A Lily Among Thorns (7 page)

Solomon felt abruptly guilty. In the midst of her first furious hurt, he had experienced nothing but relief. Relief that she wasn’t really married, as he’d believed for one brief but surprisingly awful moment. He was glad Serena didn’t know that.

He knocked on the connecting door. “Yes?” she called.

“Let me in.”

After a few moments of silence, she turned the key and opened the door. She was still fully dressed, though it was past midnight; there were ink stains on her fingers. A woman of business, indeed. Solomon felt inexplicably pleased. “Are you all right?”

She stared at him. “You knocked on my door after midnight to ask after my health?”

They both knew he hadn’t meant her health. “Well,” he said mildly, “I was awakened by people talking about me loudly in the next room.”

She froze. “René doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You know how the French are.”

He blinked. “I do?”

“Full of romantic notions about everything.”

God, she was impossible. He came to see how she did, even after she’d laughed at him behind his back, and still her first priority was to show she’d never once thought fondly of him. His eyes narrowed. “Since finding my family heirloom is apparently so trivial, perhaps I ought to ask for something extra in return for my help with Sacreval.”

Serena’s brows drew together. She had the most adorable frown. And she’d kill him if she knew he was thinking that. “Don’t think that just because René said I used to have a fancy for you, I’d be willing to—”

Did she really expect him to ask her to sleep with him? He sagged, making a face of theatrical disappointment. “But, Serena—”

She looked murderous. Solomon couldn’t help it: he laughed. Her frown softened at the edges.

Solomon flushed without quite knowing why.
Had
she had a romantic fancy about him? She’d thought about him apparently.

He had thought about her, too, at first. For those wretched, penniless four months at Cambridge, he’d thought about her
every time he had to borrow a half-crown from his friends. He’d spun himself tales about her triumphant return home to lead a happy and virtuous life, trying to convince himself it had been worth it, even though he’d known it was likelier her madam had stolen every penny. He was ashamed to realize that once his penury ended and the next quarter’s allowance appeared, and Ashton and Braithwaite stopped needling him about it, he hadn’t thought about her much at all.

He had certainly never imagined
this
. He smiled at her. “When the Prince Regent brings his friends here for dinner on Saturday, you have to wear a gown made with fabric from my uncle’s shop.”

She looked at him, and sighed. “Solomon, this isn’t a joke.”

He almost gave in. After all, she’d had a large shock that day. But—he ran his gaze up and down her figure appraisingly, and dress patterns and color combinations started to turn ecstatic somersaults his head. It was improbable, how beautiful she was. “I’m not joking.”

“I suppose I hardly have a choice. But no red. I’m not in the mood for scarlet woman gibes.”

“Pink?” he asked hopefully, and snickered when she glared.

Serena had barely any fault to find with the gown as she tried it on early Saturday morning. The severe cut of the thin wool gave her height, and the deep apricot color made her hair and skin glow; yet neither the cloth nor the color seemed too rich for a hard-working woman of business. The long, full sleeves were gathered in three places by white ribbon covered with delicate gilt flourishes.

“Raizh your armzh,” Solomon said around a mouthful of pins. She obeyed. “Doezh it feel tight?”

“No. I think it’s a trifle loose on the left, actually.” Under pretense of eying her reflection, she watched Solomon in the full-length mirror she’d had carried into her office for the purpose. He
was kneeling beside her in his shirtsleeves (which were rolled up above the elbow), a tape measure draped about his neck. There was something very charming about it.

She watched his strong hands and forearms as he pulled a few pins from between his lips. His light skin, with its downy blond hair and smattering of bright freckles, made her think of orchids dipped in honey. As he pulled the left-hand seam of the bodice tighter, one dye-stained thumb slid over the soft edge of her breast. Not quite to Serena’s surprise, her skin began to tingle pleasantly. Damn. She had been a fool to agree to this, even if her own dressmaker
was
too busy to do the final fitting. She shifted slightly, and to her relief he pricked her. “Ow!”

He looked up at her reprovingly over a pair of severe half-glasses that seemed at odds with his untidy yellow hair.

“And why the devil are you wearing spectacles?” she demanded. “I’ve seen you read without them.”

“Zhey make me look professional.” Serena raised a mocking eyebrow for form’s sake, but his next words echoed her thoughts eerily. “Don’t look at me like zhat. You of all people undershtand about looking professional.”

She didn’t like that. He was supposed to think she
was
professional. He wasn’t supposed to know it was a struggle. “It was much less expensive when looking professional meant wearing almost nothing.”

Solomon made a choking noise and a shower of pins hit the floor. She expected him to turn red with embarrassment, but then his shoulders shook and when his eyes met hers in the mirror she saw he was laughing. He didn’t do it enough. “Don’t make me laugh!” he said, picking the pins up, wiping them on his breeches, and putting them back in his mouth. “Besides, everybody knows that ‘almost nothing’ is more expensive than a lot where clothes are concerned.”

Serena glanced down at the top of his head with a mixture of exasperation and something else she didn’t want to examine
too closely—and fortunately for her peace of mind was instantly distracted. From this angle it became very clear that there
was
something wrong with the gown.

“While we’re on the subject of almost nothing, don’t you think this is a trifle décolleté for my present line of work?” Of course she had had to speak up—she couldn’t go into the dining room like this—but she almost wished she hadn’t when his brief glance at her bodice had her nipples all but standing up on their hind legs and begging.

He raised his eyebrows. Damnation, that was
her
supercilious facial expression and it wasn’t fair of him to do it so well. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked. “The chemisette has to be fitted, too.”

Turning to the bandbox in which the gown had been packed, he pulled out two triangular pieces of fine linen, piped with the same white-and-gold ribbon as the sleeves. When sewn into the dress, they would transform the extremely revealing square neckline into a modest V, and hide the birthmark on the slope of her left breast.

