- -
- 100%
- +
“There’s a shoemaker and a milliner, too,” Polly continued as she made the bed. “It’s as if he brought half of Bond Street back with him. I do wish I had a rich cousin like him, miss. Such fabrics and feathers and I don’t know what all!”
Perhaps there really was an abundance of such items, Juliette mused, or perhaps the young maid was exaggerating in her excitement. After all, Sir Douglas would hardly spend a fortune on her.
Polly finished the bed and looked at the tray. “All finished? You haven’t had a drop of tea.”
“I do not drink tea.”
Polly looked a little nonplussed. “Coffee then? Or hot chocolate? You’re to have whatever you like.”
“No, thank you.” Juliette replied. She’d never had either beverage and was afraid she wouldn’t like them. That would be difficult to explain if she’d requested one or the other.
“In that case, I’ll fetch your new dress.”
“I can get it,” Juliette said, rising and heading toward the armoire, where she assumed her new muslin dress, likewise purchased with Lord Bromwell’s money, must be hanging. It was no longer on the foot of the bed where she’d laid it last night.
“I don’t know what they do in France these days, miss,” Polly cried in horrified shock, “but you can’t go wandering the house in your chemise!”
“What do you mean?” Juliette asked, confused, as she pulled open the armoire doors.
It was empty. “Where is my new dress?”
“Downstairs, miss.”
They must have taken it to wash. “Is it dry already?”
Polly looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “No, miss. There’s a new gown for you. Madame de Melanche brought it. She made it for another customer, but when Sir Douglas told her about your troubles and that you had only an old traveling gown, she brought it along. I’ll just run and fetch it—and tell Sir Douglas you’re awake.”
As the maid bustled out of the room, Juliette returned to the comfortable chair and sat heavily. Sir Douglas had described her new dress as an “old traveling gown”? It might not be of the best fabric, but it was well-made, by her own hands, and pretty and new.
She suddenly felt as she had when she’d first arrived in Calais, an ignorant country bumpkin. Except that she was not. Not anymore. And although she was poor, Sir Douglas had no right to insult her.
The door opened and Polly returned with a day gown of the prettiest sprigged muslin Juliette had ever seen. Delicate kid slippers dangled from her hand, and a pair of white silk stockings hung over her wrist.
These were all for her?
Juliette’s dismay at Sir Douglas’s description of her dress was quickly overcome by the beauty of the new one in Polly’s arms. She let the maid help her into it, and the shoes and stockings, too. When she was finished, she went to study her reflection in the cheval glass.
She hardly recognized herself in the fashionable dress with short capped sleeves and high waist, the skirt full and flowing. “I feel like a princess,” she murmured in French.
“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Polly said, understanding the sentiment if not the words. “And you look like a picture, miss, although your hair’s a little old-fashioned. Here.”
She reached up and pulled a few wispy curls from the braid, so that they rested on Juliette’s brow and cheeks. “Isn’t that better?”
Juliette nodded in agreement. Perhaps she could pass as the cousin of a barrister, at least until Sir Douglas’s enemies were captured.
Then she would go back to her old life—something she must remember. This was a dream, and dreams died with the morning.
“If you’re finished eating, Sir Douglas said to tell you he’s waiting for you in the morning room. I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer if you can help it, Miss Bergerine. He’s, um, getting a bit impatient.”
Sitting in Buggy’s mother’s morning room, surrounded by bolts of fabric brought by an anxious linen-draper with a droopy eye and an obsequious silk mercer whose waistcoat was so bright it almost hurt the eyes to look at it, Drury wasn’t a bit impatient. He had already lost what patience he possessed, and if Miss Bergerine didn’t come down in the next few moments, he’d simply order some dresses, a couple of bonnets and send these people away.
It wasn’t just the men keen to sell fabric who were driving him to Boodle’s for a stiff drink and some peace. In the north corner of the room decorated in the height of feminine taste, a shoemaker busily finished another pair of slippers, using one of Miss Bergerine’s boots for size, the tapping of his hammer like the constant drip of water. A haberdasher kept bringing out more stockings for Drury’s approval, and a milliner persisted in trying to cajole him into selecting feathers and laces and trim, bonnets and caps—when she could get a word in between the exuberant declarations of the modiste, who was dressed in the latest vogue, with frills and lace and ribbons galore, and more rouge on her cheeks than an actress on the stage.
