Scandal Wears Satin (The Dressmakers 2)

But whatever Longmore’s faults might be, he was exactly what he seemed to be. Himself. Always.

It was reassuring.

“Well, then, as long as you keep silent, there’s no problem,” she said.

“What about you?” he said. “Will you keep silent?”

“I don’t propose to advertise it in Foxe’s Morning Spectacle, if that’s what you mean.”

“That isn’t what I mean. What about your sisters? Do you or do you not tell them everything?

“Ye-e-es.”

“Well?”

“They’re not going to tell anybody.”

“They’re women,” he said.

“Who would they tell?” she said. “Clevedon’s aunts? Our customers? Do be sensible.”

“Why should I start now?”

“I promise you, we’ve enough troubles with Marcelline’s having trespassed on aristocratic territory,” she said. “If it gets about that I’ve seduced Lady Warford’s eldest son, she’ll do more than blackball Maison Noirot. She’ll crush us. Permanently. Even I won’t be able to revive the shop. My sisters know that.”

“Very well,” he said. “As long as we understand who seduced whom.”

“That part is painfully clear,” she said.

“You couldn’t help yourself,” he said.

“Actually, I couldn’t,” she said. “If I hadn’t the opportunity—if you hadn’t been so shockingly understanding—and tempting—”

“I worked damned hard at that. The tempting part. I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.”

“Apparently, I was doing little else but.”

“Good. I had a whole strategy laid out.”

She looked at him. “You thought about it?”

“I had to, didn’t I?” he said. “You’re complicated.”

“Simpler than you suppose,” she said. “I’m not a good girl.”

“And I’m not a good boy,” he said. “It’s unsporting to chase inexperienced girls. But I couldn’t resist.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I can’t be resisted. So you mustn’t blame yourself.”

“That’s one thing I never do,” he said. “Still . . .” He frowned. “We might have made one of those . . . you know . . . little squirmy pink things that howl.”

“A baby,” she said. “I know.”

“In that case—”

“Let’s not cross that bridge until we come to it,” she said, ignoring the icy panic in her gut. “Right now, I have a more pressing problem. Your sister’s wedding is only a fortnight away.”

Longmore had simply lain there, lazily letting Sophy’s fascinating view of the world entertain him while he gazed at her wonderfully naked body. There were her breasts, in plain view, and a magnificent view it was.

It took a moment for the last sentence to sink in. Then he came completely awake. He sat up. “You’re roasting me.”

She shook her head, and the blonde curls tumbled this way and that.

No wonder she’d fallen apart last night. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I’d thought my mother would delay the inevitable as long as possible.”

She told him what his sister had told her about Lady Bartham and his mother.

“I’ve sworn to make that wedding not happen and to restore your sister’s reputation,” she said. “I told her she was my mission, my only mission. I’m sorry . . .”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Wait.” She opened them, all brilliant blue. “I’m not sorry about all this.” She gestured at him and at the bed. “It was stupid of me—but it was exciting and wonderful, and I can’t imagine a more thrilling end to maidenhood. But I need to concentrate on business.”

“Right.” He folded his arms under his head. He’d have to do something about her. He wasn’t sure what.

Whatever it was, he’d have to work it out on his own.

She wasn’t going to help, and he wasn’t going to ask anybody’s advice.

The very thought of confiding his amorous doings to anybody made his blood run cold.

In any case, he was Sworn to Secrecy.

Even when he thought it, he pictured the words as Sophy would write them, capitalized.

No One Must Ever Know.

She’d infected him with her melodramatics.

He gazed fondly at her for a long moment.

“Business,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

She let out a sigh, and he watched her bosom rise and fall. “You need to go now,” she said. “Your sister mightn’t be up for hours, but Davis could already be stirring.”

“Right.”

He left the bed and began unearthing his clothes from the chaos of mingled outer and undergarments, hosiery and shoes.

Sophy left the bed and, as naked as a newly made Eve, helped him dress.

When he was at the door and about to leave, she gave a little sigh, and ran up to him and grasped his lapels. He bent his head.

She rose on tiptoe and kissed him hard on the lips.

Then, “Go,” she said. “Go . . .” Her voice trailed away, her hands slid from his lapels, and her head tipped to one side. Though she was looking at him, he knew she didn’t quite see him. He could see her, though, every pink and white and gold inch of her.

“Wait,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. She was thinking. He could almost see the wheels turning, satanic mills at work.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes.”

Her eyes widened, her blue gaze sharpened to sapphire brilliancy. “I’ve got it,” she said.

She rested her head on his chest. He let his hand slide up to ruffle those golden curls. He manfully resisted the other hand’s itching to clasp her breast.

“You splendid man,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

“Got what?” he said dimly, lost in the scent of her hair and skin, the summery scent of a far away place where he’d been happy. “And what makes me—”

“I’ve got the idea,” she said. “I know how we’re going to save your sister.”

Warford House

That night

The family had risen from dinner and were in the library when L

ongmore brought his sister home.

Their mother instantly jumped up from her chair. “Oh, Clara how could you?” she cried.

Longmore saw his sister brace herself for the onslaught of recrimination, accusation, and other verbal assault that was Lady Warford’s idea of affectionate motherly advice to her eldest daughter.

Longmore opened his mouth to say something undutiful.

Then Lady Warford rushed at Clara and wrapped her arms about her, and wept, “Oh, my dear girl, I’m so happy you’re home. You must never, never run away again. Whatever the trouble is, you must tell me, my love. Promise. Promise me, please.”

It was, he thought, the first please he’d ever heard issue from his mother’s lips.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Clara said. Her voice, muffled against her mother’s shoulder, sounded shocked.

“This has been a dreadful business for you,” their mother said. “Traumatic to a young girl’s sensibilities—but of course you knew nothing of what men can be like. You trusted him, foolish girl. But how could you know? It’s ever the way. They are never what we think them to be.” She gave Clara another crushing hug and stepped away. “I must say that Harry has surprised me. He’s surprised us both, has he not, Warford?”

Longmore’s father said, “So he has. Good work. Looking after your sister. Made a muck of it the first time—”

“Warford,” said his spouse.

“But you found her and brought her back. A good thing, too. Thanks to your clever ruse, we’ve learned that Adderley might not be entirely the blackguard we thought him to be.”

“I need a drink,” Longmore said, and made his way posthaste to the nearest decanter. It was sherry, not his first choice, but it would do. He poured himself a generous glassful and drank.

“He has called every day,” said Lady Warford.

“Heard of Clara’s indisposition,” Lord Warford said. “Very solicitous he was.”

“Flowers, my dear,” said Lady Warford. “He brought flowers for you. And fruit from his greenhouses. He seemed quite distraught with worry, did he not, Warford?”

“Most solicitous,” said Lord Warford.