him any sort of information. That’ll want thumbscrews, I daresay.”

“I’m glad, for this journey’s sake,” she said. “But you’re not to imagine you can poach him from me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “My man Reade would murder him in his sleep. Very possessive fellow is my tiger. Even now, I daresay he’s plotting against the boy for usurping his place.”

The conversation broke off as they entered the inn, to be jostled by various parties coming and going. In a very few minutes, though, the London-bound coaches were gone, the flurry had ceased, and Longmore was able to corner the landlord and tell the story of the forgotten pocketbook.

As busy as the place was, the innkeeper had no trouble remembering the cabriolet and the two ladies. He even showed the entry in the guest book: They’d signed as Mrs. Glasgow and Miss Peters. Sophy recognized Lady Clara’s elegant handwriting. Davis, who probably wasn’t in the habit of signing anything, had written her false name in tight, square letters that looked as disapproving as letters could look.

“They left midmorning,” the innkeeper said. “Bound for Portsmouth.”

“Damnation,” Longmore said.

“Portsmouth, of all places,” he said when they were once more in the carriage. “Naval town. Bursting at the seams with brothels and drunken sailors and every sort of pimp and bawd looking for pigeons to pluck. And ships bound for everywhere. The Continent. Ireland. America.”

This was worse, far worse than Clara’s simply being on the road alone.

He was aware of panic welling up and trying to swamp him. He beat it down.

“She can’t leave the country,” Sophy said.

“She doesn’t know that,” he said. “She’ll try. In a place teeming with cheats and scoundrels happy to take advantage of an ignorant female. They’ll see her coming from a mile away, a sheltered miss and thorough greenhorn.”

“She isn’t on her own,” Sophy said. “She has Davis. Anyone who wants to get to Lady Clara will have to get past the maid. Davis may have to yield to her mistress’s whims, but she went with her in order to protect her.”

“One female,” he said.

He didn’t have to look. He felt the stiffening, the something in the air that told him he’d got her back up. Again.