Authors: Sally MacKenzie
Anne glanced at the drawing. “No, I don’t think so.”
He frowned at her. “Why not?” He held it up for Evie and Celeste to see. “Don’t you think this gown would suit Anne?”
“It would
not
suit me.” Anne almost strangled on the words. For a man with a supposedly discerning eye, Mr. Parker-Roth had failed to discern an obvious problem—her poor little breasts were far too small to be displayed in such a way, even with the heroic efforts of an exceptional corset.
“It’s very pretty, Anne.” Evie studied the picture. “It hadn’t occurred to me—I mean it’s nothing like what you usually wear—but I think Mr. Parker-Roth is right. It would look very good on you. What don’t you like about it?”
“Oui, Lady Anne, what is the problem?” Madam Celeste smiled, but Anne could hear a touch of exasperation in her voice. “The dress is tres jolie—you will be beautiful in it. All the men will envy monsieur.”
They were all mad—or blind. “The dress is very pretty; it just will not look good on me.” She felt herself flush, damn it.
Mr. Parker-Roth—and Evie and Madam Celeste—all stared at her as if she were a bedlamite. “Let’s see what else there is.” She grabbed for the sketches, but Mr. Parker-Roth held them out of her reach.
“Enlighten us, Lady Anne,” he said. “Why won’t the dress look good on you?”
She turned to Madam Celeste. The woman was a dressmaker; she must understand. Mrs. Waddingly, the dressmaker back home, certainly had. She was always adding another row of lace, a bow, or a knot of ribbons to Anne’s bodices in a vain attempt to hide her deficiencies. “You must have something of a more modest nature.”
“Modest?” Madam Celeste looked from Anne to Mr. Parker-Roth. “I do not comprehend. What is not modest?”
Surely the woman wasn’t going to force her to spell it out? “Something with a higher neck, perhaps?” She smiled somewhat desperately she feared. “I’m only a chaperone, you see. I don’t wish to bring attention to myself.”
Madam Celeste’s jaw dropped. “Only a chaperone?”
“Yes, of course. It’s my sister’s come-out after all, not mine. I will be sitting along the wall with the other mature women.” That had certainly been her plan as soon as she’d realized Georgiana was leaving her in charge of Evie’s Season. And especially now that she knew Lord Brentwood was here; she would rather not encounter the man.
“But you are monsieur’s betrothed! All the eyes of London will be upon you!”
“Surely not.” Anne felt ill.
“I’m afraid Celeste is probably correct, Anne,” Mr. Parker-Roth said. “People do take an inordinate amount of interest in my life—you saw how often I was mentioned in those infernal gossip columns. It’s extremely annoying, but inevitable whenever I’m in London.”
“Oh.” This just got worse and worse. How was she ever going to survive this Season? “But can’t they look at me in a dress with a high neck and long sleeves? I get chilly so easily.”
Madam Celeste looked horrified, probably wondering how much she could pay Anne not to tell anyone who had had the making of her dresses.
Mr. Parker-Roth laughed. “You won’t get chilly in a London ballroom. Trust me, they are stifling.” He shook his head, but his eyes were uncomfortably penetrating. “You don’t want everyone whispering I’m marrying a quiz, do you? Not that I care what the society cats say, but the gossip and sniggering will cause you and probably Evie some discomfort, and I confess it will make me angry on your behalf.”
“And there is no need for it,” Madam Celeste said. “Pardonnez-moi, my lady, but you are being tres silly. Everyone will envy you; you are the betrothed of le Roi de Coeurs. You have succeeded where so many others have failed. Why would you not wish to wear a gown that matches your beauty?”
“Oh, dear heavens.” Anne sat down abruptly. This was shaping up to be a complete nightmare.
Mr. Parker-Roth sat down next to her. “It won’t be so bad, Anne. I’m sure Madam Celeste is overstating the case. Yes, people will be curious, but many will be happy for me—for us.”
“Um.” She stared at the table, though she didn’t see it. It would be bad enough if she were really Mr. Parker-Roth’s betrothed, but she wasn’t. She would be forced to act that part with all the
ton
—all the nasty, gabble-grinding
ton
—watching her every move.
She
was
going to be ill.
She covered her face with one hand and waved the other in Madam Celeste and Mr. Parker-Roth’s direction. “Why don’t you just pick out a few things for me?”
