Nights In Black Lace (24 page)

Bryan saw the thick wads of cash stuffed inside it.

Khong blinked. He'd seen them too.

“Mr. Khong,” she said sweetly. “I represent the designer whose panties you stole.”

“I beg your pardon?” Khong said.

Bryan hid a smile with a cough into his hand. Buttoned-down and proper, the dude definitely didn't look like the underwear-snatching type. But he was, in his way.

“You know what I mean.” Odette gave Khong a stare that would have wilted a lesser man. “And I am prepared to make you an offer.”

Khong touched his tie as if he wanted to loosen it, then let his hand drop to the table. “You can't steal an idea,” he said. “Ideas are like—like flower petals. They float through the air.”

“Exactly.” She patted the bag of cash before zipping it back up, not so slowly. “And there is money to be made in petals, no?”

He harrumphed.

“My boss, Odette Gaillard, would like to produce an inexpensive line with you if the panties can be made right.”

“Our production standards are the highest in our price range—” he began.

“I mean no sweatshops, Mr. Khong.”

He looked uncomfortable again.

“Independent monitoring of workplace conditions.”

“That adds to costs.”

Odette gave him a big smile. “Of course. Inexpensive is a relative term. For a couturier looking to break into mass market licensing, the goods will carry a certain cachet. And a somewhat higher price tag than, say, Fruit of the Zoom.”

“Loom,” Bryan whispered. “Fruit of the Loom.”

“Whatever. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Khong?”

He inclined his head.

“Then someone from Gaillard will contact you.” She slid her business card across the desk. “Perhaps even Odette herself.”

Mr. Khong nodded and rose, since she had risen. The good-byes were wary, and Bryan noticed that he kept looking at the purse filled with cash.

They didn't say a word as they walked down the hall and took the stairs instead of the elevator. Two at a time. Galloping with glee.

They ran out and across the street, ducking between the giant button and its needle to get to the next corner. Odette hailed a taxi and one came quickly.

“Fifth Avenue and 57
^th
, please.”

“Now what? Where are we going?”

“To the most glamorous store in New York.”

“Is that what all that money is for?”

Odette laughed. “It worked on Khong. But I wasn't going to give it to him. I just wanted to get his attention.”

“I think you did. So what happens next?”

“Who knows?” She looked out at the New York streets and the jumble of buildings, coffee carts, and table vendors. “He might do very well and I did want to launch a line that every woman can afford. If you can't beat them up, join with them.”

“That's not quite how it goes, but I think I like your version better.”

She rapped on the plexiglass partition.

“Hey, isn't that Tiffany's?” The blocky building and its small, deep-set windows was on their left.

“Yes. And Bergdorf Goodman is in back of us. And here is our final destination, a block away. Henri Bendel.”

She flung a twenty at the cabdriver without asking for a receipt, and jumped out. Then Bryan did, not quite as fast.

He looked up, feeling like a tourist. But then she was looking up too. The old, Beaux-Arts building with its high windows and sloped roof looked almost exactly like her atelier.

“I can see why you like this place,” he said.

She hoisted her sack of cash. “They like me.” Odette led the way inside.

One year later, in Paris…

B
ryan stood in the wings as the bride was made ready, staring out over the heads of the assistants who circled her.

Fitted perfectly into a low bodice, her long skirt of silk chiffon floated around her like an ethereal cloud. The sleeves just barely covered her shoulders. An impossibly large pearl hung in the hollow at the base of her slender neck, suspended from an antique pendant mounting set with diamonds in white gold.

Her earrings were also pendant pearls, and her dark hair was swept up into a pearl-banded high chignon, covered by a floor-length veil.

The gems had been loaned for the occasion by Frederique & Baudelaire, and so had a couple of big brutes to guard them. They watched the proceedings impassively, standing like pillars of uniformed muscle behind the bride.

The crowd would go wild when she finished her walk, did her turn…and opened the dress in front and showed off underwear that would drive any groom out of his mind.

Odette had outdone herself. The set was one of a kind, the only one in the world. She'd modeled the bridal underthings for Bryan last night. Handmade white lace of incomparable fineness that had taken fifteen women a whole year to make. The pieces had come off the pins and bobbins only a week ago, fashioned into a fantasy bra and panty set. The opposite of her usual black and on her, not innocent at all.

He hadn't been allowed to touch them. But seeing her slide out of them and stand before him, more beautiful naked than dressed, was still a sublime experience.

She came up behind him and edged past, talking to the stylist and makeup artist who followed her.

“Is everything ready?” she asked.

“
Oui
,” they replied in unison.

The three of them stopped in front of the model, who shifted a little to allow them to look at her from the front, side, and in profile.

Odette nodded.

She walked with the model to the parting in the curtain and turned to smile at Bryan as the model stepped out and thunderous applause began.

