“I can do up the lacing,” he said. “Actually, I’m quite good at it.”
“This doesn’t surprise me,” she said. She slid the corset over her head and slipped her arms through the straps. She tugged the corset down and snugged it over her torso.
As she was adjusting the straps, Longmore came up behind her.
“One leaves it knotted at the bottom and laced,” she explained. “Then one need only put it on and pull it tight in front.”
“Ingenious,” he said.
“But she untied the knot and undid it in the usual way.”
“I see that,” he said.
She was aware of his hands at the base of her spine, knotting the tie. She felt him drawing the lacing through the eyelets, smoothing the narrow tape as he worked his way steadily up her back, tugging with precisely the right degree of firmness.
He certainly had the knack of it. How many women had he undone?
His hands were warm against her back. His breath was warm, too, at the back of her neck. The tiny hairs at her nape rose.
When he’d finished, he didn’t move away immediately. His hands rested on her hips. He stood so close that she could hear his quickened breathing. She could feel the heat of his big body—or was that her own heat? He stood so close that she had only to lean back a very little . . .
Her heart was racing, and the devil in her was clouding her mind, urging her to lean back that small distance. Don’t you want those deft, capable hands on you, on your skin? it seemed to whisper. Don’t you want that powerful body on yours? In yours?
Then the tiny voice, the one Cousin Emma had instilled, argued: And what happens to your power, if you succumb to this?
She’d already given in to her inner demons and played with fire: She’d thrown off her nightclothes and given him an eyeful. It was madly irresponsible—even for her—to forget why she was here.
Lady Clara.
Everything depended on her. The shop. Their future. Success or a mortifying failure. Dowdy triumphing over them, laughing at them.
Grimly she summoned her willpower.
He turned her around and pushed her hands away from the corset. He gave another firm tug, then swiftly tied the lacing in front.
She stepped away from him and took up one of the sleeve puffs.
“Gad, must you?” he said. His voice was low, the dark, dangerous voice that made her mind thick.
She looked up. He was dragging his fingers through his hair.
She wanted to tear her hair out. But she was a Noirot. “Have you noticed the size of my dress sleeves?” she said calmly. “Without the puffs, it’ll look as though I have skirts hanging from my shoulders.” She slipped her arm through one of the puffs. “You said people were suspicious of you. Have you had a good look at yourself in the mirror? One of us at least oughtn’t to look disreputable. And it won’t take long. Leonie invented these.”
“You’re all so inventive,” he said.
She started tying the upper tape to her corset strap.
“Why did you wear this complicated rig?” he said.
“This is what one of your fashionable chères amies would wear,” she said patiently. “Although I don’t doubt their clothes wouldn’t be quite so well made. Nor would they be made at the farthest, dangerous edge of the latest fashion.”
“Let me do that,” he said. “You might be unusually flexible, but I can see better what I’m doing.”
While he tied the sleeve puffs, she adjusted the arm bands over the sleeves of her chemise, and smoothed the edge of the sleeves.
When she took up a stocking, though, he backed away.
But he didn’t turn away. Sophy was shakily aware of his dark gaze fixed on her as she quickly drew on the stockings and tied the garters.
As soon as that was done, he grabbed her dress and flung it over her head. He tried to stuff her arms through, and swore. “There’s no room, dammit! It’s like trying to push a pillow through a keyhole.”
“You squeeze the puffs through,” she said. “They’re filled with down. They’ll compress quite a bit. But you need to do it carefully.”
“I have never seen a more idiotish fashion garment in all my life.”
“It’s not that difficult,” she said. “Just calm down.”
“Easy for you to say,” he said.
It was easy to say. Feeling it was another matter. She wasn’t at all calm. No man had ever helped her dress or undress. The intimacy was almost painful. “I’ll do the left and you do the right.”
They worked quickly, in silence. Once the sleeves were dealt with, he knew what to do with everything else. He even went so far as to crouch to smooth the skirt, and tug it straight.
Then he sprang up, grabbed her hat, thrust it on her head, tied the ribbons, and pushed her at the door.
“My boots,” she said. “My boots.”
He looked down at her slippered feet. “This is diabolical,” he said.
He found her boots, pushed her onto a chair, drew on the boots, and fastened them. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her upright, so abruptly that she fell against him.
