Thunder and Roses (25 page)

“If you’re implying that the world is an unfair place, I won’t argue the point. Perhaps the Penreith school endowment should raise your salary.”

“Twenty pounds is generous—there are schoolmasters in Wales who earn as little as five pounds a year, though usually they have other jobs as well. I also receive gifts of food and services from many students and their families. I don’t know if I belong in a world where twenty pounds is pin money.” She started to slide the notes back across the table.

“You can belong in any world that you choose,” he said sharply. “If twenty pounds seems extravagant, keep it for running away money. You’ll need it to return to Penreith if I become unbearable, a possibility that can’t be ruled out.”

As usual, his nonsense distracted her. “Very well, though it seems strange to take money from you.”

His eyes twinkled. “If I were paying you for immoral purposes, I wouldn’t be getting my money’s worth. However, the twenty pounds is to defray the costs of my bringing you to London against your will.”

She surrendered and pocketed the notes.

“You’re very hard to win an argument with.”
    

“Never argue with a Gypsy, Clare—we’re not constrained by either logic or dignity.” He got to his feet and stretched luxuriously. “When you finish your breakfast, it will be time to do something about your wardrobe.”

She looked quickly down at her teacup. There was something downright indecent about the way he stretched; his catlike sensuality was enough to distract the soberest lady.

Once she had thought herself sober, but that was getting harder to remember all the time.

 
The elegant dressmaker’s shop had the name “
Denise
” discreetly painted on the small sign that hung above the door. There was nothing discreet about
Denise
herself, though; as soon as they entered the salon, a buxom blond squealed and boldly hurled herself into Nicholas’s arms.

“Where have you been, you Gypsy rogue?” she exclaimed. “I’ve been breaking me heart for you, I have.”

He lifted her into the air and kissed her soundly, then patted her generous backside when he set her back on her feet. “I’m sure

you say that to all the lads,
Denise
.”

“Yes,” she admitted candidly, “but in your case I mean it.” Dimples emerged. “At least, I mean it as much as I ever do.”

Clare watched in silence, feeling invisible and slightly homicidal. While she had known that Nicholas was free with his kisses, she didn’t enjoy seeing the proof, especially not with a blowsy wench like this one.

Before her temperature could rise to dangerous levels, Nicholas said, “
Denise
, this is my friend Miss Morgan. She needs a complete wardrobe from the shift out.”

The dressmaker nodded and slowly began to circle around her new customer. When she had completed her survey, she announced, “Rich colors, simple lines, provocative without being vulgar.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Nicholas said. “Shall we begin?”

Denise
ushered them into a lushly carpeted fitting room, where they were joined by a seamstress and a very young apprentice. Clare was ordered to stand on a platform in the middle of the room. Thereafter she was treated as an inanimate dummy while

Nicholas and
Denise
draped her in fabrics and discussed styles, colors, and materials.

Denise
‘s cheerful manner encompassed Clare as well as Nicholas, and soon Clare’s initial irritation faded. It tickled her sense of humor to have the full attention of two people who cared more about her clothing than Clare herself did, particularly since the garments under discussion were so different from what was considered appropriate in Wales. If she had had to select a wardrobe on her own, she would have given up from sheer confusion at the number of choices.

To occupy her mind, she thought about what she would like to see and do during her visit to London. Only once did fashion break into her preoccupation, when
Denise
draped a length of blue silk around her shoulders and said, “Perfect color, isn’t it?”

“Your eye is unerring,” Nicholas agreed. “That will make a splendid evening gown.”

As they began to discuss possible designs, the apprentice came forward to rewind the silk on the bolt. But as the material rippled around her throat, Clare involuntarily caught a handful, unwilling to let it go. It was the loveliest fabric she’d ever seen, shimmering with every shade of blue imaginable and with an exquisite, cloudlike texture. She pressed her cheek into the silk and rubbed against it like a cat until she saw that Nicholas was watching her. She dropped the fabric in embarrassment.

“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying something that is beautiful,” he said with gentle amusement.

“That silk is vain and extravagant,” she said sternly, though her skin still sang where the fabric had caressed it. “There are better ways for you to spend your money.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, his amusement increasing, “but a gown made from that will do wonderful things for your blue eyes. And you’ll feel wonderful when you wear it.”

She wanted to deny that she would derive any special pleasure from having such a beautiful, useless garment, but she couldn’t; her treacherous heart yearned for the blue silk. She had known that accepting Nicholas’s challenge would test her virtue, but it was depressing to see how susceptible she was to greed, vanity, and worldliness. Mentally she recited every scriptural passage she could remember that warned of the folly of vanity.

It didn’t make her stop wanting the blue silk.

After styles and fabrics had been chosen, Nicholas asked if there were any finished garments available that would fit Clare.
Denise
produced three gowns with the tart comment that since the lady who had ordered them hadn’t paid for the last lot, she could jolly well wait for these.

