Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] (7 page)

Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . he could work a bit of his magic on her and transform her into a normal woman?

She must take charge of her own destiny yet again. It wasn’t enough this time to simply be Sophie Blake. She must become someone else.

Someone who will attract Graham?

She suppressed that hope hurriedly. She was done dreaming such impossible fantasies. No, all she needed was a practical arrangement and a home of her own.
For that, she would throw herself into the world with a vengeance.

DESPITE THE FACT
that Sophie had only been there once, she had no trouble finding the entrance to the grand salon of Lementeur—so much more than an ordinary dress shop. There were no wares on display in great glass windows for passersby to gawk at, for one. Neither was there a sign of any sort, but for the unique knocker in the shape of an exotic bird on the substantial oak door. One could have driven right by without noticing, were one not a woman in London with her wits about her.

Even as Sophie approached, and even through the murmuring chaos of her thoughts, she could feel the tendrils of expensive luxury reaching for her. Normally, she would have cast a longing glance and walked on by, for gowns such as those created by Lementeur were not to be dreamed of by girls like her.

She actually owned two—simple white muslin day gowns which could have been produced by any competent dressmaker, if one gave no account to perfection of fit and attention to creating the most flattering silhouette.

However, those had been gifts from Deirdre’s magnanimous husband, Lord Brookhaven. Even Tessa had benefited that day. Lementeur had appeared briefly, sized up all four women with a glance and then, inexplicably, had focused all of his intense energy upon Sophie. It had only been for a moment, indignantly
interrupted by Tessa, of course, but for that single moment, Sophie had seen herself as possibly, someday . . . someone else altogether.

At this moment, someone else altogether was precisely what was needed.

At the door, her knock was answered swiftly and she was ushered into the rarified air within by the rather decorative young man she’d seen here before, Cabot.

“Is he here? I must see him.” Her words came out in a rush. She would plead if she had to, beg if she must.

Cabot indicated the double doors down the hall. “He is in his office—”

Sophie moved at a near run, before her nerve could desert her. With a single push, she was through the doors and standing before the great designer himself. A little man behind a very large desk, cleared of everything but strewn sketches and pencils.

Sophie emptied her reticule on the desk, her hands shaking as the last coin hit the blotter.

“It is everything I have. You have to take it. You said—you said—” She couldn’t breathe, for what if it had all been empty promises, a cruel joke at her expense? What if there was no chance that she could ever—

Nevertheless she could not go on without knowing for sure. She took a shattered breath and stiffened her spine. Then she gazed at the small, dapper man behind the desk, who was still frozen in surprise. “You said you could make me beautiful.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I didn’t. No one can make you beautiful.”

The disappointment hit deep beneath her heart, dizzying her with its profundity. No breath—no hope—

A hand gripped hers, tightening until she was forced to blink back the water swimming in her eyes and meet Lementeur’s intense gaze. “I did not promise beauty,” he said. “I said I could make you outshine every other woman in Society.”

Sophie gasped a sob. “So you admit you lied.”

He shook his head slowly, a smile forming on his lips. “My darling, beauty is something you are born with, or not. Pretty girls abound, like dandelions in the field. Pretty is common, simple, easily enjoyed and just as easily forgotten. Style, now—elegance, presence, being completely
unforgettable
—that is what I promised you. With your bones and my gowns—and a few lessons in deportment, for you slouch abominably—you will take London by storm.”

Sweet relief—was that hope?—began to trickle through her. “Gr—men will like me?”

“Men will duel to the death for you. They will long. They will ache. They will pine. There will be so many sonnets written in your honor you’ll be sick of them. I will turn your height into superiority, your thinness into elegance, your shyness and clumsiness into hauteur and languid grace!”

She could only laugh damply at such ridiculousness. It was all so impossible—but perhaps, just perhaps, with his help she just might become attractive enough—

“Is that enough money?” It must be, for there was no more.

Lementeur huffed and swept the money to the floor with his other hand. “Did Leonardo da Vinci charge his Mona Lisa?”

