Vixen in Velvet (The Dressmakers 3)

Yet she continued with him down the stairs and out into the garden. Guests filled the terrace above and some wandered in the garden. It wasn’t large, not a fraction the size of the grounds of Clevedon House, though that stood in Charing Cross in the midst of warehouses and shops. The Warfords’ small green space contained an open oval area, within which glistened an ornamental pool. The area, squeezed between the imposing house and the Green Park’s border, was well lit for the festivities.

Still, sheltering trees and shrubbery screened it from public view, and in a path through the greenery Lisburne found a private place, and a pretty one, where a marble nymph hovered by a stone bench.

He sat beside her and took her hand again.

At that moment, every instinct told her she’d made a mistake. He hadn’t drawn her away for dalliance and sin.

She broke into a sweat and her heart raced, and she wanted to run away. Which was silly and cowardly. She told herself her imagination was running away with her, on account of the shock of finding herself among London’s haut ton and for once not waiting on them or measuring them.

She looked up at the marble figure. “A nymph,” she said, and her voice sounded unsteady.

“Yes. Leonie . . .”

Oh, there was a tone, a strange tone to his voice and it wasn’t steady, either.

“Or is she meant to be a muse?” she said lightly. “Isn’t it wonderful that the ancient Greeks had deities they’d summon for inspiration?” She lifted an imploring hand to the nymph.

Muse make the man thy theme, for shrewdness famed

And genius versatile, who far and wide

A Wand’rer, after Ilium overthrown,

Discover’d various cities, and the mind

And manners learn’d of men, in lands remote.

He numerous woes . . .

“. . . numerous woes . . .” She racked her brain, trying to remember the next lines, but there was only noise in her skull.

“Good gad, Leonie, how do you know these things?” he said.

She wanted to go on, about Jove and Calypso and . . . who else? But she couldn’t remember. She wasn’t calm enough, not calm at all, because he was . . . because this was . . . not what she’d supposed. Not the romantic interlude she’d envisioned—though she couldn’t say what this was or how she knew it, only that every Noirot instinct was on the alert, and urging her to run.

“I read a book once,” she said, fighting the urge to pull her hand away.

“Once,” he said. “How many dressmakers can quote from The Odyssey?”

“I had an education,” she said. “I read books. Not in Latin and Greek. Translations. Because I wanted something in my mind that wasn’t dressmaking or business. Something . . . beautiful.” And to her horror, her throat closed up.

“Like the Botticelli,” he said.

She nodded, afraid to speak because she was going to cry, which was so stupid. What had she to cry about, on this triumphant night of all nights?

“It’s yours,” he said. “And so am I. Entirely. I lo—”

“No!” She pulled away and jumped up, covering her ears. “No, no, no.”

“Leonie.”

“No, no, no.” She shook her head, her hands on her ears, like a child.

He took her hands from her ears and said, “Leonie, I love you.”

“No,” she said. “How can you? Oh, don’t do this. It’s not to be borne. I only wanted you for your body. And—and your handsome face. And, no really, it was only the Botticelli I wanted all along, and I’d have done anything or said anything—”

“I don’t care,” he said. “Marry me.”

She went cold all over. Then hot. She pulled away. “Are you completely insane?”

“I’ll recite poetry to you,” he said. “Even Homer. ‘Alike desirous, in her hollow grots/Calypso, Goddess beautiful detained/Wooing him to her arms.’ ”

“No! No!”

“I’ll recite even—heaven help me—Swanton,” he said. “Whatever you want. And you’ll have beautiful things. All the beautiful things you could want, my love, and I should be so happy to give them to you.”

He was going to make her weak. She’d melt into his arms. She’d lose her reason. She started away. He caught her arm.

“Listen to me,” he said.

“I can’t!” she said. “Don’t you understand? I can’t listen to you. You’re like—like the Sirens. I have responsibilities. You’ll make me forget them. We’ve lost Marcelline and Sophy. I’m all that’s left. If I leave, there’s nobody to hold it together.”

“The shop?” he said. “This is about the shop? Dammit, Leonie, don’t tell me it’s business.”

“It’s business!” she said. She waved her hands. “That’s who I am and what I am. It’s always been business. Lady Gladys and you and—and everybody. And I love my business. We all do. Nobody understands, especially not the men—and now . . .”

She couldn’t go on. The tears she refused to shed were choking her.

“I see,” he said, more quietly. “Of course. You can’t give up the shop.”

“Even for you,” she said, her voice clogged. “Even if I love you more than you could ever love me or anybody.”

“Even if,” he said.

She waved impatiently. “Oh, very well. I do love you. You must be blind and stupid if you don’t know. But maybe you’re so used to girls falling in love with you t

hat you don’t even notice anymore.”

“Well, actually, I forgot what it was like, because they all started falling in love with Swanton,” he said. “To my very great chagrin.”

She looked up at him.

“Shall I take you home?” he said.

The look she gave him was almost comical.

He might have found it fully comical if he hadn’t been holding on to his composure by a thread.

“Unless you’d prefer to return to the party,” he said very calmly.

She shook her head. “No. I’ll have to pretend, and . . . Oh, Gemini, I’ve been screaming, haven’t I—and everybody will have heard. Wonderful. My first time in Society and I make a spectacle of myself.”

She covered her cheeks. He supposed they were hot. He wanted to put his hands there. Not only there. But he was desperate, not unintelligent.

He said, “Nobody can hear us over the music and chatter. And the chatter grows louder as the guests grow drunker. It’s a wonder they can hear themselves think. No one minds us. I can leave a message with one of the footmen when I send for my carriage.”

She took her hands from her cheeks. “Maison Noirot is only around the corner,” she said. “We can walk.”

“In these shoes?” he said. “Polcaire will kill me.”

She looked down at his dancing pumps. “I can walk by myself,” she said.

“Not in that dress,” he said. “But never mind. My shoes be damned. I’ll carry you.”

“You will n—oof! Lisburne!” she cried as he swooped her up into his arms.

“Be quiet,” he said. “You’ve crushed all my hopes and dreams. If you will be so good as to submit with good grace to being carried, I shall manfully resist the temptation to throw you into Lord Warford’s ornamental pond.”

The last time he’d carried Leonie to the shop had presented no hardship. She was no pocket Venus, but he was a good deal stronger than he looked. In any event, he would have carried her to the moon, if necessary. This wasn’t necessary. He had only to walk downhill. And talk, to distract her.

He was successful but not for long. “Lisburne, are you drunk?” she said. “The shop is the other way.”