“Forgive me, Mrs. Layton. I was ungentlemanly.”
“Truly, I did not mind.”
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s the heat,” she retorted quickly.
The dratted man laughed, and her body betrayed her by choosing that moment to shiver.
“I’ve been inconsiderate.” He quickly shrugged from his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. A soft moan slipped from her as his wonderful heat enveloped her.
He stilled, and she peered up at him. The manner in which he looked at her was…lustful. Surely it was her imagination. He smiled ruefully, and she felt a familiar quickening low in her belly. Dear heavens, she was truly a harlot. Only last night she had been wrapped in the arms of a stranger, and now there was a wicked temptress inside, urging Lily to step up to the marquess, tip on her toes, and lick along the seam of his lips.
“Why is it important to open a shop?”
Lily stared at him. No one had ever asked her that. The few times she had mentioned her talent to the vicar, she had been berated harshly. Her duties had been to keep their cottage tidy, approve of his sermons, and ensure she was the first in church and the last to depart. Her marriage before that had been sweet and fleeting, and dear Jackson had only wanted to cosset and take care of her, refusing the very notion of her seeking work.
“Sewing is a talent I recognized in myself at the age of twelve. I’ve spent many days lost in a dream of the fine dresses my sister and I would wear one day,” she said with a wistful smile. “That passion simply grew until I had no choice but to follow where it would take me. I purchase fashion sheets when I can. I have a few local patrons who very much love the riding habits and dresses I’ve created. The magistrate’s wife is particularly complimentary. I can make gowns and pelisses to rival London’s most famous modistes. I want to see my creations on ladies of high society and featured in the Lady’s Monthly Museum. A bold aspiration, I know. Is it so silly, do you believe, to want something of your own, to leave your mark on an ever-changing world?”
“No, it’s admirable. I will gift you five hundred pounds to open your shop,” he said smoothly, his eyes boring into her, his intensity kissing her skin like a warning.
She jerked to her feet as if she were a marionette and him her master. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“You heard me.”
“That is a fortune.”
“It’s negligible.”
She inhaled sharply, at a loss how five hundred pounds could ever be described as negligible. “I…why?”
“I am feeling generous.”
Her heart pounded a furious beat. “I cannot accept your generosity. It is inappropriate.”
His gorgeous mouth curved into a smile. “Then consider it a payment.”
“For what services? Your mother already compensates me quite fairly for my companionship.”
He looked thoughtful, then offered a reply. “For helping me select a suitable bride from the dozens under my roof.”
“A suitable bride?” she parroted.
“I know my mother has painted your ears with hours of chattering on the type of young lady she would see fill her shoes.”
“She has,” she said cautiously. The marchioness was very hopeful her son would indeed select a bride and move on to the joyful occasion of producing an heir. “But I do not see how I could possibly be in a position to help.” How she dearly wished there was some service she could render. Five hundred pounds, oh glorious heavens.
“Finding a suitable bride is no easy task. The sum I offered I gambled away in less than an hour last weekend. It’s a piddling amount, Mrs. Layton.”
“I think it is incredulous you would need my help.”
“Perhaps I realize the impossible task in deciding on a bride in one week.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You do have the rest of the London’s season. Surely those balls and picnics will have many more wonderful ladies to choose from.”
“I am disenchanted with the idea of wading through the marriage mart.”
Lily’s thoughts raced ahead. “What are the terms?”