Vixen in Velvet (The Dressmakers 3)

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” she said. “My sisters are geniuses, but they’re not concise.” Before he could comment she went on, “Monday night is rather short notice. Most of the ton will be engaged already.”

“While Swanton’s star is in the ascendant, people will make time,” he said. “We start early, which allows his admirers to listen to him for an hour, then go on to their other amusements. But it will be all new poetry, always a draw. Well, then, will it do?”

She put her pen back into its place. “Certainly. This is most generous of his lordship.”

“You rescued his lecture the other night,” he said. “And then there were the things the girls made. Very touching.”

“Yes, I daresay.” She straightened away from the desk, getting away from him so smoothly that he didn’t realize it until she’d done it, and the tantalizing scent was gone. “I expect you shall want one of the patronesses of the Milliners’ Society to put in an appearance.”

He resisted the urge to draw near again. He oughtn’t to have been breathing down her neck in the first place. He knew better than to be so obvious.

“And she ought to make a little speech,” he said. “To solicit additional donations. Men are more likely to empty their pockets if an attractive woman is onstage, asking them.”

“It will have to be me,” she said. “Marcelline’s unwell and Sophy’s away. But I’m good at talking about money and getting it out of people, so that’s all right. Well, then, my lord.” She set down her pen and stepped back from the desk. “I do thank you, indeed. Will there be anything else?”

The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer.

He told himself he wasn’t provoked and certainly needn’t provoke in retaliation, like a child. Yet he took his time. First he reread her notes, then he looked over the items on her desk.

“Did you forget a part of your plan?” she said. “Mistake the time? The entrance fee?”

“No, it’s all in order.” He stepped away. “All in order.”

But she wasn’t. She was still smoldering away.

Because of Gladys.

Then he remembered the whispery voice behind the fan.

“There was only—” He broke off. “But no, I’m sure it’s of no possible interest to you. Idle gossip.”

He sensed rather than saw her come to sharp attention. He knew little about dressmaking but he understood business far better than he let on. For business people, gossip was seldom truly idle. If Sir A was on the brink of bankruptcy or Lord B was growing tired of his mistress or Lady C was hiding gigantic gambling debts from her husband, their tradesmen wanted to be the first to know.

“Well, then, I shan’t keep you,” she said cheerfully.

He ought to go. Her business errors weren’t his problem—and she couldn’t wait to be rid of him. He started for the door.

One, two, three paces. He was reaching for the handle when Lady Alda’s blue and pink fan fluttered in his mind’s eye and he heard her whisper, all feigned concern.

Could someone not counsel dear Lady Gladys? It is a great shame she’s put herself into such hands. I shall not say those women are unscrupulous, precisely. And yet . . .

He stopped and turned back to her. “No, I can’t do it. I can’t go without knowing. Miss Noirot, I’m perishing of curiosity. Tell me you didn’t tell Gladys you’d make her the belle of the ball.”

She blinked once.

“You’ve blinked,” he said. “In you that can only be a sign of tremendous shock. Perhaps I ought to have broken the news more gently.”

“No, no. I was only taken aback at the change of subject.” She shook her head. “I’m not at all shocked. I’d heard they’re already placing bets.”

“They were all tittering about it at Lady Jersey’s assembly last night,” he said. “Are you saying it’s true? The belle of the ball? Gladys?”

She donned the politely amiable smile. “You seem to find it inconceivable that Lady Gladys has unfulfilled potential. To you it may seem impossible that anybody not born beautiful and charming could ever win anybody’s heart. Or do I misunderstand?”

“We’re not talking about anybody,” he said. “We’re talking about Gladys. You can’t be serious.”

“A young woman’s hopes and dreams are no joking matter to me,” she said. “My livelihood depends on helping her achieve them. In this case, I have every expectation of accomplishing our mutual aims, and all is well in hand. By the time Maison Noirot is done with her, Lady Gladys will need only to crook her finger to have any beau she wants.”

Leonie wanted to choke him.

How dare he? That poor girl!

