and you’ll be singing soprano in a boys’ choir. Understand me?” Colette muttered. She gripped his hand pointedly as he helped her to the street.
“Yes, milady. Clearly.”
Camille sniffed, avoiding his leer as she stepped from the carriage. As soon as the shiny black brougham clattered away, Colette grabbed her wrist. “Maybe that’s the answer! Maybe you should be with Heath, while I keep company with Rutledge!”
“Switch husbands? Don’t be ridiculous! That’s not only improper—”
“What’s so ridiculous about each of us getting what she wants?”
Camille’s eyes shone like blue china plates in her rosy face. “But that’s fornication! A sin!”
“It’s a sane, convenient answer to both our predicaments and you know it!” Colette vibrated with sudden inspiration, energy she hadn’t felt in months. She might be the left-handed twin, the more logical and grounded and purposeful one, but she also possessed the candor her more artistic sister lacked. “Alice! Alice, it’s stuffy in here!” she called out as they entered the back door. “After you’ve opened the windows, please leave our tea to steep while you fetch us a fresh custard tart from McGilley’s.”
Alice popped out of the sewing room, buttoning her blouse. “And will I be sharin’ that custard tart, milady?” she asked pertly.
“Can’t do that until you fetch it for us, can you?” Colette arched her eyebrow at the young blonde, wondering if she’d just come downstairs…perhaps from Palladino’s apartment. “And have you sewn the lace and ruching on the two gowns for Mrs. Redding?”
“Yes’m, I did! And I stayed up half the night completin’ Helena Farquar’s weddin’ gown, too,” she replied as she scrambled up a short ladder. With an energetic shove, Alice raised the windows on either side of the storefront and then twisted the transom rod to open the window above the door.
“Thank you, Alice. What would we do without you?” Camille smiled kindly at the young woman and then nodded pointedly at her chest. “You might finish dressing before you step out, dear. Unless, of course, you’re advertising our divine new Belgian lace on your camisole.”
“Yes’m! Thank you, milady!” Alice dashed out the front door, still fastening the top of her blouse.
Colette stood silently beside her sister until the buxom seamstress had gone. It was a wonder the scatterbrained Miss Furling accomplished anything, despite her boundless energy. And how had that expensive new lace from their latest shipment shown up on Alice’s underwear?
“And what was that all about?” Camille asked quietly. “Since when do we indulge in a custard tart before we work?”
“I had no breakfast, you know. And you and I are going to indulge in much more than Mr. McGilley’s best confection.” Colette grabbed her sister’s slender hands, unable to contain her excitement. “While Alice is away—probably stopping to see Rubio before she returns—you and I will figure out how to switch husbands! You know you want to!”
3
Camille shook until her skirts quivered around her knees. As she gripped her sister’s strong yet delicate hands—such capable hands—she felt a surge of heat and energy and excitement. Excitement! How long since she’d felt this giddy? This open to the new possibilities: such a decadently delicious opportunity as switching husbands! And having that prodigious cock of Heath’s rammed up inside her…
“My stars! Is it me, or has it grown impossibly warm in here?”
Her twin giggled. “Isn’t this the most fabulous idea we’ve had since—well, since we married Rutledge and Heath Bentley? And the beauty of it is, we can change back if it doesn’t suit us! And who will be the wiser?”
Camille gulped air to keep the room from spinning. “Let’s not consider that, sister. Already that new footman—Charlie, isn’t it?—has listened in on our plan, and the driver—”
“Are we not the ladies of the manor? Do we not wield as much power, in our female ways, as Lord Bentley and his son?”
Her sister’s provocative question made her insides pulse, and Camille had to admit there was a certain wisdom to Colette’s assertion. Her bolder twin had always been the one who greased the proverbial wheels and cleared the way for whatever her heart desired.
And she wanted to swap son Heath for his father, Rutledge. Never in her life had Camille anticipated this surprise! This godsend of an opportunity to escape the gilded cage Lord Bentley displayed her in…to suit his own whims at the sacrifice of her own.
She released Colette’s hands. Inhaled the coolness that drifted down from the open windows, to focus on the ordinary sounds of horse-drawn carriages passing the shop…. cries of the street vendors…to anchor herself in reality as she contemplated Colette’s idea.
The reality was that she had four dresses to design in the next few days. But how could she concentrate on her drawing, or trust herself to cut the exquisite silk faille and crepe de chine her well-heeled client had chosen? These gowns, striking imitations of what Empress Eugenie and the Queen had recently worn to the theatre, would set the tone for the entire fashion season among London’s elite. The designs could be nothing less than stupendous.
She would entertain Colette’s fancy until Alice appeared with their custard tart. Then she would eat and get to work, fortified by their foray into this delicious deception.
“So you think no one will be the wiser? What about Daisy and Mrs. Douthit?” she queried as she led the way to the studio. “They’ve attended us since we first married into the Bentley household. They know our mannerisms and our preferences, when it comes to coifing us and choosing our day’s attire and—”
“Yes, indeed, dear sister, if you believe they can perceive differences in our idiosyncrasies, they will! And we’ll be caught before we start! So stop it!” Colette widened her eyes dramatically, teasing…yet not. “And if they do discover our dirty little secret, it’ll be your overcautious, overanxious frowns and questions that alert them! Not mine! Just last night the new cook called you by my name, and neither Daisy nor Mrs. Douthit corrected her.”
Camille began to unfasten her dress. When there were gowns to finish or garments awaiting their final inspection, she and her sister often tried them on. “All right then, when do you propose we do this? It’ll take time to prepare—”
“How soon do you want him inside you, sister?”
Her face flushed the same shade of cerise as her gown. “You make it sound as though we’re arranging stud service for one of Heath’s mares—”
“And aren’t we?” Colette now stood in her corset, camisole, and drawers with her hands on her hips, looking sassy. So damned sure of herself, considering the risks this switch presented. And so damned fetching, with her hair still mussed from her tumble with her husband. She was the picture of a cosseted, confident woman, and her fragrance was a mixture of Heath’s outdoorsy masculinity and a personal perfume Camille had known since before they were born.
“What about Heath? Even if Rutledge won’t become intimate enough to notice you aren’t his wife, your man pays attention to such details,” Camille pointed out. She was stalling, trying very hard to delay such a provocative
