Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

BATHSHEBA SET OUT on Saturday morning with a list of possible lodgings and an optimistic spirit.

She worked her way in an orderly fashion up and down the streets projecting from Soho Square and round the square itself.

Meanwhile, the day, which started out mild and clear, grew steadily less so. By early afternoon a sharp breeze had driven down the temperature, and dreary grey clouds obscured the sun. By midafternoon, the breeze was stiffening into a wintry wind and the clouds were darkening, along with her mood.

The rooms she could afford in Soho, she found, were shabbier and more cramped than those she had now. At least in Bleeding Heart Yard, some of the ancient buildings retained vestiges of their bygone grandeur. Not all of their large rooms had been divided and divided again into narrow little ones.

Moreover, the neighborhood, acceptable at the heart, quickly deteriorated, much as her present one did. A few minutes’ walking southeastward from Soho Square brought one into St. Giles’s, a notorious back-slum.

In short, Bathsheba had wasted a Saturday. Instead of looking forward to a new home, she could only look forward to spending more precious hours on a task she was beginning to believe futile.

Thanks to Lord Lisle’s ridiculously expensive lessons, her finances had improved markedly, but she feared they had not improved enough to make any significant difference in her circumstances.

London had turned out to be a great deal more costly than she’d expected. Not for the first time she wondered whether she’d done the right thing in coming here. Dublin was cheaper and friendlier.

Yet Ireland was poorer, and obtaining artistic work had been even more difficult there. Good, affordable schooling for Olivia certainly was easier to find in London.

In less than a year, Miss Smithson of New Ormond Street had eradicated all traces of Olivia’s brogue. She spoke as a lady ought to speak. If only one could teach her to behave as a lady ought to behave. In school, among her classmates and under Miss Smithson’s basilisk gaze, Olivia was a model of ladylike deportment. Unfortunately, like so many of her maternal relatives, she was a chameleon, adapting easily to her surroundings. Out of school, among a different class of persons, she was another girl altogether.

Matters would not improve if they returned to Ireland.

London was the place of opportunity. But it did not offer opportunity cheap or make the way easy.

It was not going to make way for Bathsheba Wingate today, obviously.

Time to give up and go home.

She started down Meard’s Court as the first cold drops of rain began to fall. She was used to rain and cold, but today, weary in both body and spirit, she minded it very much. The rain pattered on her bonnet and the shoulders of her cloak. Soon it would beat harder, she thought, glancing up at the blackening sky. She would be wet through by the time she had walked home.

When she reached the corner of Dean Street, she found herself gazing southward toward St. Anne’s Church. There was a hackney stand at the church.

But if she splurged on a hired vehicle she must scrimp for dinner.

She put the hackney out of her mind and hurried across Dean Street, her gaze darting north and south. If she had been looking straight ahead she might have been run over, for the grey veil of rain turned her into a dark blur. But she didn’t look straight ahead. She very sensibly watched the street for oncoming carts and carriages.

And so she ran straight into the man on the walkway.

She heard a grunt, and felt him stagger a little. She grabbed two fistfuls of coat to keep him from toppling over. This was not the most intelligent move, but she acted instinctively. It took her brain another moment to point out that he was taller and heavier than she was and would only take her down with him.

By this time, he’d regained his balance.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, releasing the coat. Out of maternal habit, she smoothed it down where she’d wrinkled it. “I was not looking—”

That was when she lifted her head and did look, finally. Rain drizzled into her face and the daylight was all but gone, yet she had no trouble recognizing the coal-black eyes gazing down at her over the patrician nose or the firm mouth with its provoking promise of a smile.

She simply stared, one hand falling away, the other still resting on his coat.

“It is I who ought to beg your pardon,” Lord Rathbourne said. “I seem to have acquired a troublesome habit of standing in your way.”

“I did not see you,” she said. She snatched her hand away from his coat. Once, only once, could she not meet up with him in a civilized and graceful way? Embarrassment swept over her in a hot rush, sharpening her tone. “I shouldn’t see you here. What could possibly bring you to Soho?”

“You,” he said. “I have been looking for you for hours. But I shall not keep you standing in the rain while I explain myself. Let us make a dash to St. Anne’s Church for a hackney. We can speak more comfortably then.”

Involuntarily, her gaze shot southward again, to the church.

Oh, it was tempting.

But riding in a closed carriage with a man who turned her into a witless sixteen-year-old was asking for trouble.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I think it best if we travel in different directions.” Once more she set herself walking eastward.

She was distantly aware of a rumble. In the next instant, her feet left the ground, and before she could make her brain believe it was happening, he had scooped her up and was carrying her down Dean Street.

They’d reached Compton Street before she recovered her wits and untangled her tongue. “Put me down,” she said.

He kept on walking.

He was not even breathing hard.

She was. The arms bracing her were like iron bands. His broad chest and shoulders blocked out the wind and much of the rain. His coat was damp, but warmed by the body under it.

While she had realized he was fit—the cut of his clothes had told her so—she’d greatly underestimated his strength. She knew he was tall and well proportioned. She hadn’t realized, though, how very much of him there was.

Too much.

Overpowering.

An image came into her head of warriors in armor storming castles, sl

aughtering the men, and carrying off the women.

His ancestors were such men.

“Put me down,” she said. She squirmed.

He only tightened his grasp, crushing her more closely against him.

She grew hot and addled. She knew she ought to fight, but her will was ebbing away. Or maybe what she felt was her morals disintegrating.

Belatedly she recollected their surroundings: a public byway. If she renewed her struggles, all she’d do was attract attention.

People had clustered in doorways for shelter. They had nothing to do but stare at passersby.

Someone might recognize him. Or her. If word of this got out . . .

It did not bear thinking of.

She kept her head down and tried to occupy her brain with composing devastating set-downs and plotting retribution. She found that her mind had gone on holiday and left her body in charge.

Her body was warm and sheltered. It wanted to get closer to the stronger one, the source of heat. It wanted to crawl inside his coat.

Luckily, they had only a short distance to cover, and he walked briskly. In a few minutes, they reached the hackney stand.

“The lady’s slipped and hurt her foot,” he told the driver at the head of the queue. “I should prefer to travel with a minimum of sudden starts, stops, and bumps, if you please.” He tossed her into the vehicle, growled something else at the driver, and climbed in beside her.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, when the vehicle was in motion. “Well, not completely sorry.” His mouth curved a very little.

She tried to think of a cutting answer. Her mind was sluggish. Her heart, meanwhile, was beating dementedly.

“I was too impatient, perhaps,” he said. “Yet it seemed absurd to stand in the rain, arguing with you. I only wanted to make an offer.”

She stiffened. This she could understand, all too well. This was not confusing. The heat drained away, leaving her chilled, and she said, with all the icy dignity she could muster, “A what?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Not that kind of offer,” he said.