The Lover (13 page)

She did not have to glance down to see what the modiste saw. There was no mistaking the physical evidence of her night of passion—her breasts had been hungrily suckled by the man who waited on the other side of the drawn curtain.

The measuring tape circled her torso, pulled tight to nip her bruised, distended nipples.

"Small in the breast." The modiste quickly scribbled a measurement onto a little ledger before dropping it into her apron pocket. Sinking to her knees, she drew the tape around Anne's waist. "We are thickening here, mademoiselle. Perhaps we should forgo our desserts."

Anne gritted her teeth. So
much for hidden perfections
.

The tape circled her hips; Madame Rene's head dipped perilously close to parts that surely no woman should be near. Especially when those parts—tender and swollen from a man's attentions—lasciviously jutted forward. "Hips a trifle broad."

The tightness banding her left foot eased—Madame Rene expertly unlaced her half boot.

"Lift your foot, mademoiselle." Anne awkwardly complied, grabbed madame's perfectly coiffed, impossibly red hair to keep from toppling on top of the dressmaker when she jerked the shoe off of her foot. "
Maintenant. Le droit
." The modiste tapped her right foot. "Up."

Anne curled her stockinged toes into the wool carpet and concentrated on the maroon curtain instead of the small hand that pressed into her inseam in the exact same spot that Michel had nuzzled her. The intimate touch spiraled through her groin, rendering her breathlessly, painfully aware of the pulsating throb between her thighs and the man who waited behind the velvet curtain.

The modiste jotted down more measurements before springing up as sprightly as a child. "Claudette!"

Anne with a start became aware of a small, nervous woman who appraised her much in the same manner as Madame Rene did. She clutched a black satin garment to her thin chest.

"Claudette, lace mademoiselle into the corset—ah, we shall sew padding into it,
id
—" Anne stiffened as the modiste thrust her hand inside the corset, sharp knuckles digging into her right breast—"and reinforce it with whalebone, so that it pushes her up and out,
oui
?"

"
Oui
, madame."

"
Vite
, we must have a bolt of fabric—Angelique, bring the peacock
velours
!"

The curtain was thrust aside, affording Anne a fleeting glimpse of Michel—and he of her.

Un étalon
, Madame Rene had said. A stallion.

Is there nothing that you will not do?

Nothing. Providing that it brings pleasure.

The violet in his eyes flared; then he was obliterated by a tall, bony woman who strode through the doorway with the bolt of peacock blue velvet as if on a mission of mercy. The maroon curtain flapped closed behind her.

The heat of Michel's gaze remained.

Madame took the material and draped it about Anne's hips and legs. "We must showcase her legs—they are passably fair,
non
? The panel must be tight—tighter, with an overdress caught up to the side, so. For
une robe de jour
, a day dress, we will sew little kick pleats so that she may stride unhindered.
Oui
?"

A resounding chorus of "
ouis"
followed.

The dressing room was too crowded; the attention Anne received was too overwhelming. French perfume and gas from the overhead chandelier swirled inside her head.

What more could Michel possibly do to her that he had not already done
? she wondered dizzily.

What would she talk about, these coming hours, days, weeks?

He was an anomaly: a sophisticated man who possessed both the uninhibited manners of his French forebears and the cool civility of the English.

What if her wealth could not hold his attention?

Suddenly the bolt of material was gone, as was the corset.

"Never fear; we will do well by you, mademoiselle. You may join Monsieur Michel and I when you are dressed."

Madame Rene regally exited through the curtain while the two contrasting assistants, one short and wiry, the other tall and gangly, dressed Anne.

Coldly. Methodically. As if she were a mannequin instead of a woman who for the first time in her life flouted society and all it represented.

Anne dimly realized that her hands were icy cold.

She was afraid.

And she did not like being afraid.

It made her feel as if she were eighteen instead of thirty-six.

Anne joined Madame Rene and Michel only to find that they sat side by side. They were surrounded by bolts and bolts of fabrics. Bright, vivid colors spilled over the gold brocade couch and the Aubusson-covered floor. Some hues she had never before seen; others she had admired but never dared wear.

Their heads were pressed together. Afternoon sunlight glinted on their hair. Michel's was untainted by gray; madame's was brazenly dyed red. They conferred over a cluster of sketches.

As if she did not exist.

The client, having provided the necessary monies, was no longer of any import.

The fear and excitement that had dogged her decision to stay with Michel found a focus.

He
was not the one who would be wearing these exotic colors that represented every hue of the rainbow. And he certainly was not paying for them.

"I believe it is I you should be consulting, madame," Anne said frigidly.

Madame Rene regarded her as if she were a child who had rudely spoken out of turn.

Anne's anger grew disproportionately. "I will take a gown in navy blue serge, but I would like to see fashion plates, please."

Madame Rene stiffened, rather like a small bantam hen. The collar of pearls circling her throat glowed. "I am a
couturière
, mademoiselle. An
artiste
. Do you question my talent?"

Michel smoothly intervened. "Mademoiselle merely wondered when you could deliver your masterpieces, madame. She would like a day dress for tomorrow."

"Impossible." The couturier's French accent was strangely lacking.

"Nothing is impossible, madame," Michel said softly.

Greed replaced the stubborn implacability in her bright, golden brown eyes. "Are you willing to pay the price, Monsieur Michel?"

