Silk Is for Seduction (The Dressmakers 1)

His heart was thudding. It was the dance, the furious dance, and talking, and trying to keep up with her, matching wits. Yet he was aware of an uneasiness inside, the same he’d felt with her before—because it was true, all true, and he hadn’t known the truth himself until she uttered it.

“You have a mighty high opinion of yourself,” he said.

“My dear duke, only look at the competition.”

“I would,” he said, “but you’re so aggravating, I can’t tear my gaze away.”

They were turning, turning, both breathless from dancing and talking at the same time. She was looking up at him, her dark eyes brilliant, her mouth—the mouth that had knocked him on his pins—hinting at laughter.

“Fascinating,” she said. “You mean fascinating.”

“You’ve certainly fascinated my friend Aronduille. He wonders where you learned to curtsey and dance and speak so well.”

There was the barest pause before she answered. “Like a lady, you mean? But I’m only aping my betters.”

“And where did you learn to ape them, I wonder?” he said. “Do you not work from dawn till dusk? Are dressmakers not apprenticed at an early age?”

“Nine years old,” she said. “How knowledgeable you are, suddenly, of my trade.”

“I asked my valet,” he said.

She laughed. “Your valet,” she said. “Oh, that’s rich. Literally.”

“But you have a maid,” he said. “A slight girl with fair hair.”

Instantly the laughter in her eyes vanished. “You noticed my maid?”

“At the promenade, yes.”

“You’re above-average observant.”

“Madame, I notice everything about you, purely in the interests of self-preservation.”

“Call me cynical, but I suspect there’s nothing pure about it,” she said.

The dance was drawing to a close. He was distantly aware of the music subsiding, but more immediately aware of her: the heat between them, physical and mental, and the turbulence she made.

“And yet you court me,” he said.

“Solely in the interests of commerce,” she said.

“Interesting,” he said. “I wonder at your methods for attracting business. You say you wish to dress my duchess—and you start by making off with my stickpin.”

“I won it fair and square,” she said.

The dance ended, but still he held her. “You tease and provoke and dare and infuriate me,” he said.

“Oh, that I do for fun,” she said.

“For fun,” he said. “You like to play with fire, madame.”

“As do you,” she said.

Tense seconds ticked by before he noticed that the music had fully stopped, and people were watching them while pretending not to. He let go of her, making a show of smoothing her lace—tidying her up, as one might a child. He smiled a patronizing little smile he knew would infuriate her, then bowed politely.

She made him an equally polite curtsey, then opened her fan and lifted it to her face, hiding all but her mocking dark eyes. “If you’d wanted a tame pet, your grace, you should have picked another woman.”

She slipped away into the crowd, the black lace and red bows fluttering about the shimmering pink-tinged gold of her gown.

Chapter Five

Masked balls are over for the season, but dress balls are as frequent as they were in the beginning of the winter. Some of the most novel dancing dresses are of gauze figured in a different colour from the ground, as jonquille and lilac, white and emerald green, or rose, écre and cherry-colour.

Costume of Paris by a Parisian correspondent,

The Court Magazine and Belle Assemblée, 1835

Marcelline swiftly made her way out of the ballroom and into the corridor. She started toward the stairway.

“I picked you?” came a familiar, low voice from close behind her.

Startled, she spun around—and collided with Clevedon. She stumbled, and he caught hold of her shoulders and righted her.

“Delicious exit line,” he said. “But we’re not quite done.”

“Oh, I think we are,” she said. “I’ve looked my fill tonight. My card will be in the hands of at least one reporter by tomorrow, along with a detailed description of my dress. Several ladies will be writing to their friends and family in London about my shop. And you and I have caused more talk than is altogether desirable. At the moment, I’m not absolutely certain I can turn the talk to account. Your grasping me in this primitive fashion doesn’t improve matters. May I point out as well that you’re wrinkling my lace.”

He released her, and for one demented instant, she missed the warmth and the pressure of his hands.

“I did not pick you,” he said. “You came to the theater and flaunted yourself and did your damndest to rivet my attention.”

“If you think that was my damndest, you’re sadly inexperienced,” she said.

He studied her face for a moment, his green eyes glittering.

If he took hold of her again and shook her until her teeth rattled, she wouldn’t be surprised. She was provoking him, and it wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but she was provoked, too, frustrated on any number of counts, mainly the obvious one.

“I brought you,” he said tightly. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

“There’s no reason for you to leave the party,” she said. “I’ll find a fiacre to take me back.”

“The party is boring,” he said. “You’re the only interesting thing in it. You’d scarcely left before it deflated, audibly, like a punctured hot-air balloon. I heard the sigh of escaping excitement behind me as I stepped into the corridor.”

“It didn’t occur to you that the deflation was on account of your departure?” she said.

“No,” he said. “And don’t try flattery. It sits ill on you. In fact, it turns your face slightly green. I do wonder how you get on with your clients. Surely you’re obliged to flatter and cajole.”

“I flatter in the same way I do everything else,” she said. “Beautifully. If I turned green it was due to shock at your flattering me.”

“Then collect your wits before we descend the stairs. If you take a tumble and crack your head, suspicion will instantly fall on me.”

She needed to collect her wits, and not for fear of tumbling down the stairs. She hadn’t yet recovered from the waltz with him: the heat, the giddiness, the almost overpowering physical awareness—and most alarming, the yearning coursing through her, racing in her veins, beating in her heart, and weakening her mind as though she’d drunk some kind of poison.

She started down the stairs.

As the buzz of the party grew more distant, she became aware of his light footfall behind her, and of the deserted atmosphere of the lower part of the house.

Risk-taking was in her blood, and conventional morality had not been part of her upbringing. If this had been another man, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have led him to a dark corner or under the stairs and had him. She would have lifted her skirts and taken her pleasure—against a wall or a door or on a windowsill—and got it out of her system.

But this wasn’t another man, and she’d already let temper and pride get the better of her judgment.

Leonie had warned her, before she left: “We’ll never have another chance like this. Don’t bugger it up.”

The hell of it was, Marcelline wouldn’t know whether or not she’d botched it until it was too late.

He said nothing for a time, and she wondered if he, too, was pondering the stories shortly to fly about London, and deciding how best to deal with them.

But why should he fret about gossip? He was a man, and men were expected to chase women, especially in Paris. It was practically his patriotic duty. Lady Clara certainly hadn’t made any fuss about his affairs. It would have

been common knowledge if she had. Since Longmore behaved much the same as his friend did, Marcelline doubted it had even dawned on the earl to mention the subject when issuing the ultimatum, whatever that was.

Still, all the duke’s other liaisons in Paris had been ladies or sought-after members of the demimonde. Those sorts of conquests were prestigious.

But a dressmaker—a common shopkeeper—wasn’t Clevedon’s usual thing, and anything unusual could set the ton on its ear.

These cogitations took her to the ground floor. They did nothing to quiet her agitation.

She waited while he told the porter to summon his carriage.

When Clevedon turned back to her, she said, “How do you propose to explain this evening to Lady Clara? Or do you never explain yourself to her?”