His arms went round her. He let loose a few more oaths and jerked away as though she were contaminated.
“I vow, you’re doing this on purpose to drive me mad,” he said.
And what of me?
She had been kissed by other men, and he had shown her there was another entire world of kissing.
But that intimacy was nothing to this, to his touching her undergarments, her dress, everything that touched her person. She was shaking inside.
Outside, she was a Noirot. “You could have sent for the maid,” she said.
He stomped to the door and pulled it open. While he stood there, breathing hard, vibrating impatience, she found her gloves and her reticule. When she passed through the door, he said something under his breath. It sounded, strangely enough, like French.
Longmore took Sophy to Broad Street, from whose hostelries travelers could obtain passage to various destinations.
It was a wonder he could find his way, considering she’d destroyed his brain. What remained of it.
He wasn’t a man who was easily shocked.
She’d shocked him.
She’d simply thrown off her nightwear and calmly tossed a chemise over her naked—completely, splendidly naked!—body.
He’d seen her in profile, and the image was seared into his mind: soft, creamy skin and perfectly formed breasts and the most beautiful bottom he’d ever seen in all his life—and he had seen a few.
Then to have to help her get dressed . . .
That evil corset. By the time he’d finished, his hands had been shaking from the fight with himself not to undo all he’d done.
He would rather have fought a tavern full of drunken sailors.
Then those curst sleeve puffs—to be reaching through her neckline to bash the damn things into place.
He was going to throttle his sister. And Adderley.
Sophy, meanwhile, calmly perused a guidebook to Portsmouth he’d bought at the George some hours earlier.
“This was an excellent idea,” she said, sounding surprised.
“I have them now and again,” he said. “I’m not the sort of traveler who wants guidebooks, but I’ve rarely been to Portsmouth. To the races at Goodwood or Soberton often. Here, almost never. I thought the information would be more reliable than what a harassed innkeeper would offer, and I knew it would be a great waste of time to wander about aimlessly, asking at every inn and ticket office for Clara. That book, as you see, narrows the possibilities.”
“Only two steam packets leave on Sundays,” she said, drawing her finger down the appendix page listing the packets: “One to Ryde.”
“I doubt the Isle of Wight is far enough away for her,” Longmore said.
“There’s a packet to Ireland on Sundays, too,” she said. “From here to Plymouth to Cork, thence to Liverpool.” She looked up at him. “The book says it arrives
here in the morning.”
“Can you wonder at my hurrying you?” he said. “But the earliest steam packets don’t leave before seven, and we’ve nearly half an hour until then. The one to Ryde doesn’t leave until eight. Yet I can’t believe she’s so addled as to come all the way to Portsmouth, only to travel to Ryde. And if she did, why get up at dawn’s crack for the purpose, when the Ryde boats leave several times a day? Clara is no more of an early riser than I am.”
“She’d be awake early if she couldn’t sleep,” she said. “In any case, we ought to start with the Sunday packets. The one to Ireland leaves from a place called the Blue Posts. Shall we start there?”
“I thought Ireland or the Continent might be her first choice,” he said. “Still, in the event she does decide to make for the Isle of Wight, I’ve sent Fenwick to the Quebec Tavern. I described her to him, and told him to create a scene if she turned up and was headed for a boat. I don’t doubt he’ll think of something. He offered to play the starving boy and faint at her feet—which, he made sure to point out, would be easy, since he hadn’t had his breakfast.”
“He hadn’t had much sleep, either,” she said. “I can’t believe you took him with you but left me at the inn.”
“He slept in the back of the carriage,” Longmore said. “It was probably the most comfortable berth he’s had in a long time.” Then he realized he’d dragged her away without breakfast, either. “We’ll find you something to eat at the Blue Posts,” he said.
Sunday brought visitors to Portsmouth, to tour the sights listed in the guidebook Longmore had given Sophy: the fortifications, churches, and ships—above all the Victory, Lord Nelson’s famous ship. However, Sunday was a slow day for shipping, and at this early hour, one didn’t have to compete so much for attention against crowds of eager or worried travelers.
Sophy and Longmore soon learned that Clara hadn’t booked passage for Ireland. Yet. No pair of women appeared on this morning’s passenger lists.
She’d tried and failed to get a berth on the American Line, bound for New York.