Undesirable Liaison

AN UNDESIRABLE
LIAISON

Elizabeth
Bailey

© Elizabeth Bailey
2014

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the
author has been asserted.

No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior
permission in writing of the author. Nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters and events
in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain,
are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

Published by Elizabeth
Bailey 2014

www.elizabethbailey.co.uk

Published by Elizabeth
Bailey at Smashwords 2015

© Cover art and design
by David Evans Bailey 2014

www.davidevansbailey.com

An Undesirable
Liaison

To support her
young sister and herself, Florence Petrie desperately needs
employment. Through the agency of an unexpected and valuable find,
she ends up as companion to the dowager in the household of Jerome,
Viscount Langriville. The violent attraction between them brings
Flo to the brink of the abyss she fears most. Is she doomed to
repeat her mother’s history?

Freed from the
hideous scandal of the past by his wife’s death, Jerome is
horrified to find himself in thrall to a new threat: an impossible
liaison. Can he withstand Florence’s allure, when his desire can
only mean her ruin?

Chapter
One

Under the
critical gaze of her young sister, Miss Florence Petrie fastened
the last button at the hem of the heavy alien gown. Dropping the
cloth, she smoothed the skirt into place. Suppressing a faint rise
of anxiety, she raised her eyes to the looking glass set above a
small table. The simple wood-framed oval provided an inadequate
reflection, and Florence had to be content with what she could see
of herself by twisting and shifting before it.

She was not ill
pleased. The full petticoats of the greatcoat dress swirled as she
moved, showing its elegant cut, and the rich dark blue suited well
with her black locks. If only it might serve her purpose. The fit
was not altogether satisfactory, the long sleeves less tight than
was desirable, although they looked well enough. But the fullness
at the bodice was not easily glossed over. Flo twitched at it in a
vain attempt to improve its set across her breasts. The gown had
been made for a female more buxom than herself. On the other hand,
they must be much of a height, for the length was more or less
acceptable.

‘It’s too big
for your bosom,’ stated Belinda in a disparaging tone. ‘And I can
see your shift.’

Flo quashed a
feeling of irritation. Whatever her own qualms, she must have
patience with the child. It was not Bel’s fault she had been
obliged to make this drastic alteration in their circumstances. Nor
was her sister fully conversant with her reasons. One did not sully
the innocence of a girl of fifteen with such a tale.

‘It is meant to
be worn with a
buffon
or a large handkerchief,’ she offered.
‘In any event, I can easily move the buttons to make it
tighter.’

Belinda was not
appeased. ‘You look like a horrid governess.’

Flo laughed.
‘I’m meant to look like a companion.’

Having
purchased the cast-off gown to furnish herself with just such an
air of respectability, Florence was more reassured than otherwise.
It had been essential to replace her truly ancient riding habit,
which looked decidedly shabby, and the greatcoat dress, having
caught her eye in the window of the pawnbroker’s shop, had struck
her as an admirable substitute.

‘I’ve never
seen anything so old-fashioned,’ complained her sister.

‘Yes, but I
don’t think it is, Bel,’ argued Flo, trying to see the back over
her shoulder. ‘The cut is excessively fine, and I should be
astonished to find it is more than two or three years old.’ She
lifted the skirts, fingering the fabric. ‘It is in very good
condition.’

‘But it’s
stuffy and plain. Why can’t you wear one of your own gowns? I know
you made them yourself, but at least they’re feminine.’

‘So I shall,’
agreed Flo patiently, turning once more to consult the glass, ‘once
I have acquired a suitable position. Only it is essential to make
an excellent first impression.’

‘They’ll think
you’re a dowd.’

‘All to the
good,’ said Flo bracingly. ‘No one is going to employ a companion
who looks like a fashion plate.’

Belinda
snorted, but to Flo’s relief refrained from further comment, merely
glowering under sandy brows, and shoving out a sulky lower lip.
Aware that Bel’s dissatisfaction sprang from a deeper cause than
the offending greatcoat dress, Florence refrained from rebuking
her. More than eight years lay between them, and Flo had stood in
loco parentis to the girl for far longer than was warranted by
their mother’s untimely demise.

Mrs Eleanor
Petrie, worn down by misfortune—and, Flo suspected, a strong
sensation of guilt—had been of little practical use to her younger
daughter. Even as a child, Florence recalled spending hours of her
time caring for her sibling. What scant schooling Belinda had was
due to her sister’s efforts, their mother having, inexplicably at
the time, refused to allow her to attend the village establishment
at Tarfield, run by Mrs Ribbleton, at which Florence had her
education. Of latter years, as Mrs Petrie’s health broke down,
Belinda came to rely more and more upon her sister’s good offices.
To the point where, Flo ruefully admitted, Bel had expected a far
better settlement for her future than her elder sister was capable
of providing.

Repressing an
inward sigh, Florence turned her attention back to the gown. It
might, she reflected, fit better on Bel. Grown to full height
already, Belinda Petrie was an inch or two taller and a good few
inches thicker all round than her slender sister. Puppy fat, their
mother had called it. But Flo was inclined to believe, from the
fullness of breast and hip—not to mention a certain hereditary
inclination—that poor Bel was liable to carry additional weight
throughout her life. The awkwardness of youth, which resulted in a
flouncing gait and coltish motions, would in time, Flo was
persuaded, give way to a more desirable decorum of movement.