Michel's violet gaze rested on Anne.

Every word they had exchanged—every touch, every intimate act—was reflected in his eyes.

The shocking insinuation of his finger.

His uninhibited tongue-bath.

Complete access…

Suddenly the busy city of London invaded the small, elegant shop. Muffin boys rang their bells. Vendors shouted their wares. Carriage wheels sang. A whistle sliced through the noise—a street sweeper hailing a cab in the hopes of earning an extra halfpence.

"Yes, madame." Michel's voice was hard, implacable. "I am willing to pay the price."

"Then it is done." Madame Rene rose from the couch, back straight, head regally held high. "It has been a pleasure, mademoiselle. Do not stay away so long next time, monsieur. Claudette! Angelique! Babette! Bring the bolts of material—we have other customers who await our services."

Customers who were not as ungracious as the spinster Mademoiselle Aimes.

Madame's feminine French army hurriedly gathered together the bolts of beautiful fabrics and trailed after their mistress.

Anne's beaded reticule glittered on a Louis XVI side table; the fingers of her black silk gloves dangled limply over the glazed, gilded wood. Her black grenadine cloak hung on a brass hook nearby. Michel's cane was propped beside it, gold head gleaming.

The private sitting room shrank until there was no place for self-deception.

A peahen did not belong in the French provincial setting.

It was all too obvious Michel did.

He had sat there, in this shop, perhaps on that very same divan… many times.

Assessing many different women.

Anne squared her shoulders. "Why did you bring me here?"

Michel's violet eyes were impenetrable. "Madame Rene is in reality
la Comtesse de I'Aguille
. Her grandparents escaped to London during the revolution. They lost everything—their estates, their wealth, their jewels. Foolishly they reared their sole surviving daughter to believe that she would marry an English aristocrat worthy of her position. The daughter succumbed to a rake who had no intention of marrying her; then she succumbed to death after delivering his child. The grandparents turned their ambition onto the grandchild—a beautiful, titian-haired girl who would obviously attract wealthy, titled men.

"But the girl was practical. She was determined to become a courtesan and have not one, but many English aristocrats. When her attractions matured, she opened this establishment. First she ruled the men, now she rules their women. A woman who does not have a gown designed by Madame Rene is not thought to be fashionable."

Anne continued to stare at him mutinously.

She did not want to feel sorry for Madame Rene.

All these years she had been reconciled to being a plain spinster. Or so she had thought. With a single fitting the modiste had shown her how little she differed from the eighteen-year-old girl she had once been who had failed to take her place among London's beautiful, fashionable elite.

"She does not dress just any woman, Anne," Michel elaborated gently. "Not even for the exorbitant prices society belles are willing to pay."

"Did you take just any woman who could pay you?" she asked coldly, knowing she was behaving badly but unable to stop the question.

"At first, yes," he said bluntly.

"And later?"

"I took only those who met my criteria. As does Madame Rene."

"What is her criteria, pray tell, if not wealth?"

"The same as mine."

"And that is?"

"We both require passion in a woman."

For one heart-stopping moment Anne believed that he found her attractive.

She wanted to believe him.

But Michel would not have taken her without her money any more than Madame Rene would have.

The throb between her legs intensified. "You said you would not lie to me."

"I have not."

"If I wanted you to… would you?"

A faraway door slammed shut on the noisy London life that had invaded the shop.

Something like pain crossed Michel's dark features. Or perhaps it was regret. Or merely boredom at her lack of sophistication. "No, I will not lie to you."

Anne blinked back tears. "Why not?" she asked tightly.

"Because I like you, Anne Aimes."

No one had ever said they liked her. Wanted her.
Needed her
.

She quickly countered to cover the hot flush of pleasure his declaration elicited. "Then you have lied to other women."

"Yes," he said baldly.

"Did you not like them?"

"I liked some of the women I've been with. But not all. Liking has little to do with lust."

"Did you ever lie to any of those whom you liked?"

"Yes," he said adamantly, unrepentantly.

"But you will not lie to me." The bite of roast beef she had eaten for lunch gored her stomach. "Why not?"

Why wouldn't he tell her that she was beautiful?

She wouldn't believe him then.

She would understand the basis of his purported attraction: money. She would know how to act. What to expect.

She would know what he wanted from her.

Michel rose from the gold brocade couch. Purposefully he stalked her.

The raspy contact of his fingers bolted through her body. It touched places only he would ever touch.
Her breasts. Her clitoris. Her buttocks
.

He cupped her face and lifted it to his, his breath a sultry caress. "Because you don't want me to."

She stared at the black tie knotted at his throat; the heat of his fingers penetrated her flesh. Her teeth.
Her bones
. "How do you know that?"

"I know you, Anne."

He could not possibly know her.

Her desires, yes. But not the woman who had dedicated her life to aging parents rather than risk being ridiculed.

He did not know the woman who out of weakness and cowardliness had heartlessly prolonged pain and suffering.

Anne resolutely met his waiting gaze. "Perhaps I would rather be lusted after than liked."

Michel's face lightened; he smiled, a flash of white, even teeth. "I lust after you, Anne. Lust is not synonymous with liking, but neither does it preclude it."

She determinedly touched the front of his wool trousers to test the validity of his statement.

Heat scorched her hand.

He was hard.

Ready.

A pulse beat in the heart of her palm.