He went to her and put his arms around her waist. “The best for last, Odette.”

“This show will be my last.”

“Until you get bored and start designing again.”

She made a face. “I suppose it could happen. One should never say never. But I do think I will like just being with you for a while. Anonymous and happy. And far away from Paris and the business.”

“Think we'll make the flight to California?”

“With a little luck.”

“We're running late. The traffic on the Champs-Élysées won't stop just because I'm in love with you.”

Odette looked up, her eyes bright. “I still cannot quite believe it.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Believe it. You're going to be mine. And there's been a new development. I'm talking about a lifetime.”

“What? Bryan, last night you said you were not sure. That we should wait.” She pouted. “I didn't care—”

“I stayed awake. I thought about it all night while you were sleeping in my arms. Couldn't think of a reason to wait, couldn't think of anything but how happy you made me. You were so busy this morning I didn't get a chance. But I have you where I want you now.” He took her into his arms for a kiss that made her bend backwards and forget where she was.

Bryan was into it, not minding if anyone saw. No one did, not really, rushing past the lovers to get a peek at the grand finale. He and Odette could have been invisible. A small mob was gathered behind the curtain, looking at the bride on the runway.

The model was supposed to make a graceful curtsey at the end, then turn around to reveal the length and fineness of her train, and then…take it all off. Then Odette would step forth and take her final bow.

The crowd began to applaud and shout in raucous rhythm. The bride got down to the lace and nothing but the lace.

Odette straightened up with a sigh of pleasure. “Do it again,” she murmured.

“Kiss you or tell you that I love you?”

“Kiss first.”

He obliged. She surrendered.

“How about a ring to seal the deal?”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened with delight when he took the fine old rose-cut diamond ring she had admired out of his pocket.

“Ready?”

She stuck out her hand and closed her eyes. “Ready as I will ever be.”

“I think that was you who said all that stuff about love being worth the risk. Just so we're on the same page about that, because I think so too.”

“Yes.” She was shaking. “That was me.”

He slid it on and she stared at her hand with wonder. Then they got wrapped up in a kiss that could have gone on for days if someone hadn't pushed the button that dragged the curtains back.

Astonished, the audience saw Odette Gaillard kissing an unknown man whose hand was up her skirt. They went wild, stomping and giving yells of encouragement and calling for more. Camera flashes went off, fast pops of white-blue light that sparkled in their eyes.

Flustered, she smiled and waved at the shouting crowd. Bryan withdrew his hand and put his arm around her waist.

“Someone is taking pictures,” he said through clenched teeth. “Here we go again. Khong is going to be livid if the exclusive designs for him are—”

“Our official photographer is taking them. Everyone's bag was searched. Smile. We are getting married!” she called to the audience.

“When?” someone called back.

Bryan took a deep breath. “As soon as the show is over.”

“How romantic!”

He recognized the voice. It was Marc, smiling and clapping at the very end of the world, with Achille by his side.

“Well?” he asked Odette. “Are you ready to tell the world?”

“They already know!”

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Before the start of the London Season, March of 1818

“T
he choice is yours, my love. I want you—you know that. Meet me tonight, in the gallery. Don't wear your gown. Wear something easy to remove…”

Grace Hamilton knew she should be scandalized by Lord Wesley's proposition. She should refuse. But she had been trying to stay strong and good and proper for a week and she could not resist any longer.

“I do not know, my lord,” she whispered. He stood behind her, away from the hot, sparkling chandeliers and the swirling crowd, in the shadows of the ballroom at Collingsworth, ancestral home of the Marquis of Rydermere. Lord Wesley's home and a place she had no right to be.

Grace stood by dark gallery doors, wearing a borrowed gown, terrified everyone would see her for the fraud she was.

His lordship rested his hands gently on her waist, his long fingers splayed to meet across her middle—she hadn't expected him to touch her yet and the contact stole her breath. “I will be waiting,” he murmured, his voice a possessive growl. “If you aren't there at midnight, I will have to assuage my broken heart elsewhere.”

How many other ladies here would accept his proposition? A wave of his hand and any number of women would beg to be kissed by him, would eagerly agree to meet him for sin. Dozens of women here wanted to marry him; their calculating eyes fixed on the prize—to become Marchioness of Rydermere.

This house teemed with lovely ladies of good birth, but Lord Wesley had singled her out, had pursued
her
ever since her arrival. From the first moment he had bent over her hand and let his lips play magic on her fingers through the thin muslin of her glove, she had been entranced. And each look he cast her way, each hot and intense glance, had assured her he felt the magic every bit as much as she.

Or was she wrong? What, after all, did she know about men in love?

“Midnight. By midnight,” she teased, feigning a confidence she didn't feel, “you will know if I am coming or not.”