“This is deranged,” he said. “I thought you were a sensible woman of business.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself,” she said. “I know what I’m about, my lord.”

“No, you don’t know what you’re about,” he said. “You don’t know Gladys.”

“I know her better than you do,” she said.

“She has a talent for making trouble wherever she goes,” he said. “The other night she nearly got Val into a duel. She has somehow provoked you to a challenge impossible to meet, and led you in far over your head.”

“Led me?” she said with a smile. “Led me.” The notion of any Noirot being led was hilarious.

“You’ll become a laughingstock,” he said. “Your business will suffer. And my cousin Gladys will never be grateful for any efforts you exert on her behalf. She won’t thank you for any sacrifices you make for her. What she’ll do is blame Maison Noirot for not doing what is completely impossible to do!”

“You underestimate me,” she said. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

There was a short, taut silence.

He eyed her up and down.

Sizing her up.

She was used to arrogant men looking her over. But he might as well have put his hands where his glittering green gaze went. She grew hot and confused. And so she made a mistake.

She returned the favor.

A very stupid mistake, given the perfectly sculpted face and dangerous green eyes and the powerful torso . . . tapering to a taut waist and then the view downward . . . looooong, muscled legs. She felt a wave of dizziness, which she resolutely ignored.

“By the time you’re done with her,” he said slowly, as slowly as he’d let his gaze run up and down over her like hands. “That’s conveniently vague. This strikes me as a life’s work.”

She was going to make him pay. The pride of the Noirots and DeLuceys demanded it.

“Let me see,” she said. She put two fingers to her temple the way he’d done before, pretending to be an idiot. “What is today? The fifteenth. She’ll have gentlemen at her feet by the month’s end.”

She leaned over the desk to reach for a pencil that had shifted a degree out of alignment with its fellows. The position, she was aware, placed her backside prominently on view. A not so subtle taunt. But then, subtlety was usually wasted on men.

“At her feet,” he said. His voice had dropped and grown rougher. “In a trifle over a fortnight’s time.”

“Yes.”

“Anybody she wants,” he said.

“Yes.” She fiddled with the pencil, waiting.

He said, “Would you care to make a wager?”

She swallowed a smile.

Madame took her own sweet time placing the pencil in the tray, aligning it with the others.

He was aware of his hands clenching. She’d taken that pose on purpose, to disorder his wits.

It worked, too.

The back of her dress was almost as elaborate as the front: Delicate lace touched the nape of her neck. Thence descended rows of finely pleated muslin alternating with embroidered rows of the same material, in the shape of a V whose point rested on her waist. From under the lace c

ap, stray tendrils of garnet-colored hair drifted near her ears, as though her coiffure was coming undone.

He knew it wasn’t. The arrangement was for effect, and most effective it was. He wanted to make a wild disorder, of her, of everything. He wanted to make her ledgers crooked and put her pencils where the pens ought to go. He wanted passionately to leave the stopper off the inkwell. He wanted to sweep everything from the desk and bend her over it . . .

She straightened and came around to face him, making a pretty flurry of white muslin and lace.

She was a dressmaker, he told himself. She knew how to wield clothes as a weapon. And it worked all too well, like a club to the head.

She gave him the enigmatic smile, so like the one Botticelli’s Venus wore. “A wager,” she said.

“Everybody else is doing it,” he said. “Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because you’ll lose?” she said.

“Oh, but I’m sure you’ll lose,” he said. “And my mind is wandering over an interesting range of forfeits.”

“Mine, too,” she said. “Money means nothing to you, so I must use my powers of imagination.”

“I had higher stakes in mind,” he said. “Nothing so ordinary as money. Something significant.”

She set her hands on the edge of the desk and leaned back.

He couldn’t exactly see her calculating. She was too good at not showing what she was about. Yet he knew she was weighing and measuring, and so he calculated, too.

He sensed the moment when she’d worked out her answer. Yet she waited one moment. Another.

Playing with him, the vixen.

Drawing it out, pretending to deliberate.

She was fascinating.