Even the most riotous trial in the Old Bailey seemed as orderly as a lending library compared to this carnival. The commotion also roused memories better forgotten, of his mother’s extravagance and endless demands, and the quarrels between his parents if his father was at home.
“Now take this taffeta,” the linen-draper said, unrolling a length from a bolt as he tried to balance it on his skinny knee, quite obviously mistaking Drury’s silence for permission to continue. “The very best quality, this is.”
“Taffeta,” the mercer sniffed. “Terrible, stiff stuff. This bee-you-tee-ful silk has come all the way from China!” He brought forth a smaller bolt of carmine fabric shot through with golden threads. “This would make the most marvelous gown for a ball, don’t you agree, Sir Douglas?”
Despite his annoyance, Drury couldn’t help wondering how a gown made of that silk would look on Miss Bergerine.
“And I have the latest patterns from Paris,” Madame de Malanche interjected, the plume on her hat bobbing as if it had a life of its own. “I’m sure any cousin of Sir Douglas Drury’s will want to be dressed in the most stylish mode.”
As if that plume had been some kind of antenna attuned to the arrival of young women with money to spend, Madame de Malanche abruptly turned to the door and clasped her hands as if beholding a heavenly vision. “Ah, this must be the young lady! What a charming girl!”
When Drury turned and looked at Miss Bergerine standing uncertainly in the doorway, he did have to admit that she looked very charming wearing a pretty gown of apple-green, with her hair up and a shy, bashful expression on her face. Indeed, she looked as sweet and innocent as Fanny Epping, now the wife of the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway.
That was ridiculous. There was surely no young woman, English or otherwise, less like Fanny than Juliette Bergerine.
Nevertheless, determined to play this role as he had so many others, he rose and went to her, kissing both her cheeks.
She stiffened as his lips brushed her warm, soft skin. No doubt she was surprised—as surprised as he had been by the difference in her attitude as well as her appearance.
“Good morning, cousin,” he said, letting go of her.
“Is this all for me?” she asked, looking up at him questioningly, her full lips half-parted, as if seeking another kind of kiss.
Desire—hot, intense, lustful—hit him like a blow, while at the same time he experienced that haunting sense that there was something important about this woman hovering at the edge of his mind. Something…good.
He must be more distressed by this commotion than he’d assumed. Or perhaps he should ask Buggy about the possible aftereffects of a head injury.
In spite of his tumultuous feelings, his voice was cool and calm when he spoke. “After your ordeal, I thought it would be easier if Bond Street came to you.”
“It is very kind of you, cousin,” she murmured, looking down as coyly as any well-brought-up young lady, her dark lashes spread upon her cheeks.
He could keep cool when she was angry. He had plenty of experience with tantrums and volatile tempers, and had learned to act as if they didn’t affect him in the slightest.
This affected him. She affected him.
He didn’t want to be affected, by her or any other woman.
“Oh, it is our pleasure!” the modiste cried, pushing her way between them. “Allow me to introduce myself, my dear. I am Madame de Malanche, and it shall be my delight to oversee the making of your gowns. All the finest ladies in London are my customers. Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh, Princess Esterhazy, Countess Lieven, Lady Abramarle, and the beautiful Lady Chelton, to name only a few.”
Drury wished the woman hadn’t mentioned the beautiful Lady Chelton.
“I see that gown fits you to perfection—and looks perfect, too, I must say! I’m sure between the two of us you will be of the first stare in no time.”
Miss Bergerine regarded her with dismay, a reaction the modiste’s overly befrilled and beribboned gown alone might inspire. “I do not wish to be stared at.”
Madame de Malanche laughed. “Oh, la, my dear! I mean all the young ladies will envy you!”
Not if she persuaded Juliette to wear gowns similar to her own, Drury thought.