His breath tickled her neck, a hot caress. “Wicked wench. I'll be there.” He moved closer to her, leaving the shadows to press his body against hers. She both stiffened and melted as a hard ridge snuggled against her silk-clad bottom.

“I can't wait to grasp hold of this lush, fashionable arse—” With a groan, he ground his erection against her curves, setting her heart racing. “That, my golden nymph, is for you.”

And then he was gone.

Grace snapped open her fan and beat it so feverishly the thin silk tore from the spokes. She'd never had a man do this to her before. Be so bold. Be so gruff and direct and lusty—

“What was my rascal of a brother saying to you? Oh, Grace, you aren't going to faint, are you? Your face is aflame.”

Grace started guiltily as Lady Prudence joined her in the private corner. Her friend's closed fan rested against her lips, half hiding their firm line. “Did you let him coax you here?”

“No…I needed a rest,” Grace lied.

Lying had never been her talent and she doubted Lady Prudence was fooled. Her friend gave a tip to her head so the candlelight caught the tiny diamonds and sapphires threaded through her dark hair. Lady Prudence was so lovely. It was astonishing to Grace that she had such a friend.

“Don't believe a word he says,” Lady Prudence warned, her gray-blue eyes very solemn. She bent close to be heard clearly over the graceful melody of the waltz. “My brother is a scoundrel.”

Couples twirled past, elegant and glittering beneath the glow of a thousand candles. Gentlemen's hands rested lightly on slender backs; ladies' gloved hands entwined with those of their partners. Skirts swirled around graceful ankles and coattails fluttered to give glimpses of muscular male bottoms.

Grace sighed. “Aren't most of the men we encounter scoundrels at heart? That is what makes them so interesting. But no gentleman would ever really behave as a scoundrel with me.”

“For which you should be profoundly grateful.” They were the same age, both eighteen, but Lady Prudence suddenly looked wise and mature. “You are so exceptionally beautiful, Grace, you will make a devastatingly successful marriage.”

“Will I?” She was running out of time. Within a week or two, the fashionable world would all be in London. Her eldest sister Venetia was already in London, in a rented townhouse, drawing erotic art to save their family, and their mother was sick with worry.

And Grace could save them all. All she had to do was marry.

She ground the toe of her slipper into the gleaming parquet floor and gripped her fan until the splintered spokes bit through her gloves. All she had to do was capture a titled man and she could keep her family from the workhouse. She could return her mother to the world that had cast her out.

Since Grace had turned thirteen, her plan had been direct and simple. She would marry a title. She would make things right. Everyone had told her she was lovely, that she would grow to be a great beauty. She had overheard the secret conversations, when matrons had told her mother how valuable her beauty would be.

“Grace, I am serious.” Lady Prudence gripped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. The silk of Grace's gown—one of Lady Prudence's that she had bought but later decided she did not like—shimmered around her legs. “Do not believe a word my brother says,” Lady Prudence warned. “There is not a young woman on this estate that he has not…had intimacies with.”

“I know.” And Grace did. She knew she was a fool to imagine that Lord Wesley, a wealthy heir, a devastatingly handsome man, would want to marry a nobody like her. But she knew, even after only a week, that she could not bear to settle for anything less. It was not his title she wanted—it was him. The man.

Grace tapped her lips with her torn fan. She wanted it all. Could she not only marry well, but also marry a man she loved and desired? Or was she simply hoping for too much, when her family's security was at stake?

Prudence had adopted a motherly air. “There are many gentlemen who are already besotted with you, Grace. Lord Ornsbrook, who is a viscount, and a wealthy one, is a thoroughly respectable catch. Pelworth hangs on your every word, and he is an earl!”

Grace swallowed hard. Either man should be perfect: young, reasonably attractive, and tongue-tied around her, which should be a good sign.

Prudence pointed with her fan at a lanky blond man laughing his way through the dance set. “Even Sir Randolph Thomas, over there. He possesses a fortune! Yes, he's an atrocious dancer, but, really, a woman never dances with her husband.”

“Prudence, no—”

“Or Lord Wynsome. Such a suitable name. He melts every woman's heart. And he's heir to the Earl of Warren. He's delicious, isn't he? I'm certain he would take one look at you and—”

“Stop!” Grace cried. The Earl of Warren was her grandfather—her mother's father. He had thrown her mother out and barred all of them from his house. Lady Prudence, of course, knew not of that. Like everyone else, Prudence believed the lies Grace had carefully cultivated—the lie learned by her and her sisters. Her mother was respectably married, her father, a sea captain who was away, far across the world, hoping to make his fortune. But that father was her mother's fictitious creation.

