Or a man with a mistress. Which was likely what the seamstress thought and the reason for her hiding them away at the back of her shop.
In times not so distant, according to his mother, it hadn’t been at all unusual for a married woman to entertain her particular male court in her boudoir. Allowing them to choose her garments for the day while they gossiped and flirted. All perfectly respectable in the presence of a maid.
This didn’t feel in the least bit respectable, despite the presence of the seamstress’s assistant busy taking her measurements with pieces of string.
Stretching out his legs to one side of the low table in front of him, he admired her lovely form. The curve of her bountiful milky-white breasts above the lace edge of her transparent chemise, pushed higher by her close-fitting stays, beckoned his touch. The deep valley between begged for exploration. The crescent of areola, darker smudges of rosy brown, located her nipples and hinted at decadent delights. The dip of her waist was so tiny as to be unbelievable. He could span it with his hands and the view of the triangular shadow at the apex of her long slender legs, not dark, but not blonde, left him dry-mouthed.
She was Venus come to life. And for the second time in as many days, he struggled to maintain his detachment. She was not easily ignored, despite years of practise.
He glanced up to find her gaze fixed on his face. Pride tinged with wariness.
Her expression challenged, even as her lips curved in her carnal pouting smile. Her eyelids drooped, acknowledging his thoughts, his lust, and threw down the gauntlet. I’m ready for you, those eyes said. Do your worst. You can’t touch me.
The thought shocked him. Angered him. Did she think he was an animal? That he would ravish her where she stood? Press her up against the wall and have his way with her? Lust hit him unexpectedly hard.
Ruefully, he acknowledged that he’d been aching with it on and off since the moment he saw her. But that didn’t mean he had lost control. He meant he needed to be more on his guard.
He wasn’t a fool, he knew she was Jack’s creature, that they would try anything to gain the advantage. Normally, he wouldn’t care. For some reason, it infuriated him that such an outstandingly lovely woman should be so debased.
And so he would not play the game.
He withdrew his hands from his pockets and sat straighter in the chair, trying not to break his granite-hard shaft in two as he crossed his legs at the ankles. He picked up a magazine from the table beside him. Flipped through its pages. Ignoring his body’s demands was second nature.
His eyes finally focused on the page before him. Damn it all, he was looking at corsets for the male figure and swallowed a laugh. At himself.
‘Do you need one?’ Amusement flickered in those cat-like eyes as if she had shared in the joke. A brief exchange of mutual understanding.
He laughed out loud and looked at her face. He had no need to ogle her body, her face was so very lovely. ‘Not for a while, I’m thinking.’ He nodded at the tea tray one of the assistants had brought while the seamstress had fussed around with her measurements. ‘Can I pour you a cup?’
Something else flashed in her eyes. Surprise? ‘Yes, please.’
Her voice was low and husky. It grazed his skin like a caress. Two simple words and he wanted to purr like a cat. Rub himself up against her skin. Feel the weight of those luscious breasts in his palm.
No. He was her escort. Not her lover. He pushed to his feet and poured the tea. ‘Sugar?’ he asked, the tongs hovering over the bowl.
‘Lots,’ she said.
After he dropped in three lumps, he raised a brow.
‘More,’ she said. ‘Please.’
And he almost dropped the damned things in the tea at the vision of what more might mean when said in that precise tone of voice in a different location. But he knew it to be artifice and added two more lumps and carried the cup and saucer to her outstretched hand.
She took a sip and smiled her pleasure. A sweet smile that softened her sharp edges to the point of vulnerability.
A shocking transformation. And one he wanted to explore. He nodded at the sugar bowl. ‘You’ve a sweet tooth.’
‘I do.’ Her eyes became distant. ‘My father was the same. He carried bulls’ eyes around in his pocket and would pop one in my mouth when my mother wasn’t looking.’
‘Your mother didn’t approve.’
A twinkle gleamed in her eye. ‘They made me very sticky.’
The vision made him chuckle.
‘I have found just the thing, madam,’ the seamstress said, marching in with a froth of gowns over her arm.
The smile disappeared and the mask dropped again, hard and impenetrable. Disappointment tightened his gut. The icicle had returned. More frosty than before, judging from the chill wafting in his direction as she imperiously held out her cup to him. And yet he found himself more drawn to a sticky little girl, than the siren who now appeared before him.
He returned the cup to the tray, feeling very much in the way as they pondered fabrics and styles. Wandering the room, he gazed at fashion plates artfully framed and placed on the walls like fine works of art. Drawings of women in various poses, ridiculous hats perched on starchy curls. He hoped she didn’t turn out looking like that!
The sounds behind him dwindled. Curious, he turned and caught her critical gaze as she took in her reflection. The seamstress gave a final twitch to the pale-peach skirts falling from beneath that magnificent bosom rising above a teasing edge of spangled lace.
‘Mr Gilvry?’ the seamstress asked. ‘Will it do for the ball?’
The effect was stunning. She’d gone from ladybird to lady in a few beats of his heart. She looked elegant. Graceful. And more than the sum of her parts. She looked as if she belonged to the upper echelons of society.
The slight stiffening of her body brought his gaze to her face. ‘You don’t approve,’ she said.
Approve? ‘It looks eminently suitable.’
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Macdonald said. ‘It was made for a young lady’s trousseau. Her mother was most particular.’
‘But she did not take it?’
The dressmaker’s face drooped. ‘Her betrothed died shortly before the wedding. She wanted none of the gowns.’
‘How sad,’ Charity said, sounding grim. She gave the woman a sharp look. ‘Then you have received some payment for these gowns?’
Was she trying to save his money? That he had not expected.
‘A deposit only,’ the seamstress was saying. ‘I will deduct it from the price, of course.’
She would now, Logan thought. He glanced at Mrs West, but she was focusing on the image in the mirror. ‘The hem must be lengthened,’ she pronounced.
Indeed it must. A good three inches of her lower legs