Sophie sniffled and swiped at her eyes. “Well, actually, it was a commissioned portrait, so—” Then she realized what he was saying. “Why—why would you do this for nothing?” She drew back. “What do you expect of me?”

He patted her hand. “I know you don’t trust anyone, pet. No reason why you should, eh?” Then he gazed into her face with sudden intensity. “We recognize each other, I think. The outcasts always do.”

Sophie blinked. The man before her, the successful, sought-after mantua-maker faded away for a moment, revealing someone who had once been just a boy . . . a boy perhaps unlike other boys.

He saw the enlightenment enter her eyes and smiled. “I should think that being too tall and too thin and too plain—and perhaps unwanted in the first place, eh?—might be a little bit like being a poor Cockney lad who dreamed only of beautiful fabrics and fine lace. Understanding was as hard to come by for you as it was for me.”

Then his smile widened. “However, someone helped me. A costume-maker for a theater troupe, who saw me fondling the silks at a market stall. He took me in and taught me to sew. I tried to repay him once, as if I ever could, but he told me to find another lost soul and save it instead. ‘You cannot pay it back,’ he told me. ‘You can only pay it on.’ ”

Sophie shook her head. “But . . . you helped Phoebe and Deirdre already!”

He leaned one hip back on his desk and folded his arms. “And I charged them very well for it, too!” He smiled confidently. “It was worth every penny.” Then he tilted his head. “Furthermore, I thought perhaps if you saw what I could do for them that someday you might come to ask what I could do for you.”

She smiled. “And perhaps you overcharged Lord Brookhaven just a tad, just in case?”

Lementeur laughed and kissed her hand. “Sofia, you are priceless.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I am just Sophie.”

He caught her chin in his fingers, his gaze suddenly serious and just a bit too intense for comfort. Who was this man, really? “My love, my muse, my darling,” he said softly and sternly. “If you ever call yourself ‘just Sophie’ again, I will wash my hands of you, do you understand? That and only that will send me packing forever.”

She blinked wide eyes at him. He was mad. Then hope tingled anew. “Mad” might be precisely what was required.

He released her and straightened. “You are, from this moment forward, to be known far and wide as ‘that stunning Miss Sofia Blake.’ Now, we will need some time, and an invitation of appropriate weight and countenance—which I can easily arrange—and you must be completely available to me for . . .” He eyed her slumping posture. “A while.”

Sophie straightened self-consciously. “I haven’t always
done so,” she mumbled. “I simply felt so tall around—around London ladies.”

Lementeur pursed his lips. “You are rather too polite, my dear. Let me be clear. Lady Tessa is a well-known shrew. No one likes her, not even her alleged friends. Besides, I know for a fact that she has always longed for some height. I might venture a guess that she is actually jealous of your stature.”

Tessa jealous? Of
her?
How very . . .

Delightful
.

Sophie allowed her lips to curve in a slow, unfamiliar smile of satisfaction as she straightened to her full inches and gazed serenely down at the top of Lementeur’s head. “Is that better?”

He matched her cat-who-swallowed-the-cream gaze and doubled it, approval shining from his face. “That is
perfect
.”

John Herbert Fortescue was a free man, servant to no master . . . at least temporarily. His employers, the Marquis of Brookhaven and his bride, were attending the elderly Duke of Brookmoor. For the moment, Fortescue, butler to Brookhaven, could pretend to be an ordinary fellow, spending an evening with an extraordinary girl.

If the atmosphere of his office in great Brook House was rather more that of a classroom, that was because he’d taken on the task of teaching Miss Patricia O’Malley to read. The fact that, as butler and head of staff of Brook House, he had not a moment to spare had been dismissed without a thought.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the gleaming silver vase on the mantel—and quickly wiped away the besotted smile that kept crossing his face when he forgot to pay attention to his usual dignified demeanor. He was one of the highest of the high, by God, of the vast servant class of England. He had best retain his somber demeanor or he’d soon lose his post!