“I believe you’ll find my cousin has very definite ideas of what she’ll wear, madame,” Drury said. “I trust you will defer to her requests, even if that means she may not be the most fashionably attired young lady in London.”
“Mais oui, Sir Douglas,” Madame said, recovering with the aplomb of a woman experienced in dealing with temperamental customers. “She will need morning dresses, of course, and dinner dresses. An ensemble or two for in the carriage, garden dresses, evening dresses, a riding outfit, a few walking dresses and some gowns for the theater.” She gave Drury a simpering smile. “Everyone knows that Sir Douglas Drury enjoys the theater.”
Her tone and coy look suggested it wasn’t so much the plays that Sir Douglas enjoyed as the actresses.
“I do,” he replied without any hint that he understood her implication. Or that she was quite wrong.
“I do not think I will be going to the theater,” Juliette demurred. “Or riding, or out in a carriage. Or walking in gardens.”
Madame de Malanche regarded her with alarm. “Are you ill?”
“Non.” Juliette glanced at Drury. “I simply will not need so many expensive clothes.”
He could hardly believe it. A woman who wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity to run riot and order a bevy of new clothes whether she needed them or not? It wasn’t as if she didn’t require clothing, judging by the garments he’d already seen her wearing.
Or did she think he was ignorant of the cost? Or that he couldn’t afford it? “Perhaps no riding clothes, since I believe my cousin is no horsewoman. Otherwise, I give you carte blanche to get whatever you like, Juliette.”
Madame de Malanche’s eyes lit with happy avarice, but Juliette Bergerine’s did not. “How can I ever repay you?”
She had obviously forgotten her role—and in the company of the sort of woman who could, and would, spread any interesting tidbit of gossip she heard.
He quickly drew Juliette into a brotherly embrace. “What is this talk of repayment? We are family!”
He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Remember who you are supposed to be.”
He drew back and found Juliette regarding him with flushed cheeks. His own heartbeat quickened—because of her mistake, of course, and not from having her body pressed so close to his.
After all, why would that excite him? He’d had lovers, most recently the beautiful Lady Chelton. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that most of them, including Sarah, would have taken advantage of this situation with a glee and greed that would have put the greatest thief in London to shame.
“My cousin is a modest, sensible young lady, as you can see,” he said, addressing the room in general. “Having suffered so much during the war, she naturally feels compelled to be frugal. However, I have no such compulsion when it comes to my cousin’s happiness, so please make sure she has everything she requires, and something more besides.”
“I most certainly shall!” Madame de Malanche cried eagerly, while the linen-draper and silk mercer smiled, as did the shoemaker, still tapping away in the corner.
The overly excited haberdasher waved a pair of stockings like a call to arms and the milliner came boldly forward with the most ridiculous hat Drury had ever seen, quite unlike the charming chapeau Juliette had worn when she’d left him in her room.
“Sir Douglas, the corsetier has arrived,” Millstone intoned from the doorway.
That was too much.
“I believe that is my cue to depart,” Drury said, hurrying to the door. “I leave it all to you, Juliette. Adieu!”
In spite of his desire to be gone, he paused on the threshold and glanced back at the young woman standing in the center of the colorful disarray. She looked like a worried general besieged by fabric and furbelows, and he felt a most uncharacteristic urge to grin as he beat a hasty retreat.
Only later, when Drury was in his chambers listening to James St. Claire ask for his help to defend a washerwoman unjustly accused of theft, did he realize that he had left a Frenchwoman to spend his money as she liked. Even more surprising, he was more anxious to see her in some pretty new clothes than worried about the expense.
At the same time, as the modiste and others pressed Juliette to select this or that or the other, she began to wonder if there wasn’t another motive for Sir Douglas Drury’s generosity.
Chapter Five
Miss B. damned nuisance. Asks the most impertinent questions. Might drive me to drink before this is over.
—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury
Holding a sheaf of bills in her hands, Juliette paced Lord Bromwell’s drawing room as she waited for Sir Douglas to return.
