your mother—”
He broke off, dismayed at what he’d been about to say, and shocked that he’d only thought of it now: that her vain, proud mother had deliberately dressed her daughter like a dowd. She’d done it in hopes of keeping the other men off, because she was saving Clara for Clevedon.
She’d been saving Clara for a man who loved her but didn’t want to be here, didn’t want this life, and ached for something else, though he wasn’t sure what the something else was.
No, he knew what it was.
But it was no use knowing because it was the one thing his power, position, and money couldn’t buy.
“What were you about to observe regarding my mother?” Clara said.
“She’s protective,” he lied. “More than you like, I don’t doubt. But you got what you wanted in the end.”
He didn’t notice the searching gaze Clara sent up at him. His own attention was wandering to the ladies’ dresses floating about them. Nearly all wore the latter stages of court mourning: every shade of white, some black, soft shapes against the stark angles of black and white and grey of the men’s attire.
The air was warm, and thick with scent, recalling another time and place. But this wasn’t like Paris, and the difference wasn’t merely the monochromatic colors.
It was the monochromatic mood.
There was no magic.
In Paris, there had been a kind of magic or perhaps unreality: the absurdity of that ball where Noirot didn’t belong, yet made herself belong, where she was the sun, and everyone else became little planets and moons, orbiting about her.
Magic, indeed. What folly! What a fool he was! The most beautiful girl in London was in his arms. Every man in the place envied him.
Yes, he was a fool. The girl he’d always loved was in his arms, and every other man in the ballroom wanted to be in his shoes.
And all he wanted was to get away.
Library of Clevedon House
Friday 1 May
“We have to get away,” Marcelline told Clevedon.
She’d seen nothing of him since Wednesday night. She had no idea when he’d come home from Almack’s. His private apartments were on the garden front in the main part of the house—the equivalent of streets away.
Now it was ten o’clock on Friday morning. The seamstresses had arrived an hour ago and settled down to work on the most urgent orders. Normally, while they worked, Marcelline and one of her sisters would be in the showroom, attending to customers.
But they had no showroom. And after Lady Clara’s triumphant appearance at Almack’s, Marcelline could expect customers, a great many. If Maison Noirot didn’t quickly seize the opportunity, the ton—not noted for being able to keep its mind on any one thing for any length of time—would forget about Lady Clara’s mouth-watering dress.
Her ladyship would have other dresses from Maison Noirot, but the impact would not be quite the same as the first time.
This wasn’t the only reason for getting out, but it was the most practical and mercenary one.
Marcelline had been preparing to write him a note when Halliday reported that his grace was in the library, and had asked to see Mrs. Noirot when convenient.
She’d hurried in and found him bent over a table piled with papers and magazines.
She hadn’t waited to find out what he wanted to talk to her about.
“We can’t stay here,” she said. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful—you know I’m grateful—but this is very disruptive—of my business, my employees, my family. Lucie in particular. The maids. The footmen. She’s starting to think that’s normal. She’s much more difficult to manage than you’d suppose, and I’ll need weeks to undo the damage that’s been done in a few days by all the pampering and catering to her every…”
She trailed off as he lifted his head from his study of the paper in front of him and turned that green gaze on her. Her gaze slid away from those extraordinary eyes and drifted downward over his long, straight nose and paused at his mouth, the sensuous mouth that should have been a woman’s and was so purely male.
The room grew too hot. Her mind skittered from one thought to another, trying to avoid the one subject she couldn’t afford to dwell on. But the dark longing beat in her heart and sent heat lower, and she took a step back.
“And then there’s that,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “There is that.”
“Yes,” she said, and added quickly, “I’ve got Lady Clara, and I should like to keep her. The longer I stay here, the less her mother will love me. I’m not sure how long she can stand up to her mother.”
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep away from you.
He looked away and gave a little sigh.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to lay the palm of her hand against his cheek. She wanted to step into his arms and lay her head on his chest and listen to his heart beat. She wanted to feel the warmth of his body and its strength. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him.
Last night she’d lain awake, imagining: a light footstep in the darkness…the sound of the door closing…the sound of his breath in and out…the motion of the mattress as his weight settled onto it…silk whispering as he shrugged off his dressing gown…his voice so low…his mouth against her ear…and then his hands on her, drawing up her gown…his hand between her legs…
Stop it stop it stop it.
“I’ve spoken to my sisters, and they agree that we can’t stay,” she went on. “Leonie and I are going out to find a place to move to.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
“It’s crucial,” she said. “We must seize the moment. you don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. He pushed toward her across the desk the paper he’d been looking at. “Varley has found you a shop. Shall we go see it?”
One of Clevedon’s many properties, the building stood on St. James’s Street near the corner of Bennet Street. Clevedon told the dressmakers that the previous tenants (a husband and wife) had fallen into dire financial difficulties within months of opening the place. They’d absconded in the dead of night mere days ago, owing three months’ back rent. They must have borrowed or stolen a cart, because they’d taken away most of the shop’s contents and fixtures.
This was a complete lie.
The truth was, Varney had bribed them to move and sweetened the offer by allowing them to take with them everything that wasn’t nailed down.
“What a strange coincidence that this should fall vacant at precisely this time,” Miss Leonie said while Varley unlocked the door.
“It’s about time we had a strange coincidence in our favor,” Miss Sophia said.
While the others filed into the shop, Noirot lingered on the pavement. Clevedon saw her assessing gaze move up over the building, then down and about her to consider the neighborhood. It was certainly prestigious, even though some of the street’s establishments were less than savory. Alongside gentlemen’s clubs like White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s and some of London’s most esteemed shops—Hoby the bootmaker, Lock’s the hatters, and Berry Brothers the wine merchants—stood gaming hells and brothels. These, however, tended to be tucked into narrow passages and courts.
“Well?” he said. “Do you approve?”
Her dark gaze shifted to his face then quickly away. “It was in my plans,” she