Her Protector's Pleasure (18 page)

"The order, it will have to be rushed," the modiste said, with just the right touch of doubt.

"I am happy to pay for the inconvenience," Marianne said.

"Then,
chérie
, time is not to be wasted." Excitement danced in the Frenchwoman's black eyes, and her hands clapped together. "Let us make art."

As the assistant helped Marianne to disrobe to her chemise, Amelie went to sort through the fabric on the table. She picked up one beautiful roll after another, muttering to herself, "
Non, ça ne suffit pas …
" Finally, she said, "
Bien.
I have found it. Let us have a look in front of the glass."

With capable hands, Amelie draped the material over Marianne. She pinned here, tucked there, muttering in French as she worked. Finally, she stepped back. "What do you think?"

Iridescent shades of blue and green glimmered like mysterious and alluring waves. Even without a finished shape, the chiffon flowed with natural grace, clinging to Marianne's curves. Its beauty infused her with a feeling of power—her armor to protect her from harm.

Marianne sighed with bliss. "A
tour de force
as usual, Amelie."

"
C'est parfait
," Amelie agreed. "Paired with a sheer underskirt and cut à la Grecque, the gown will be unparalleled."

A bell sounded from the front of the boutique. Amelie nodded at her assistant, who scurried off to attend to the new customer. The modiste continued to play with the fabric at Marianne's neckline, twisting it this way and that. "The exact design, it will depend on your purpose,
non
?"

"I shall be hunting," Marianne said succinctly.

"
Ah.
" Amelie lowered the décolletage an inch. Seductive yet still tasteful. "A particular gentleman of interest?"

Kent's face leapt into Marianne's head. His eyes heavy-lidded with passion, his face stark as his touch drove her higher and higher … Her throat flexed in the reflection, color creeping up her cheeks.

Stay focused. 'Tis Ashcroft, Boyer, or Pendleton you're after—they're your targets.

"Not in the manner which you are implying," she said.

"
Non?
Then why the blush,
chérie
?"

Marianne thought to deny it. Instead, she said ruefully, "There's no hiding anything from you, is there, Amelie?"

"A dressmaker understands her client's form. A modiste,
she must comprehend her client's heart."

"You, of course, are a modiste," Marianne said with fondness.

"And a friend, I hope. Like you, I am a woman of the world … and French besides. You may speak freely without fear here, my lady."

Marianne believed the modiste. With her philosopher's mind and independent spirit, Amelie had proved a confidante over the years. Though Marianne had not gone so far as to speak of Rosie, she had once mentioned her marriage to Draven. Amelie had listened without judgment or pity. In the end, she'd said simply, "He is dead, and you are rich,
ma chère.
If not kind, the universe is at least, on occasion, just."

Marianne experienced the urge to confide her sexual experience with Kent. There was no one else she could speak to about such matters: Tilda distrusted him, and Helena, well … Marianne shuddered. The last thing she wanted was for the marchioness to know about her dalliance. Knowing Helena, she'd likely start pestering Marianne. About claptrap like romance and relationships.
Feelings
, God help her.

"There is a man," Marianne said.

"A lover?" Amelie said.

Marianne gave a slow nod.

"I, myself, have had a few. Some better than others," the modiste said with continental candor. "This one, he is good?"

"Very," Marianne admitted. The best she'd ever had in fact, though she'd only known one other. And she hadn't even
known
Kent, at least not in the strictly biblical sense. With just his hands, his mouth, he'd brought her such shattering pleasure …

Even as her sex quivered, she recognized the danger. With Kent, she'd given into her impulses, something she had not done since Thomas and for good cause: those reckless couplings had resulted in a child. Though she now possessed the knowledge to prevent conception—methods including
coitus interruptus
followed by a special vinegar rinse—could she have trusted Kent to obey her wishes? More to the point, could she trust him at all? He'd already nosed into her business twice, and she still didn't know his true motives.

Men cannot be trusted. If you haven't learned that lesson, you're a fool indeed.

"You do not seem happy about this lover," the modiste observed.

