Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction (21 page)

“I don’t—”

Carver silenced her with a finger to her lips; then he began a thorough exploration of her body with his feather, starting at the soles of her feet.

As he’d promised, any little squirm or moan sent him back to her toes. Consequently, it took him several minutes to finally reach her inner thighs. When he ran the tip of his feather over her pink, roused flesh, he saw her lift her bottom but chose to ignore it. Her arms were stretched out at her sides, her fingers curling in the blanket. Again he let it go and did not punish her. Twice more he ran the feather over her private crease, brushing it slowly from side to side, watching her bud darken and blossom. Then he concentrated his teasing on the very crest of her nether lips, finally sliding it between them. The next time she exhaled a throaty groan and one of her hands flew out, spilling a glass of wine, he couldn’t overlook it—knew she was too close to her peak—and was forced to return the damp feather to her toes.

His own excitement mounted with each pass of the feather over every inch of her smooth skin, and just to relieve some of his own need, he decided to follow the path of that feather with his lips. When he reached the apex of her thighs again, she was ready to fall over the edge. He drank from her greedily, relishing every sparkling drop, and when he knew she could bear it no more, he covered her body with his and entered her at last, allowing them both the release and completion they so badly needed.

They lay together on the chaise that night, watching the fire smolder in the hob grate. Carver wrapped her in his arms, not wanting to leave yet, and too content to speak. She, too, was silent but awake, her head on his chest, allowing him to tangle his fingers in her loose hair. His wandering, thoughtful gaze stumbled over the abandoned sketches again.

“I am jealous of your talent, Mouse,” he confessed suddenly. “I wish I had one.”

He felt her gentle laughter rocking his body. “You do. A very special, very lovely talent.”

“Well, naturally.” He smiled. “But beyond that. I’d like to be more than your plaything, you know, woman.”

She turned her head, resting her chin on his chest. “Forgive me if I lack understanding, but you are a titled peer of the realm.”

“Hmmm.” He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger.
Only
by
accident—by tragedy
—he thought, grim. If his brother had not died, Carver would have been worth even less in his father’s eyes. But then perhaps his father would have been content to leave him alone and let him be whatever he wanted, do whatever he chose with his life. The flash of a memory came to him, a hand flung through the air holding a cane. He felt the sting. It made his eyes water, but he didn’t cry out. That would have made his father even angrier. So he bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

“What’s the matter?” A fearful, wary look had come into Margaret’s wide brown eyes.

“Nothing. Nothing is the matter.” He gathered her into his arms again and held her tight. While he was with Margaret, he wanted to think only of light, happy things so she would remember him always in a cheerful way. He was her slave, intent on her pleasure, never wanting a solitary rain cloud to spoil the mood between them.

The moment of darkness passed, and he was soon absorbed again in rediscovering all her ticklish spots with that feather. Doing what
he
did best.

“Carver Danforthe is very, very bad, and when he’s not wicked, he’s awful.”

Molly could now agree with that giggling, tipsy young lady once overheard and never forgotten. Her lover was not accustomed to using much discretion when it came to his affairs. Simply put, he did whatever he wanted and got away with it. Since people thought the worst of him anyway, he saw little cause to bother putting on a mask. He took great delight in teasing Molly, making her blush when they chanced to meet in public.

“For my sake, Danny, do make an effort,” she urged. “I don’t want the whole world to know about us.”

Although he always agreed with great solemnity to try to ignore her, he would apparently forget that intention the next time they ran into each other.

Her business was growing, and a Molly Robbins Design, thanks largely to her devoted patron, Lady Anne Rothespur, had become the most sought after object for many of the new crop of debutantes. But despite her success, she was still frequently traveling around Town almost daily. Some of her wealthiest clients had not yet become accustomed to the idea of visiting her shop for fittings and consultations, so she remained a well-known face to the drivers of hackney carriages, and a familiar visitor to the finer homes of Mayfair, where Carver and his circle of friends were also known to gather. With increasing regularity, she found her secret lover lurking in wait to open a door for her, and on more than one occasion, he miraculously recovered a pair of gloves she’d mysteriously misplaced soon after entering a house.

“Miss Robbins, do allow me to walk you out,” he would say, popping up before her like a suspiciously gallant jack-in-the-box.

This, apparently, was his idea of “discretion.”

And his mischief knew no boundaries. One afternoon while Lady Cecelia Montague deigned to pay her shop a visit, Molly was alarmed to see Carver dismounting outside. There was no time to hide or put the “closed” sign on the door. He swept in, loudly jangling the bell above the door, and making everyone look over. There were several other ladies in the shop that day, in addition to Lady Cecelia, and naturally they all knew who Carver was, if only by sight. When he saw so many faces, he seemed almost surprised, as if he’d expected to have her all to himself. Molly hastily drew Lady Cecelia’s attention back to the designs in the book she had spread open between them. She hoped he would come to his senses and leave again when he saw how busy she was.

Her hope was in vain.