When the footman had first shown her into the enormous room, she’d been too abashed to do anything except stand just over the threshold, staring at the decor and furnishings as if she’d inadvertently walked into a king’s palace.
Or what she’d imagined a palace to be.
At least three rooms the size of her lodgings could easily fit in this one chamber, and two more stacked one atop the other, the ornate ceiling was so high. She craned her neck to study the intricate plasterwork done in flowers, leaves and bows, and in the center, a large rondel with a painting of some kind of battle. The fireplace was of marble, also carved with vines and leaves. The walls were covered in a gold paper, which matched the white-and-gold brocade fabric on the sofas and gilded chairs. The draperies were of gold velvet, fringed with more gold. A pianoforte stood in one corner, where light from the windows would shine on the music, and an ornate rosewood table sported a lacquered board, the pieces in place for a game of chess. Several portraits hung upon the walls, including one that must be of Lord Bromwell when he was a boy—a very serious boy, apparently.
The sight of that, a reminder of her kind host, assuaged some of her dismay, and she dared to sit, running her fingertips over the fine fabric of the sofa.
As time had passed, however, she’d become more anxious and impatient to present Sir Douglas with the bills. Although she’d vetoed the most expensive items and tried to spend Sir Douglas’s money wisely, the total still amounted to a huge sum of money—nearly a hundred pounds.
If what she feared was true, Sir Douglas would expect something in return for his generosity, something she was not prepared to give. If that were so, she would have to leave this house and take her chances on her own. It was frightening to think his enemies might still try to harm her, but she would not be any man’s plaything, bought and paid for—not even this one’s. Not even if she couldn’t deny that his kiss had been exciting and not entirely unwelcome.
At last, finally, she heard the bell ring and the familiar deep voice of the barrister talking to the footman. She hurried to the drawing-room door. Having divested himself of his long surtout, Sir Douglas strode across the foyer as if this house were his own. As before, his frock coat was made of fine black wool, the buttons large and plain, his trousers black as well. His shirt and cravat were brightly white, a contrast to the rest of his clothes and his wavy dark hair.
“Cousin!” she called out, causing him to pause and turn toward her. “I must speak with you!”
Raising a brow, he started forward while she backed into the drawing room. “Yes, Juliette? Are those today’s bills?”
“Oui,” she replied. She waited until he was in the room, then closed the door behind him before handing him the bills. “I want to know what you expect from me in return for this generosity.”
The barrister’s eyes narrowed and a hard look came to his angular face as he shoved the bills into his coat without looking at them. “I told you before I don’t expect to be repaid.”
“Not with money, perhaps.”
Sir Douglas’s dark brows lowered as ominously as a line of thunderclouds on the horizon, while the planes of his cheeks seemed to grow sharper as he clasped his hands behind his back.
“It is not my habit, Miss Bergerine,” he said in a voice colder than the north wind, “to purchase the affections of my lovers. Nor am I in the habit of taking poor seamstresses into my bed. This was not an attempt to seduce you, and the only thing I want from you in return for the garments and fripperies purchased today is that you make every effort to maintain this ruse for the sake of Lord Bromwell’s reputation, as well as your own safety.”
“Who do you take to your bed?”
The barrister’s steely gaze grew even more aloof. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“That man who attacked me thought I was your mistress. If I know about your women, I can refute his misconceptions if he tries to attack me again.”
“Lord Bromwell and I are taking every precaution to ensure you aren’t molested again. And I hardly think such a creature will care if he’s made a mistake, at least if he has you in his power.”
“So I am to be imprisoned here?”
Sir Douglas’s lips jerked up into what might have been a smile, or a sneer. “You have never been in prison, have you, Miss Bergerine? If you had, you would know this is a far cry from those hellholes.”
“Then I am free to go?”
An annoyingly smug expression came to his face. “Absolutely, if you wish.”
No doubt he would like that, for he would then be free of his responsibility. He could claim she had refused his help and therefore he had no more duty toward her.
Perhaps he would even claim that by purchasing those clothes and other things, he had more than sufficiently compensated her, as if any number of gowns or shoes or bonnets could repay her for the terror she’d faced and might face again as long as he had enemies who believed she was his mistress.