Madam Celeste did not need to be told twice. She spread her sketches out on the table at once and began talking in a very animated way to Mr. Parker-Roth.
“Anne,” Evie said quietly, “are you certain you don’t want to look at Madam Celeste’s drawings? Her dresses are wonderful—nothing like the plain old things Mrs. Waddingly makes up.”
“No. I’m sure madam and Mr. Parker-Roth know what is fashionable.” Since she was such a stick, it wouldn’t matter what they hung on her frame. She would still look like a boy in his older sister’s dress.
Evie cleared her throat hesitantly. “I never liked to say it, but I do believe the clothing you wore at home . . . that is, I think Mrs. Waddingly does not know how to make dresses that compliment your figure.”
“That’s because I don’t have a figure, Evie.” Anne did not begrudge her sister her curves, but she would admit to a small pang of jealousy in the present circumstances. Any dress would look lovely on Evie.
“That’s not true at all. You are just thinner than many women.”
“Mmm.” She hadn’t been quite so thin ten years ago—she’d still had a bit of baby fat—but she’d never been voluptuous. Why had Brentwood singled her out—a skinny, red-headed, bespectacled, awkward miss?
He must have been bored or there must have been a wager involved. That was all she could surmise from the many times she’d pondered the matter.
“Here, Anne, let’s see how this color looks on you.” Mr. Parker-Roth had concluded his discussions with Madam Celeste and now had a swatch of reddish cloth dangling from his fingers. That jolted her out of her reverie. She gaped at him.
“Are you blind?” How could he overlook the mass of red curls on her head? “I can’t wear red.”
“Let’s see if you can or not.” He held out his other hand to help her up. “Come stand before Celeste’s mirror and we’ll see what colors become you.”
“Brown.” Though she couldn’t really say brown became her; it just didn’t call attention to her. Her dreadful hair did that well enough. “Mrs. Waddingly always made my dresses in brown.”
Madam Celeste smacked her hand hard against the tabletop and Anne jumped.
“Mon dieu! This Madam Waddingly is an imbecile of the first order—and blind aussi. She should not be permitted to make the dresses—or even to own a thimble.” Madam Celeste pointed an accusing finger at Anne’s frock. “That . . . thing—bah!” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It is the color of mud—non, of horse dung. I would not let a
dog
wear it.”
Mr. Parker-Roth raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a pleasant shade, I’ll grant you that. As soon as your new dresses arrive, Anne, you must burn it and all the other things this misguided Mrs. Waddingly made for you.” He grinned. “I’ll help, and I daresay Evie and the boys will as well. What do you say, Evie?”
“Oh, yes—I’ll be delighted to set fire to Anne’s old wardrobe. And I will gather all the things for the bonfire if Anne is hesitant to do so.”
“I am not going to burn the clothes Mrs. Waddingly made,” Anne said, frowning at Mr. Parker-Roth as she stepped in front of the mirror. “What a shocking waste of money that would be.”
Madam Celeste grunted and muttered something under her breath. The only words Anne could discern were “monsieur” and “naked.”
“Of course not,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, a bit more loudly than necessary. He stood behind Anne and smiled reassuringly at her in the mirror—only she didn’t feel precisely reassured. She stepped back—and bumped into his hard body.
He glanced over his shoulder at Madam Celeste. “Why don’t you take Lady Evangeline back to get her measurements?”
Madam Celeste’s answering smile was not reassuring at all. “An excellent idea, monsieur. You will help Lady Anne choose colors while we are gone.”
“Just so. I’m sure it will take us a while, so don’t hurry back.”
Madam Celeste’s smile broadened. “Oui, mademoiselle and I, we shall have much to do with the measuring and the pinning.” And she winked at him.
What exactly was Mr. Parker-Roth planning? “I’m sure I should go with Evie. I—”
Madam Celeste shook her head so briskly her gray hair floated about her head. “Mais non, Lady Anne. Mademoiselle and I do not need you, do we, mademoiselle ?”
Evie’s eyes were far too full of mischief. “Of course not. We’ve already selected some styles and colors, Anne. How can you help with the measurements?”
“Nevertheless, I should be with you.” Mr. Parker-Roth’s hand was now on her elbow. His fingers held her gently; his thumb stroked little circles on the inside of her arm. She could smell his cologne.
“Do not be silly,” Madam Celeste said, standing and gesturing for Evie to precede her to the dressing room in the back. “You will be most in the way.” She looked over at her assistant, who’d been straightening ribbons and other trimmings. “Betty, come with us, s’il vous plait.”