Marianne heaved a sigh. "It's complicated, and I have other more pressing concerns. Besides, he is not someone I ought to get involved with. We fight whenever we meet—and we come from different worlds."

The other woman shrugged as she unpinned the chiffon. "
C'est l'amour.
"

Marianne blinked. "This isn't about love."

"An irrational and inconvenient attraction, a star-crossed relationship, and
very
good lovemaking." Amelie counted  off her fingertips. "If not
l'amour
, then what would you call it?"

The possibility struck Marianne like a blade in the chest. She could not possibly be developing feelings for Kent. Could. Not. If she felt anything, it was mere … obligation. Yes, because he'd saved her twice. Because she'd never met anyone like him. Because ... he'd given her the greatest pleasure she'd ever experienced?

That's physical attraction. Nothing more.

Shoulders tensed, she said, "I cannot afford sentiment. It has never served me well."

"
L'amour
isn't meant to serve. It simply
is
—to our delight and our despair.
Alors
, if we must suffer the aftermath of our foolish hearts, should we not also enjoy the sweetness of their abandon?"

"You advocate for a broken heart?" Marianne said, brows arching.

"Better broken than unused.
Le coeur va guérir
—it is only a matter of time."

Perhaps time healed some hearts, but the pain in Marianne's organ had not subsided one whit since the fateful morning she'd walked into Primrose's nursery. She'd stayed up late the night before, stitching a ball for her active poppet to play with. But Rosie's bed had been empty, the cupboards bare of all the little dresses Marianne had sewn, and the ball had dropped from Marianne's icy hands ...

Seven years later and the wound still felt as fresh and raw as it had when Draven had informed her that he'd taken away her daughter:

Now you'll do my bidding. You'll breathe when I tell you to, stop when I say so. This is the fate you earned by being a trollop.

A touch on the arm brought her back. "Love takes courage," Amelie said softly, "a quality you possess in spades. Why deny yourself a taste of happiness?"

Because I don't deserve it. Not after all the mistakes I've made.

Throat dry, Marianne said, "The risk is too great."

"Risk,
ma chère
?
Ah, je comprends.
" The Frenchwoman's eyes gleamed.
"As it happens, I can be of assistance—wait here."

The modiste left the room, leaving Marianne alone with her reflection. Clad in only her chemise, she looked less like a sophisticated widow and more like a version of her younger self. Miss Marianne Blunt, wayward daughter of a dusty squire … A memory unfurled of that first time she'd gone to meet Thomas in the meadow adjoining their fathers' estates. When Helena's brother had returned from Oxford that summer, Marianne had known he was the one she would marry. Sweet Thomas, with his chestnut hair and hazel eyes and the son of an earl to boot.

Had that been love? she wondered. Not a mature vintage, certainly, but the youthful infatuation had been intoxicating nonetheless. Excitement had bubbled through her, heady as champagne, propelling her across the swaying fields toward her dreams. She hadn't known fear then. Or bitterness or guilt. She'd simply reveled in the sun's warmth, the breeze's soft caress.

How long had it been since she'd felt that vitality, that freedom of spirit?

The answer popped into her head with stunning clarity:
last night with Kent.

"I have returned." Amelie's voice cut through Marianne's thoughts. Shutting the door, the modiste approached, holding out a small flat box. "For you, my lady."

"What is it?" Bemused, Marianne lifted the lid.

"French letters, as you English insist upon calling them." Amelie's eyes flitted heavenward. "A friend of mine owns a shop in Covent Garden, and these are her finest stock. They have been kept in a solution of rosewater for suppleness, and consequently a most delicious scent accompanies them. The red ribbons, they add a pretty touch,
non
?"

"Er, indeed." Marianne fought down her blush. "
Merci,
Amelie."

"You are welcome." The Frenchwoman nodded, smiling. "
Maintenant
, I have a few other ideas for your new gowns …"

A commotion outside the room cut off the modiste's words. The next instant, the door flung open; Marianne's pulse spiked as Kent stood there, his eyes burning into hers.

Lud. Her bloody note. Obviously he'd gotten it.

