Wedded in Scandal (9 page)

She huffed as she turned to face the boy. “And that, my lord, is the only reason Anthony has not been sacked.”

He could see her words hit the young man, as well they should. In truth, no bookkeeper would stay employed for long if he did not live and breathe the word “discretion.” But he didn’t say that aloud. At least not until after Anthony had bowed stiffly and retreated. And even then, Robert waited while Mrs. Mortimer took her seat and served him tepid tea.

“Not many young men can withstand a peer, you know,” he said gently.

“And I’m sure you were most forceful.” She lifted her chin. “That does not endear you to me.”

Far from being insulted, he was rather amused by the idea. Usually merchants tried to ingratiate themselves with him, not the other way around. He found the difference in her delightful. But that did not mean he had to be nice.

“And I find your manner of dressing women to be deplorable,” he said.

She nodded. “And I agree with Francine. You should dress yourself on Bond Street. Leave the young to those who
are
young.”

He arched a brow. “Are you calling me old, Mrs. Mortimer?”

“And stuffy.”

“Good Lord, soon you will be offering me a cure for rheumatism.”

She tilted her head. “I believe my mother has one. Would you like me to fetch her?”

He shook his head, startled to find his lips curving into a rueful smile. “I believe I have more than enough women in my life.”

She dipped her chin in agreement, and he noticed that her eyes were sparkling with humor. His mood as well had lightened considerably. Then, contrary woman that she was, she had to go about and destroy his bizarre mood.

“I dress my clients as they wish to be dressed, my lord. Francine needed to see herself as desirable.”

“You will not do that to my sister!” The response was automatic, the words irrational even to his own ears. And the dratted woman wasted no time in pointing that out.

“Your sister is about to be married. She is a woman grown and able to choose for herself how to dress. Obviously, you have no respect for me, but do you have none for your own sister?”

He swallowed. Did he truly have no respect for this woman? “On the contrary,” he said, though the words came
stiffly to his lips. “I have respect for your fearlessness. Bold business dealings are the only way for a woman to manage on her own. You impress me with your very survival.”

She set her teacup down without the slightest sound. “I do not know whether to be complimented or insulted.”

“Complimented, Mrs. Mortimer. Definitely complimented.”

She paused, and he could tell she was thinking deeply. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows, which he found unexpectedly charming. “Does that mean you will pay in advance for your sister’s trousseau?”

He released a sharp bark of a laugh. “I have told her that such a practice is ridiculous and demanded only by sharks and thieves.”

“Now I am definitely insulted,” she retorted coldly. Oddly, she did not sound insulted so much as resigned. She had expected his opinion to be as such.

“But I stand by my word. She has been given access to her funds. She will choose how to spend them.”

The woman visibly brightened, and he couldn’t help but feel pleased by the change. “You will not stop her then? You will allow her to come here?”

“It’s not real freedom unless she has the right to make bad choices.”

Her shoulders lowered in relief. She didn’t speak at first, and he became captivated by the slow dawning of humor in her expression. Her brows lifted, her cheeks seemed to gain color, and her lips curved in the slightest of smiles.

“Thank you for your wisdom.”

He blinked, his mind only slowly shifting away from the sight of her lips. “You make me sound like an old cleric sitting on a dais. You know, some women find me quite spry.”

“Some women would find aged Cheddar cheese to be spry.”

He blinked. “Did you just compare me to cheese?”

“I did, my lord.” Then she leaned forward and touched
his hand. “But never fear. I have quite the fondness for Cheddar cheese.”

He looked at her. First at where her hand touched his, then at the sparkling humor in her eyes. Never before had he imagined such a conversation. Certainly never with a woman, much less a dressmaker. But there was an ease between them, one that allowed for absurdities. And he found himself completely charmed.

“I can see why my sister likes you,” he finally said.

She shook her head. “I assure you, you do not.”

“Really?” He was learning to just let her have her say. No matter what nonsense she spouted, she would nevertheless manage to be both charming and interesting. “Pray enlighten me.”

“Your sister likes me because I listen to what she wants, not what you or your mother or her future in-laws want her to want.”

He shuddered slightly at the thought. “My sister can be too willful by half.”

“Those days are long gone. You have nearly cowed the spirit out of her.”

“The devil you say!”

“I do. But never fear. She is learning to assert herself again.”

Now he did groan. “Reason enough to keep her far away from you.”

She smiled. “Reason enough to let her have control of her own funds and make her own decisions. She will never be able to stand up to that mother-in-law without some strength of her own.”

He could not argue there. And no matter what Mrs. Mortimer thought, he did wish the very best for Gwen. “Very well, then I grant that you are simply another step in her growing independence.”

She took a sip of her tea. “At least you did not suggest I was a ‘bad choice’ again.”

“The words were implied.”

“Of course. How silly of me to miss that.”

“But if Gwen likes you because you support her budding independence…” He had to suppress his shudder at that thought. “Why is it that you believe I like you?”

She set down her cup and looked at him, her expression turning serious. “Do you, my lord? Like me?”

“Like” was much too pale a word. And it wasn’t even remotely accurate, though he had no substitute. “You are not repellent,” he finally said.

“Damned by faint praise.”

“I don’t believe that was praise at all.”

She snorted. “Touché. Very well, my lord. You aren’t repelled by me because I do not allow you to bully me. I suspect that everyone dances to your tune at home—”

“Nothing could be further from the truth—”

“And that can be extremely exhausting, what with telling everyone what to do and seeing that it is done.”

He leaned back in against the settee, dislodging a pile of dress patterns as he moved. “I tell you, no one listens to me. At home or anywhere else.”

“Anthony did. Francine listened as well.”

“But did exactly as she pleased.”