Hat under one arm, Carver Danforthe strolled around the room, pretending to admire swatches of velvet and muslin, occasionally tipping his head to chirping clusters of curious ladies.

As the only male in the place, he caused a considerable stir again, bonnets turning to follow his progress, some of the bolder ladies smiling as they bobbed like pigeons. After a while, it occurred to Molly that he was enjoying himself. This became more evident when he proceeded to pause and loudly grant his sartorial advice to some of her customers, sounding very like his sister as he offered his opinion on which color they should choose or which style of sleeve.

“Lady Allen you have such strong, noble shoulders. I would suggest a smaller puff, of about so long, and possibly something in magenta.”

The ladies listened with mouths agape, drinking it all in, but Molly very much doubted he knew the difference between magenta and peacock blue. He was merely spouting words he’d heard from her or his sister. Sly, mischievous man! Of course he knew how to flatter them.

“Mrs. Shadwell, that emerald green would be most becoming on you, but only for evenings. The summer sun would surely be too harsh for it.”

He soon had the ladies eating out of his hand. They chortled and pecked around him, feathers preened, chests pushed out, little beaks nibbling eagerly on his advice.

Since he was being a disruption to the calm order of her shop, Molly finally left Lady Cecelia with her designs and walked across the room to ask him what he required there.

“Ah, Miss Robbins.” He beamed at her. “I was planning a present for a very special lady of my acquaintance. I am told you are the very best mantua maker in London these days.”

She was aware of Lady Cecelia’s dark hard eyes watching every move. “That’s very kind of you to say, your lordship.” Hands folded before her to keep her fingers from fidgeting, she looked up at him. “What sort of present did you have in mind?”

“An evening dress, I think.”

“A ball gown?”

“No. Something”—his gaze swept down over her like a warm shower of rain—“for an intimate affair.”

All around her, skirts rustled, and she heard sighs expelled into the heated air.

“Intimate?” she murmured, fixing her gaze on a point to the left of his shoulder.

“Yes, for only one guest to enjoy, Miss Robbins.”

One of the ladies gasped, and another broke into giggles.

Molly kept her countenance. “I see.”

“Something entirely in lace with ribbons all the way down the front.”

“Ribbons?”

“To be tied. And untied.”

After all the previous excitement stirred up by this menace, it had now gone very quiet in the shop. All the ladies were straining to hear, absorbing every naughty word he uttered.

“Closely fitted to the lady’s shape,” he added, his voice low, slightly husky.

“Not too closely fitted,” she replied. “You will need room for a garment beneath, if this item is to be all lace.”

She made the mistake of returning her attention to his face just as he grinned slowly. “But that is the point, Miss Robbins. There will be nothing beneath it.”

She knew her lips had parted, but no sound emerged. Behind her someone whispered the word “indecent.” Or was it her own inner voice disapproving?

“Could you show me some samples of lace?” he asked. “I’d like to be certain it has the right pattern. Nothing too cluttered and busy.”

Because
then
he
wouldn’t be able to see through it so well.
Oh, no. She knew exactly how his mind worked. It was his voice inside her head, trying to make her flustered. Finally she found her words and her wits again. “I haven’t much lace to show at present, but I will order some and make a sketch for you. Perhaps next time you come in you can bring the lady with you. I’ll need her measurements, of course.”

“She is slender, but tallish. I would say she is about your size, Miss Robbins.”

She swallowed. “Do bring her in.”

His grin widened.

One of the elderly ladies nearby muttered that it sounded to her like a dress in which someone would catch cold. Her younger companion hid a smile behind her glove and turned away.

“I do appreciate your patronage, your lordship. Thank you for coming.” Molly moved aside, hoping he would get the hint.

Eventually he did. But as he moved by her, he replied, “You needn’t thank me for coming, Miss Robbins. It is always entirely my pleasure. And I’ll come again soon, no doubt.”

She looked at him, her lips pressed tight. He was the very limit. Hat back on his head, he left the shop, and she found herself at last able to breathe again.

Returning to Lady Cecelia, she thought her face was composed again, serene. A swift, sly wipe of her hands on her skirt disposed of the dampness on her palms.

“I hear you’ve made an enemy of the Baroness Schofield, Miss Robbins,” the lady remarked casually. “She spent the entire evening railing against you at Almack’s. What can you have done to her?” Her expression suggested she knew exactly what Molly had done.

“I believe we had a difference of opinion on style, your ladyship.”

“Perhaps it was not a difference that came between you, but a correlation.”

“I don’t follow, madam.”

“A similarity in male protectors.” Lady Cecelia’s laughter felt like the sharp, brittle pricks of icicles. “Don’t look so appalled, Miss Robbins. I could hardly care less about the baroness—a cheap and tawdry creature. Mutton dressed as lamb. She got above herself, in any case. Serves her right that the earl threw her over. I am not the only one relieved to see her back in her place. If she continues to speak ill of you, I guarantee you’ll be rushed off those little feet of yours with new orders. Now do tell me you intend to make something for me in that new patterned silk over there. I absolutely cannot live without it.”