The assistant flung herself in his path with valiant effort. "I tried to stop this man,
madame
! He would not listen—"

"Who do you think you are,
monsieur
? Remove yourself this instant, or I shall summon the magistrates," Amelie hissed, moving to stand in front of Marianne.

"I am a friend of Lady Draven's," Kent said in calm tones that sent a thrill of warning up Marianne's spine. "I rather think she is expecting me."

Amelie swung to look at Marianne. "You know this person?"

Marianne licked her suddenly dry lips. "How did you find me here?"

"I'm an investigator, remember?" he said. "Now unless you'd like to air our laundry in front of all and sundry, I suggest you ask
madame
to give us a few moments."

"
Merde.
I certainly will
not
leave my client
—
"

"'Tis alright, Amelie. If it is not an inconvenience, I'd like to speak to Mr. Kent." Though her knees were wobbly, Marianne drew up her shoulders. "In private."

Sudden comprehension flashed in Amelie's dark eyes. "Of course, my lady. Er, take your time. Bernadette," she said briskly to her assistant, "
allons-y
."

The door closed once more. As the tension in the room thickened, Marianne became aware of several things at once. She wore only her chemise, and from the flaring hunger in Kent's eyes, the fact had not escaped his notice. Yet he was angry, his rigid frame quivering like that of a bull about to charge. The box of French letters burned in her hand; as casually as she could, she walked over to the work table and set it down, using those moments to collect herself.

Swiveling, she leaned against the table and crossed her arms, her stance one of cool indifference. "We have a few things to settle between us, don't we?" she said.

NINETEEN

Ambrose gritted his teeth. The woman was bloody impossible, the response she provoked in him savage and bewildering. He didn't know whether he wanted to throttle her or toss her onto the table and have his way with her. He did neither. Instead, he yanked her letter from his pocket. He tossed it—and the five hundred pounds she'd enclosed—onto the table.

"What is the meaning of that?" he bit out.

"Was it not clear?" Her eyes widened in the shoddiest mimicry of innocence he'd ever seen. With a nonchalance that belied the fact that she was almost naked—despite himself, his mouth pooled at the hint of her cheery nipples beneath the shift—she picked up the note and read it aloud. "
Thank you for services rendered.
Hmm. Which part left you confused, I wonder?"

"I am not confused, my lady. I am angry," he said, his jaw ticking.

"Angry? Whatever for?"

"I am not a bloody gigolo. Money has no place in what happened between us, and well you know it." His eyes narrowed as her lips gave a suspicious twitch. "You
do
know it. Devil take it, you sent the note to deliberately goad me, didn't you? Why?"

"We need to talk," she said.

He braced his hands on his hips. "Why didn't you simply invite me over to tea, you infuriating woman?"

"Conventionality has never been my way." She tipped her head to the side. "Although, come to think of it, there would be something deliciously ironic about discussing what happened over a civilized ritual like tea.
Will you take cream and sugar, Mr. Kent?
" she said in a light, mocking voice. "
And, by the by, what a daring rooftop escape we made from Mr. Leach's.
"

"Leach is dead," he said, waiting for her reaction.

Her thick lashes veiled her gaze for an instant. "Indeed."

"Did you kill him?" he said tersely.

Her brilliant emerald gaze locked with his. "Do you think I did?"

"Enough games," he growled. "For once, I want the truth from your lips. Did you kill Reginald Leach?"

Silence pulled between them. Her will was a palpable force, churning the tides of tension. His resolve was no less, a steadfast buttress against her squall.

"No." Her chin lifted. "I did not kill him."

Ambrose fought the wave of relief. Although his gut told him this was the truth—and he could see it in her eyes—he deserved an explanation. She'd been running roughshod over him since the day they'd met. No more.

"Tell me what happened," he demanded.

"Leach was dead when we arrived. Lugo found him in the sitting room," she said in cool, flat tones. "I do not expect you to believe me, and before you waste your breath, no, I have no proof."

"I believe you," Ambrose snapped.

Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting. "You … you do?" The barest crack in her voice pierced his anger. Despite his irritation, protectiveness surged. What the devil had happened to Marianne to make her a stranger to trust?