The lady grinned even as she picked up the tumbled patterns. “Francine listened to what you thought and then made her own decision. That is an excellent thing, I believe, in a young person.”

“You obviously know different young people than I do.”

She smiled, but her expression was wistful. “This is fun, is it not? Trading insults, bantering back and forth about the people we know.”

He grinned. It was the most fun he’d had in an age.

“That is why you don’t despise me, my lord. Because there is no relationship between us, no need to please or be pleased by the other. We can be as absurd or as contentious as we wish, with no consequences.”

“I could still ban Gwen from your shop.”

“But you are a man of your word, my lord, and promised not to do such a thing.”

He sighed loudly, adopting a most dramatic pose. “Oh, damnation, my honor!”

Her expression went from wistful to fully entertained. Exactly as he had wished. “No consequences, no relationship, not even as dressmaker to client.” She took a deep breath, unconsciously drawing his attention to her beautifully formed breasts. “I vow it is a relief to me as well.”

He was silent for a time, his mind on her curves, on the lightness he felt in her presence, on the delight of her conversation. The offer formed in his mind long before he voiced it. In truth, he’d had it in his thoughts after their first meeting, even knowing how improbable it was. That, perhaps, was the real reason he had come skulking about her back room, and it was not to have a look at her books.

So he waited a time, thinking once more upon the possibility. He had made some discreet inquiries after their first meeting. He had learned from Gwen what was said about the woman, and from there it was a matter of the right question in the right ear. The answer was just what he had hoped. It took a moment’s more consideration but in the end, the words were inevitable.

“I should like to offer my condolences, Mrs. Mortimer.”

She frowned, obviously confused by his words. “My lord?”

“On the passing of Lord Metzger. I understand you were both very…close.” She had, in fact, been his mistress for many years. But now the man was dead—he’d died some months ago—and she was without protection.

He watched her swallow, seeing those exact thoughts whisper across her features. “His lordship was indeed a good friend,” she said, caution in every word.

“So I understand. But now he is gone, and I should like—”

“No relationship, my lord. Do you not recall what I just said?
No relationship.
The delight we have in our conversations would alter drastically if we began…something else.”

“Really?” he said as he leaned forward. Her hand was resting on her knee and it was the work of a moment to
capture her wrist and thereby trap her in her seat. “Do you think so?”

“I do. I most certainly do.” Her voice was high in pitch and he caught an undercurrent of panic. She knew he was drawing close to kiss her. She knew it and was panicked by the thought. Or perhaps she was simply playing the part of an ingenue to spark his interest. Whether real or feigned, he was beyond intrigued. Indeed, certain parts of him were all but demanding she surrender to him right here and now.

But he was more refined than that and so he slowed his approach. He easily flipped her hand over to press a kiss into her wrist. To his delight, he felt her shiver as he pressed his mouth to her tender flesh.

“Do you know,” he said against her skin, “I believe I should like to explore something with you.”

“I’m sure you would,” she said somewhat tartly, though her voice trembled. Her arm did not as she whipped it backward out of his hand. She didn’t know that it was exactly as he’d planned. While she drew her hand back, he pretended to be pulled forward enough that he had to catch himself on the armrests of her chair, thereby trapping her beneath the tent of his body. “My lord, this is most inappropriate.”

“On the contrary,” he said as he slowly lowered his face toward hers. “I believe an offer of protection is exactly appropriate between the two of us.”

“My lord! I am a dressmaker!”

“Not to Lord Metzger, you weren’t. And not to me.”

She had drawn back to the farthest reaches of her chair, but she hadn’t screamed. He saw the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat and felt the tight puff of her breath against his cheek. She was interested, of that he was certain. But how quickly could he get her to fall? Normally he enjoyed the dance of maybe yes, maybe no. But with her, he found he wanted merely to possess as quickly as possible.

“No, my lord.” She put a hand to his chest to stop him. There was little strength in her words and her wrist, but it was enough to make his honor prickle.

“Don’t you want to explore, Mrs. Mortimer? To find out if our delightful conversations will continue
with
the benefit of a relationship?”

She licked her lips in anxiety, and his gaze dropped from there to even lower. Her bosom was flushed rosy pink above her gown, and her beautiful breasts were tightened into hard points that made his blood crow with delight. Without even thinking it, he lifted his hand to stroke one hard nub, but she caught him before he connected.

“No, my lord. No!”

He twisted his arm around hers such that he caught her wrist again and lifted it to his mouth. Nearly a decade ago, his uncle had taught him how to seduce a woman with just his tongue. It had been the most useful lesson any relative had ever given him. He used it to its fullest extent now as he teased and stroked her wrist. And as he applied himself to her skin, he watched her face. Her mouth opened on a gasp as she made to pull her hand away. But he was already at work on her wrist, and he saw her eyes widen in shock. Obviously Lord Metzger had never been instructed by a lecherous uncle, because Mrs. Mortimer’s body began to react.

Her lips darkened to a rich, wet red. Her eyes, so wide a moment ago, began to soften in a kind of daze. She shivered against his lips, and her knees, which were pressed so hard against his thighs, eased slightly apart. She probably wasn’t even aware of her reaction, but he had been taught well. He knew what to look for in a woman.

And then, formidable woman that she was, she gathered her wits. She closed her eyes and stiffened her spine. When her words came, they were hard and implacable.

“No, my lord. I will not be your mistress. Pray respect my wishes and remove yourself from my person.”

He lifted his head and slowly set down her arm. He watched her exhale in relief, obviously believing she had won. And cad that he was, he took advantage of that one moment of vulnerability. Before she could stop him, he closed the distance between them.

He kissed her. He more than kissed her, he used his superior position—in height, in social status, and in simple physical prowess—and he owned her mouth as only a man can own a woman.

One kiss, one moment, and she was his. Or so he believed…for about five seconds.