To try on the first dress, Clare withdrew behind a screen. Assisted by the seamstress, Marie, she donned a shift of muslin so fine it was almost translucent. Then the seamstress laced her into a short, lightweight corset. Clare expected the worst, for she almost never wore stays, but the garment proved less uncomfortable than she had expected.

Marie murmured “
Mam’zelle
has such a small waist that this is scarcely necessary, but it will improve the line of the gown.” The seamstress took her measurements to use in making the other dresses. Then she dropped a gown of rose-colored challis over Clare’s head. The back fastenings were complicated; Clare was beginning to see why fashionable ladies needed maids.

Before allowing Clare to look at herself in the wall mirror, Marie produced a sprig of creamy silk roses and tucked them into Clare’s dark hair. “
Tres
bien
. Accessories and a different hairstyle are needed, but this will please Monsieur le
compte
.”

When Clare was finally permitted to see herself, she blinked in surprise at her image. The rose challis made her skin glow and her eyes look enormous. She looked like a lady—an attractive lady. Even, heaven help her, rather dashing. She studied the neckline of the gown uneasily. Not only was it cut alarmingly low, but the stays pushed her up in front. Though Clare knew herself to be
modestlly
endowed, in this fashionable gown she looked quite … bountiful.

Suppressing the desire to cover her bare chest with her hands, she shyly emerged from behind the screen. Nicholas and
Denise
broke off their discussion to stare. While the dressmaker nodded with satisfaction, Nicholas circled around Clare, his eyes glowing with approval. “I knew this gown would become you, but even so, I’m impressed. Only one alteration is needed.”

He used the edge of his hand to draw a line across the front of her bodice. “Cut the
decolletage
to here.”

She gasped, as much because he was touching her breasts—in public!—as because of the shockingly low neckline he wanted. “I refuse to wear anything indecent!”

“What I’m suggesting is rather moderate.” He drew another line across her breasts, this one barely clearing her nipples. “This would be indecent.”

Appalled, Clare glanced at
Denise
. “Surely he’s jesting?”

“Not at all,” the dressmaker said briskly. “I have customers who won’t buy a gown unless they’re in danger of popping out. Keeps the gentlemen interested, they say.”

“I should certainly think it would,” Clare muttered,
unmollified
. “But it’s not for me.”

“You
smolder
better than any woman I ever met.” Nicholas gave her his devil’s smile. “The
decolletage
I am suggesting is more daring than you want, and more conservative than I would like. Isn’t that fair enough?”

She had to laugh. Reminding herself that she would never wear these garments in front of anyone she knew, she said, “Very well. But if I catch lung fever, on your head be it.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, the gleam in his eye definitely dangerous.

Hastily Clare retreated behind the screen, telling herself that it didn’t matter that these strangers assumed she was his mistress. The next garment was a day dress and the neckline was somewhat more respectable, though still low enough to raise every eyebrow in Penreith.

During a moment when there was no one near enough to hear, Clare quietly asked Nicholas, “What sort of clients does
Denise
have? I don’t have the feeling that this is an establishment for the extremely respectable.”

“Perceptive of you,” he replied. “The females who come here are those who want to look as alluring as possible. Though some are society women, many are actresses and courtesans.” He cocked his head to one side. “Does that offend you?”

“I suppose it should,” she admitted, “but I would be out of place in a society salon. Besides, I rather like
Denise
.”

Their conversation ended when the young apprentice brought in a tray of tea and cakes to sustain them. Nicholas and
Denise
began an energetic discussion of the stockings, shoes, gloves, cloaks, and unmentionable undergarments that would be required. Merely listening to them made Clare tired.

Nicholas, however, was thriving. When they left the shop after three hours, he said exuberantly, “Now, my dear, I am going to introduce you to the most sensual experience of your life.”

“Oh, no,” she said with dismay. “I’m trying to be a good mistress, but I don’t think it’s fair for you to humiliate me.”

“Did I say anything about humiliation?” He helped her up into the curricle, then took the reins from his groom, who climbed onto the back of the vehicle.

As they plunged into the London traffic, she said warily, “Are you taking me to some kind of … of orgy?”

“Why, Clare!” he said, glancing at her askance. “You shock me. What do you know about orgies?”

“Not much, though I understand that they are vile and lascivious and involve numerous people behaving like barnyard animals,” she said scathingly.

He laughed. “Not a bad definition. Orgies come in all sorts, of course, but I suppose that there must be at least three parties present to qualify. They don’t all have to be human, of course.”

As Clare choked with embarrassment, a dray shot from a side street, almost colliding with them. Nicholas deftly managed to stop the curricle and avoid an accident, but the filthy cockney drayman wasn’t satisfied. A long-dead cigar dangling from his mouth, he began shouting curses about bloody flash coves who thought they owned the roads.

“What a disagreeable fellow,” Nicholas remarked. “He needs to be taught manners.”

With a powerful snap of his wrist, he cracked his whip and the cigar vanished from the drayman’s mouth. The cockney was left with a ragged stub clenched between his teeth and an astonished expression.