“Yes, madam.” Betty flashed Anne a knowing smile as she ducked through the door behind Evie and Madam Celeste.
Anne bit her bottom lip. Damn it, she and Mr. Parker-Roth were completely alone now and likely to be that way for the next little while unless a new customer entered.
Her stomach fluttered in an uncomfortable manner. Is this how a mouse felt when cornered by a cat? She certainly was trembling like a frightened mouse.
No, that wasn’t true—she wasn’t frightened. She was . . . excited. If she were a mouse, she most ardently wished to be caught.
Stupid! All Mr. Parker-Roth need do was stand close to her, and her resolution and common sense fled. “I really should go back with Evie.”
His lips turned up slightly. They were very nice lips, narrow and firm, not wet and thick like Brentwood’s.
“You really shouldn’t.” His voice stirred the tendrils of hair that had got loose over her ear. “You will disappoint everyone—Evie, Madam Celeste, Betty”—he slid his hand up her arm—“me.”
“Oh.” She closed her eyes for a moment. Was he seducing her? One would think she would know seduction, but this was a completely different experience than her unpleasant encounter with Lord Brentwood.
Mr. Parker-Roth did not utter a word to persuade her into sin—he didn’t have to. He just stood there behind her, his thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles on her arm, as if he had all day, as if there was nothing more he wished to do with her than stand close and touch her.
She drew in a deep, shuddery breath. His scent and his heat were everywhere. Her small breasts felt swollen, and she ached low in her belly—lower even. Her knees threatened to give out. She wobbled slightly and Mr. Parker-Roth’s—Stephen’s—arm came around her waist to steady her.
He drew her back against him. She felt his hard form from her shoulders to her bottom.
“Look in the mirror, Anne,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her earlobe.
She saw their reflection. Dear heavens! She appeared completely wanton, sprawled back against him, her mouth open, her cheeks flushed. She shut her eyes immediately. “Oh, I—”
“Mmm, you smell good.” He kissed a spot just under her ear, sending a shiver cascading through her, and, hussy that she was, she tilted her head to bare a little more of her neck.
She felt him smile against her skin; then his lips wandered slowly down her jaw. Would he kiss her mouth if she turned her head?
No. He stopped at her cheek. “Temptress,” he said.
That was a bucket of cold water. Brentwood had said the same thing, right before he . . .
She straightened and glared at him. “I’m not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
His eyebrows shot up. He was so close she could trace them with her finger—but of course she would never do such a shocking thing. “I’m not being ridiculous. This is the third time you’ve tempted me into improper behavior.”
The third time? “No, I—” There had been the first disastrous event that Lady Dunlee witnessed and then the incident in the harem room and now . . . “You were drunk before.” She sniffed his breath. “Are you drunk still?”
“Of course not. And I’ll let you know I do not make a practice of kissing well-bred young women even when I’m in my cups.”
“I’m
not
young.”
“You’re younger than I am.”
They stared at each other for what felt like a full minute; then Mr. Parker-Roth grinned and kissed her on the nose. “We can argue about this later—I look forward to it—but we do need to attend to selecting colors, Anne. Evie and the others will not stay in the fitting room forever.”
“Well, of course not. And there’s no need to bother with that red—oh.”
Mr. Parker-Roth draped the fabric across her bodice, covering the brown. She blinked. Something about the color made her skin glow. The change was remarkable.
“And what of this?” He substituted a deep green swatch that almost matched her eyes.
“It
is
rather nice.” And it would be lovely, if she could wear it in a room by herself. “But won’t I stand out in colors so . . . dramatic?”
He grinned and tweaked one of her curls again. “Anne, you will stand out no matter what you wear.” His eyes grew serious. “You must stop trying to hide your light under a bushel.”
“What light?” She made a face at herself in the mirror. “You forget—Evie is the beauty; I’m the bluestocking.”
“Hey.” He turned her and tilted her chin up so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “None of that.” His lips pulled slowly into a smile. “I’m not aware of any law that states bluestockings can’t be beautiful, but if there is one, I’m afraid you’ve broken it.”
“Don’t be—”
Stephen’s mouth covered hers, taking her words and her breath away.
She found she didn’t care. She was much more interested in how his lips moved over hers, how they urged her to open for him, how his tongue slid into her mouth, filling her yet making her hungry for more.