She would never dare tell anyone that she was Lord Warren's illegitimate granddaughter and that her father was really Rodesson, the famous and scandalous artist of erotica. Or that her eldest and talented sister was the one now painting the erotic works that bore Rodesson's name.

Lord Wynsome had no idea she was, in fact, a cousin to him. There was no way he would guess, but it was still her greatest fear that he somehow would, that he would expose the truth to Lady Prudence.

Prudence was her entry to the ton, to the world of rich and titled and delicious gentlemen—

She couldn't dare risk Prudence's friendship. And, in truth, she dearly loved her friend.

“But, still, there are more,” Prudence said cheerfully. “Over there—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh good heavens, what is he doing here?”

Grace never heard that tone of voice from Prudence. Low, serious…fearful. Surprised, she strained to look.

A gentleman stood at the entrance to the ballroom—he towered head and shoulders above the crowd. He must have been over six and a half feet in height. And his hair—it was a wild mane of dark blond that streamed past his shoulders, unruly and wild. She knew, by instinct, that it suited the man.

He gave an enormous grin, which revealed deep dimples framing his handsome mouth and brilliant white teeth. Several servants were trying to push him out. With his arms crossed over his huge chest, he appeared to be an immovable wall.

The butler hastened up to the fray, but the mysterious guest merely amiably punched the servant in the shoulder.

Laughing, openly amused, the gentleman refused to budge. To Grace's shock, she saw his head turn and his gaze slide over the crowd. Toward her. She was staring, but so was everyone else. There was no reason he should feel her curious gaze out of the hundreds of others.

Polite decorum decreed she should look away, but she could not stop watching him. His skin was golden bronze, close in color to his luxurious hair. He was obviously a man who exposed his body to the sun. Even bathed in the light of a chandelier, he stood too far away to reveal the color of those penetrating eyes, but she guessed they would be blue.

A silly fancy. She forced her gaze to move demurely away. But she was still aware of him; it was as though the music had stopped and the dancers had whirled away into the night, and there was no one in the ballroom but the handsome stranger and her.

The strangest sensation gripped her, along with a heat that threatened to set her skin on fire.

She'd desired Lord Wesley, but she'd felt nothing like this—

Every forbidden erotic picture, every one of her father Rodesson's erotic drawings—those she'd secretly looked at—spilled through her heated mind.

She wanted this man, this powerful, compelling stranger. She wanted to know what it would be like to lie underneath him and part her legs and take him inside her. She wanted to know how his skin would taste to her lips and her tongue. To know if he would be rigid and big and if he would fill her completely and make her scream in pleasure. She wanted to see him naked, taste him naked, and make love to him until they were both sweaty and senseless—

He was staring at her.

Grace felt it. Felt an answering fire rush over her skin.

Preposterous! How could he even see her? But she glanced up, enthralled by the moment, knowing their gazes would lock—

Or was he looking at Prudence? Wouldn't that make more sense?

He was not looking at either of them. Abruptly he turned on his heel and strode out through the gilt and ivory doors.

Her fan was in tatters beneath her fingers and her heart felt two sizes too big for her chest. Her throat was tight and dry. Her drawers were indecently wet.

She had to know. It was like a sudden addiction. “Who was that?” she cried.

“My half brother.” Prudence's voice shook with…anger? Fear? An emotion Grace could not quite define.

“You have a half brother?”

“He's a bastard,” Prudence continued, her voice contemptuous, using a word she should not. “My father's by-blow. His first-born child, in fact, and my father is stupidly fond of him.”

Grace shook at the revulsion on her friend's face. She was a bastard. Would Prudence feel the same way about her if she knew the truth?

Suddenly Grace felt as though she stood on a tightrope, balancing over a pit of wolves. No, this was the ton. Not wolves—mocking jackals with slavering jaws.

“He should be hung,” Prudence spat. “He's a highwayman. Can you believe he is so bold as to come to this house? He's probably robbed half the people here! And he was a pirate. Why the British Navy did not kill him, I cannot imagine. He's a murderer, a scoundrel, and…” Prudence took a shaky breath.

Grace moved forward, startled by tears in her friend's eyes.

“And our father loves him best!” Prudence cried and stamped her foot.

Grace hugged her friend. “Of course not!”

Prudence pulled out of the hug, shaking. “He does. His mother was a love affair, ours a duty marriage. Of course, he loves dashing Devlin Sharpe. But I
hate
him.”

“Why? Because of what he is?” Grace could hardly believe she wanted to press this. Why should she want to hear about the horrors of being recognized as a bastard?

“He murdered the man I loved. If I wouldn't hang for it, I'd grab one of my father's pistols right now and shoot him where he stands.”

Grace blinked. “How could he murder a man and escape punishment?”

Prudence balled her hands into fists, and Grace heard her fan snap. “I cannot tell you what happened. Not even you, my dear friend.”