With an effort, he returned his reflection to its normal
haughty, chiseled state and quickly smoothed the silver streaks at his temples that gave people such a top-drawer impression. He’d earned every one of them through hard work and years of service—years that he sometimes wished he hadn’t wasted so.

There. Back to normal. He glanced down to see if Patricia had noticed his distraction with his own reflection, but she was bent studiously over her work on the desk, pencil scratching steadily. Such a lovely girl. Such a pity no one had thought to educate her before now. Still she was young—
too young for you and you know it!
—and she’d shown a remarkable aptitude for her work, so her ladyship had asked Fortescue to see to her further education.

Now, normally a lady traveling would take her lady’s maid along, but Fortescue had mildly suggested that Patricia might be the appropriate person to keep a special eye on young Lady Margaret.

Since Lady Margaret, although much improved since the arrival of her new mother, had something of a reputation as a . . . well . . . whirling catastrophic disaster on skinny little legs, milady had hurriedly agreed with Fortescue and arranged to take along another maid instead.

Fortescue had also been prepared to point out that her ladyship wouldn’t want to interrupt Patricia’s education, now that real progress was being made there, but it hadn’t been necessary. There was simply no one else in the world who could handle Lady Margaret.

Hence, matters had worked out very much to Fortescue’s satisfaction. With the reduced duties during his
lordship’s absence, Fortescue had even more time to devote himself to Patricia—er, that is, to Patricia’s education.

At the moment, he was leaning over her shoulder to examine the sums that she’d completed for him. She learned quickly—a bit too quickly, one might think if one were a rotter with designs on a sweet redheaded maid fresh from the shores of Ireland, which of course Fortescue was trying very hard not to be—so he knew the sums would be correct.

The reason why he hung there, suspended above her, his silence growing in length was simply that she smelled so good he’d quite forgotten what he was going to say.

And his reason for being there.

And his name.

She twisted about to gaze up at him worriedly. “Is it wrong, then?” The sweet lilt of her voice tugged at his gut.

So wrong. So very wrong, my darling. You simply have no idea
.

He was her superior. He was nearly old enough to be her . . . uncle. He could not risk his integrity, his reputation and his career on a pert, outspoken Irish maid with a freckled nose and leaf green eyes and a figure that would tempt a saint into sin. . . .

Damn, again he’d forgotten what he was saying.

So he repeated what she’d said back to her. “Now say it again. Leave off the last word.”

She smiled slightly. “Is it wrong?”

“Actually, it is ‘Are my mathematics correct?’ ”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she dutifully repeated it.

He shook his head. “Patricia, I’ve told you before that if you’re going to serve in a great house, you need to sound less . . .” There was no help for it. He must say it. He loved the Irish lilt of her voice, but if she were to have a successful career in service, she needed to dispense with it. “Less Irish.”

She turned away, looking down at her paper for a long moment. Then she put both hands upon it and pushed it away. She stood slowly and straightened. Then her emerald gaze rose to meet his.

“Mr. Fortescue, I thank you for all your efforts, but I fear I must get back to my duties. I’ll not return to this. I’ve told
you
before that I’ve no objection to better grammar, but I will no more hide my birth than I would paint myself blue!”

Fortescue had been so distracted by the glow of distant lands in her eyes that he took a bit too long to understand her words.

Oh no
.

“Patricia—” She was already turning away. He couldn’t bear it. These hours teaching her were the only reason he rose each morning, that and the possibility of a few words passed in the hallway during the day.

“I apologize,” he said.

Since Fortescue was the master of all who served in this house, such an utterance was quite enough to stop Patricia in her tracks. She blinked. “You’re apologizing . . . to me?”

God, she was beautiful. Fortescue smiled then without
realizing it. All he knew was that Patricia’s gaze widened in shock and her breath left her.

“What is it?” The way she was looking at him, as if . . .

He felt himself move closer—she swayed toward him—

A hearty knock made them spring apart, though they’d not yet touched.

A footman stuck his head into the office. “Mr. Fortescue, there’s a guest come. Miss Blake is here and she says it’s for a long stay.”

’
TIS EASIER TO
beg pardon than to beg permission
.