Non, he could not abandon her so easily.
“Since you have put my life at risk, I believe I should stay.” Then, determined to wipe that self-satisfied, superior look from his face, she asked, “So what sort of women do you take to your bed?”
Unfortunately, her question didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. His lips curved up in what was definitely a smile, but one that, coupled with his dark hair and brows, made him look like the devil’s minion. “My lovers have all been married ladies whose husbands don’t care if they stray or not.”
“You like old women, then?”
His lascivious smile grew. “Experienced—but never a Frenchwoman.”
“Oh? Why not?” she inquired, trying not to let her irritation get the better of her as she retreated behind one of the sofas.
“I believe their skills in the bedroom are vastly overrated.”
“Believe?” she countered, brushing her hand along the rich brocade, her brows lifting. “You do not actually know?”
“I know enough to be certain that a Frenchwoman cannot be trusted, either in bed or out of it.”
The arrogant English pig! “So now you will insult a whole country?”
“Why so indignant, Miss Bergerine? I merely gave you the information you claimed to seek.”
She must be calm and control her anger. “Your friends who had the party… The woman’s name is Fanny, I think? Is she your lover?”
He started as if somebody had fired a gun at his head. “Where did you get that outrageous idea?”
He was not so smug and arrogant now! “When you were hurt, you called her name, or else it was Annie. Perhaps you’ve had lovers with both names?”
In spite of his obvious shock, Sir Douglas recovered with astonishing speed. “I was unconscious, was I not?”
“Not all the time. Not when you whispered that name and kissed me.”
He couldn’t look more stunned if she’d told him they’d been secretly married. “I did what?”
“You put your arm around me and you whispered ‘ma chérie’ and then you kissed me,” she bluntly informed him. “Or as I suppose an English lover kisses,” she added, as if his performance had been woefully inadequate.
Sir Douglas Drury blushed. Blushed like a schoolboy. Blushed like a child.
She wouldn’t have considered that possible without seeing it for herself.
“I don’t believe it,” he snapped.
“I am not lying. Why would I?”
His hands still behind his back, he strode to the white marble hearth, then whirled around to face her. “How should I know what motives you may possess for wishing to say such a ridiculous thing? Or why you would pick Fanny, whom I most certainly do not desire. She is a friend, and so is her husband. I would never, ever think of coming between them even if I could—which I most certainly could not. They are very much in love. I realize that would be considered extremely gauche in Paris, but it’s true.”
“I am not telling lies.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see that in his eyes, read it in his face.
“What’s the real reason for these questions, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded as he walked toward her like some large black-and-white cat. “Has somebody been telling you about my other reputation? Do you want to know if what they say about me outside the courtroom is true?”
She stood her ground, not retreating no matter how close he came. “I know all that I care to know about you, Sir Douglas.”
“Oh?” His lips curved up in that dangerous, devilish smile. “Perhaps you really want to find out what it’s like to be kissed by Sir Douglas Drury when he’s wide-awake.”
That made her move.
“You pig! Dog! Merde!” she cried, backing away from him.
Not far enough. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. Before she could stop him—for of course she must—he took her in his arms and kissed her.
This was no tender kiss, like the one they’d shared before. This was hot and fierce, passionate and forceful. Seeking. Seducing. Tempting beyond anything.
His arms went around her and he held her tight against him, his starched shirt against her breasts. Her heart beat like a regiment’s drum, sending the blood coursing through her body, heating her skin, her face, her lips. Arousing her, asking her to surrender to the desire and need surging through her.
A memory came, of the old farmer in the barn, stinking and sweaty, grabbing her and trying to kiss her, his movements fumbling.
This was not the same.
Or was it?
She was just a seamstress and there was only one way it could end if she gave in to the desire Sir Douglas Drury was arousing, the excitement she was feeling, the need.
She put her hands on his broad chest and shoved him away, prepared to tell him she was no loose woman, no harlot, no whore. Until she saw the look on his face…
He was as upset as she. Because he couldn’t believe a woman like her would spurn his advances?