He stood and reached for her neckline, but that was going too far. She held out her hand imperiously. “I’ll do it.”

He looked at her in exasperation. “You don’t know how to do it, and anyway you can’t see it. Are you this missish with your modiste?”

“My modiste is—”
not you.
“A woman.”

His mouth set in a hard line. “Serena, have I been in any way unprofessional?”

“I’m afraid I don’t see—” she began in her most calmly patronizing tone.

“Have I?”

“No, Solomon, you’ve been quite the gentleman, but—”

“Then quit acting as if the only thought in my thimble-sized brain is to get my hands on you. I’m not Lord Smollett!”

Thank God. He was completely unaware of her actual motive. (Also thank God he wasn’t Lord Smollett.) She didn’t know
what to say; she was half-afraid that if she said anything further, he would point out that he’d been a lot closer to her and seen a lot more, six years ago. If she weren’t a ruined woman, she thought, he wouldn’t have dared to suggest fitting the dress himself at all.

But that was only half the story, wasn’t it? He’d suggested it—and she had agreed. She’d wanted his hands on her and now she had them, and she had better pretend it wasn’t affecting her in the slightest. “Go ahead,” she muttered.

“
Thank
you.”

She set her jaw and hoped he couldn’t feel the absurdly fast beating of her heart as she imagined his hands moving lower, cupping her breasts and roaming over her belly, her hips, her—

“There,” he said. He stepped back and nodded with satisfaction. “You look like Lucretia Borgia.”

Serena would have sighed with relief if her breathing hadn’t already been nearly out of her control. “Lucretia Borgia was blond.” But she didn’t dare essay a superior smile.

Besides, she saw what he meant. The gown made her look mysterious and alluring, and at the same time commanding and even a little dangerous—all the things she had striven to be. All the things she had made herself. It was perfect.

And Solomon had designed it for her. He had given her a spangled domino to match her mask—when no one else had ever suspected she was wearing one. It frightened her, made her feel naked and cold. She drew herself up. “Charming, nevertheless. Your talents are wasted on waistcoats.” But light irony had deserted her. Her words sounded sarcastic and ill-humored.

He sighed. “You don’t like it.”

Her twinge of guilt irritated her. “Don’t be a fool,” she said awkwardly. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re talented.”

He relaxed, grinning sheepishly at her. “It looks as if I do. Sorry.”

She made a dismissive gesture as he reached for the hem of
her sleeve. Their fingers brushed; electricity tore through her. Solomon’s hazel eyes sharpened over the ridiculous spectacles, and the air between them shimmered and changed—

The door to her office swung open so hard it thunked against the wall.

“I cannot be doing zis!” said a ringing Cockney voice with a French accent so fake even the Prince Regent could probably have seen through it. “Ze pastry cook’s boys, zey are not being here! My reputation, it will be in shreds. It is ze end, ze end. I am putting a period to my existence!”

Serena turned around and looked at her head chef, trying not to be annoyed at the interruption. “Please don’t do it in my kitchen.”

Antoine really did look distraught, his chef’s hat askew on his carroty locks and a towel half-falling from his shoulders. “You laugh but it is serious I am. By ze way, you look like a goddess. And if I do not have ze finest dessert to set before ze Prince Regent tonight, I will throw myself off of a bridge! I do not jest. It is a tradition among us chefs. Vatel stabbed himself eight times when ze fish he was to prepare for ze king did not arrive!”

“But the fish came in the end,” Solomon said. “He should have waited. Are you sure the pastry cook’s boys aren’t coming?”

Serena stared at him. “How do you know the fish came?”

“The same way your cook does, I’d imagine. I read the new translation of Mme de Sevigné’s letters that was published last month.”

The cook nodded. “A brilliant woman—so typical of my beloved France!” The closest Antoine had ever come to France was when Serena sent him to the spice market in Horsham, two hours south of London. “But ze boys—zey are not coming. One of zem has ze influenza; we cannot risk spreading the contagion to our beloved future monarch.”

Serena cursed. “Can’t Ying whip up something?”

“It will take her all day to make the bread.”

“Is it too late to send to Gunter’s?”

“Yes, and besides, we will not impress His Royal Highness with the culinary excellence of ze house in zis manner! I am sure he knows every dessert in Gunter’s
ménu
like the back of his royal hand.”

“How many people do you expect?” Solomon asked.

“Fifty at least!”

He smiled. “Your worries are over. I can make the dessert if I start now.”

Serena’s jaw dropped. Had everyone gone mad? “You?
You
can make dessert for the Carlton House set?”

“Would you prefer burnt cream or almond-pear tartlets? Those are the most elegant selections in my repertoire.” His smile turned self-deprecating and conspiratorial. “Actually, those are the only selections in my repertoire. But they’re both good.”

“Is there no end to your womanly talents?”

“Baking is just like chemistry!” he protested.

Her lips twitched. “Let’s have the almond-pear tartlets.”

An hour later, Solomon stared in awe at the gigantic kitchen. Spits turned on their own power in the huge fireplace, shining copperware filled the shelves, and bundles of dried herbs hung from the wall. In one corner dangled a great hook whose purpose he could only guess at. The center of the room was occupied by an enormous steam table, on which a number of covered dishes already rested. On a low stove in the corner, Antoine stirred a huge pot of something that smelled delicious.

When he saw his employer, the chef made his way across the room toward them, unslinging a towel from around his neck and wiping the sweat from his face. He had to stop several times along the way to critique the actions of undercooks and kitchen maids, in one case taking a knife away from a boy and showing him the proper way to cut carrots into fine, long strips.

“He’s not French,” Solomon said.