And the child
had promise, if only there had been a different prospect in store
than a similar occupation to that currently sought by Florence.
Belinda’s nose inclined to the rétroussé, it was true, but she had
a merry face and large, expressive blue eyes, the whole topped by a
quantity of obstinate curls of an indeterminate shade between
blonde and light brown. Her volatile liveliness, of spirit and of
manner, was both endearing and exasperating.

Florence’s
almond-shaped eyes were also blue, as their mother’s had been, but
there the resemblance between the sisters ended. Flo thought of
herself as all cheekbones and chin in a countenance unremarkable
except for its faintly olive hue, a legacy from an Italian father,
who had also bequeathed her his straight nose and a lush fall of
heavy hair. Jet black, and the only feature in which Florence took
pride and pleasure, despite the difficulty of dressing it in a
manner suitable to her intended station. She was wearing it slicked
back and twisted in a thick knot at the crown, the whole covered
over with a lace-edged cap. A simple bonnet would make her look
entirely the part, provided she could adjust the greatcoat dress to
a better fit.

With determined
fingers, Florence undid the buttons at the bodice, and pulled the
overlap more firmly across. Belinda voiced her own thought.

‘You’ll have to
tighten the waist as well, or the buttons won’t be straight.’

The tone was
grudging, but Flo welcomed the hint of acceptance. It was hard
enough dealing with her own apprehensions, without having to handle
a recalcitrant sister. She undid the two buttons holding the gown
at the waist and shifted the whole bodice over.

‘Hand me my box
of pins, Bel. On the table at my side of the bed.’

Belinda crossed
around the foot of the four-poster they were sharing. The meagre
lodgings in Poland Street, hopefully temporary, did not run to
separate bedchambers. They had in addition a small parlour, but
this convenience did not come cheap in the metropolis.

While her
sister held the box and handed pins, Florence did a makeshift
adjustment to the greatcoat dress, with the result that its fit was
a good deal better. Even, to Belinda’s reluctant agreement,
concealing the hint of shift to which she had previously
objected.

‘I shall have
to wear a handkerchief, however. It would scarcely strike the right
note of modesty otherwise.’

She became
aware, as she spoke, of a tinge of discomfort in the back of the
gown. Her first thought was that she had pulled it too tight. But
as she went to undo the pins, she realised the oddity was in the
region of the neck. Above the wide lapels, a double collar sat
neatly across the shoulders. Perhaps a fold of this had become
entangled?

‘Bel, is the
collar straight?’

Her sister laid
down the pins on the nearby press and came up behind her. ‘It looks
straight enough to me.’

But the
discomfort persisted. ‘It has not folded in on itself, has it?’

Bel took
another look and responded with a decided negative. Flo moved her
neck from side to side, trying to shift the sensation, but without
result. Disappointment rose up. The gown had been so promising.
Only perhaps the problem was due to the tightening of the
bodice?

‘There’s an
obstruction of some kind. Under the collar, I think. See if you can
find it, will you?’

Flo felt her
sister’s fingers slide under the fabric.

‘Can’t feel
anything… Oh, wait a minute. Gracious, there’s a lump!’

‘A lump?’

Belinda became
triumphant. ‘I told you it was a horrid gown, didn’t I? It’s been
badly made, mark my words.’

As she spoke,
she was lifting the collar, her fingers tracing a line across the
shoulder. Flo felt something dig into her back.

‘Take
care!’

‘I am taking
care, but there
is
a lump. See! Can’t you feel it?’

There was
certainly something there, for the lump, as Belinda termed it, was
pressing into her flesh with acute force.

‘Ouch! Do let
go, Bel!’

‘Yes, but it’s
very odd, Flossie,’ said her sister, complying, and reverting to
the old nursery name as her resentment was overtaken by interest.
‘You’ll have to take the gown back.’

The note of
satisfaction did not escape Florence, but she maintained a mild
tone. ‘Let us first find out the cause.’ She was undoing the pins
as she spoke, setting them carefully back into the fabric at the
points where the fit had been suitable. ‘It may be I can cure the
fault.’

Belinda, who
had retrieved the box of pins, set it down again disgustedly when
she saw her sister marking spots for the buttons.

‘I can’t think
why you should wish to, for it’s plain as day that’s why the owner
got rid of it. And you said it was a good cut.’

‘It is,’
insisted Flo, putting out her arms and requesting her sister to
undo the buttons at the wrists. ‘I should not be at all surprised
if it had been made in Paris.’

A derisive
sound was all the answer she got, as Bel bent over her task. Her
arms released, Florence undid the buttons down to the hem and
slipped off the gown, sitting on the bed just as she was in her
undergarments. With deft fingers, and buoyed by a stubborn
determination, she sought for the objectionable lump, and found it
readily. Pulling away the collar, she examined the gown first on
the exterior, holding the fabric so the lump thrust outwards. Then
she probed on the inside, feeling into the lining, expecting to
locate a knot.

Belinda,
hovering above her, became impatient.

‘Well,
what?’

Into Flo’s mind
sprang a thought so strange she almost dismissed it instantly. But
the idea persisted. Too intent to respond, she rose and crossed to
the window, the gown in her hands. A weak late February sun showed
a series of little stitches, just visible on the outside of the
garment and ordinarily concealed by the collar. On the inside,
there was nothing to support her growing suspicion.

Flo discovered
Belinda at her elbow, a faint sense of excitement in her voice.