Molly recovered, somehow, and hurried to fetch the silk.

As days passed and more customers ventured into her new shop, Molly realized that some came merely to see a curiosity, like a two-headed calf at the fair. Sly sideways glances caught her with sudden jabs and then hurriedly withdrew to study her designs instead.

“Who cares if they come because they’re nosy?” said Kate with enviable, breezy confidence. “They’ll stay for the gowns, won’t they? They know you’re the best in all London. Whatever brings them to the shop, it will be your skill that keeps their custom.”

Molly hoped it was true, but self-doubt crept in and would not leave. It was easy for Kate to be careless, for none of this would affect her once she went home to Aylesbury—or wherever she truly came from. There was no going home for Molly Robbins.

***

“I am honored that you can spend a few hours with me tonight.” Sinjun grinned. “Your obsession has kept you busy these past few days.”

Carver relaxed in the chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Obsession? Yes, it was a good word for what she had become. “I have to let her rest sometimes, don’t I?” He missed her tonight, but she had a gown to finish and told him in plain terms that she did not wish to be disturbed. He supposed he ought to abide by her wishes, and anyway, she would have her assistants with her at the shop.

“Quite true. Although you can always rest when you’re dead.” His friend ordered brandy from the attendant, who quickly retreated to fetch it. “I hear your sister’s given Grey his congé.”

“I believe it was a mutual decision,” he replied cautiously. “No hearts broken.”

“And what now for Lady Mercy?”

“She’s gone away for a while. Can’t say I blame her, with all those tongues stabbing her in the back.” He wasn’t about to tell anyone that she was making plans to return to the country, or that he’d given her his blessing. Truth was, he couldn’t be very angry with her about Rafe Hartley, since he was misbehaving quite severely with Rafe’s former fiancée. It was a tangled web from which he felt no inclination to extract himself.

“It’s a good thing she’s gone, Danforthe. I can’t imagine she was very amused by your latest dalliance.”

Carver merely shrugged and folded his newspaper.

“Do tell me what you find to do all those hours with your Mouse, holed up in her shop,” Rothespur continued with an arch smile. “I don’t mean the physical, of course. That much is obvious.”

“Then what the blazes do you mean?”

“Conversation, for instance. What on earth can you find to talk about?”

Carver tossed the paper down and waited while the attendant delivered their glasses on a silver tray. Then he sat forward. “Sometimes we don’t talk at all. I simply enjoy her company.” He tried to explain but couldn’t find the right words.

“She’s had no formal schooling?”

“No. A year or two in the small village school, I believe.”

“No tutors or governesses? No other instruction of any kind?”

“Since her family needed the wage she earned, they were hardly in a position to send her away to school, or hire a music tutor. I daresay they thought dance instruction might be ever so slightly superfluous.” He took a large, decidedly uncivilized mouthful of brandy. The heat seared his throat, leaving his voice frayed and rasping when he added, “She appears to manage perfectly well with her natural talents.”

Sinjun rubbed his eyebrow with one finger and shook his head. “I just wonder what you can have in common when you’re upright.”

He scowled. What exactly, he thought, had a governess, a French dance instructor, and a year at an expensive finishing academy done for Sinjun’s sister, Anne? Sweet and lively as she was, the girl could be annoying as a squeaky coach wheel on a long journey, and she still frequently burst out with odd remarks to unintentionally embarrass her brother. Anne Rothespur couldn’t hold a conversation about anything without getting distracted by a butterfly or a pair of diamond earrings across the room. His Mouse, on the other hand, always gave her full attention and absorbed what she heard. “We manage,” he muttered, curt. “She’s very intelligent and charming, as a matter of fact. Quick witted.”

“I didn’t mean she is in any way stupid, Danforthe. No, of course. She’s certainly smart enough to have seduced you. She has you by the nutmegs, to be sure.” He chortled loudly, and Carver’s scowl deepened.

Yes, she had seduced him. Somehow. With her cunning wiles. She’d made a pattern for his seduction just as skillfully as she planned her designs. He knew that. She took control of their situation with that contract, but when they were in bed, he had the upper hand. There she was still the novice, still his eager pupil. The thought stirred his blood, quickened his pulse.

“But it’s not as if you can take her out anywhere, can you, old chap? I suppose that’s why you stay locked away with her out of sight. Meanwhile, here I am, stuck with Skiffington and that dreadful bore Covey for company. If you deemed her rather more presentable, her company wouldn’t be taking you away so much, and we’d all get to discover her charming quick wit.”

He seemed to infer there was something to be ashamed of about Margaret—as if Carver hid her away on purpose. “I did suggest to her recently that we get our friends together for a small evening party.”

Rothespur looked alert. “Excellent.” Amusement rippled through his blue eyes. “Why don’t I ask Anne, and we’ll host a gathering in Hanover Square. She’s wanted to have a small party, something to cut her teeth on, so to speak, as a hostess. And she’s very fond of your seamstress. I’d like to meet this young woman who has you so much in her thrall. Meet her properly.”