The Rake's Unveiling of Lady Belle (7 page)

Belle shook her head, but it was hard to know whether in denial of his words or in amused acceptance he had no idea. Adorned in a dark green gown whose severity was tempered by tiny embroidered flowers around the hem and the low neckline, which exposed the soft swell of her breasts, she was everything a man could and surely did want. His body certainly thought so. Why oh why did other women try to entice him with shrill voices, which grated, or gowns adorned with frills and furbelows, often so diaphanous he could count the hairs on their mounds? This was a simple dress, but suited her so perfectly, was so alluring and only hinted at what it hid, but in it she put any other woman of his acquaintance to shame. Every inch of her called to his masculinity and begged him to put his mark on her. To hang a sign around her neck that declared, ‘keep away'.

I have it bad.
The thought didn't worry him—after all it was a well-understood fact that love could strike at any time.
That
thought brought him up short. Who said anything about love? Phillip mentally groaned. She had addled his brain, and he had no intention of doing anything to alleviate the condition.

‘My lord, help me here. Are you sure you did nothing to annoy Tippen? I'm worried about her.'

Phillip wrenched his mind away from his feelings for the lady in front of him and shook his head to clear it. ‘I promise you, it is not down to me.'

‘It is not normal to see her as a gibbering wreck, and muttering under her breath.' Belle regarded him steadily. ‘I have never seen her so incensed, not even when a certain lady vomited into the Ming vase.'

Why, he wondered, would someone need to do that? The annoyed expression on Madame Belle's face made him decide not to ask the question.

‘Cursing in French and doubting my ancestry, my ability to procreate and other such things?' he said in an amused tone. ‘Or so I thought.'

‘Exactly.' Belle nodded.

‘She speaks French like a native. Is she?' Rude and direct, but Phillip reckoned procrastination would get him nowhere.

‘No, she learned it from me.' It seemed if he could be brief so could she.

His admiration for her grew with every exchange they had. ‘Ah, and you never did say how you met, or indeed how you ended up here, a friend of my sister.' He raised one eyebrow in a gesture designed to invite confidence.

Belle smiled. She reminded him of the cat who got the cream. ‘Correct.'

He bowed. ‘Touché.'

Madame Belle smiled and her eyes lit up with mischief. ‘It is rare I see that, shall we say, vindictive side of Tippen. I think you should be thankful she wasn't holding her cutting shears.'

Phillip's hands automatically moved to cover his staff. ‘And deprive the ladies of my expertise?'

The look Madame Belle now gave him would have felled a giant. What on earth was he doing? Did he have a death wish? Even though, under her gimlet stare, his body was on high alert, his pego demanding attention and the rest of him willing it. Was it wise to let her assume he was insincere in his attentions to her?

‘If you think so.' She sighed in the manner one would before chastising a recalcitrant child and dusted her hands together. ‘So, my lord, what can I help you with today? Another late mistress already?'

He bowed, kissed her hand again—it was fast becoming addictive—and grinned. ‘Even I'm not so cavalier. I came to see if you were all right.' It sounded weak and silly even to his own ears. ‘However, I'll make sure you know who is next and when.'
I'll need to tread warily and not send her fleeing from me.

‘Thank you.' She smiled and her face lit up with mischief. ‘For what reason?'

‘Well hopefully I might be able to swell your coffers without you putting a needle to a piece of material if things carry on as they started.'

Madame Belle laughed. ‘Think of my reputation, my lord—it would be sure to get out eventually. Be “Dressed by Belle” and lose your beau. Perhaps I'll keep to my own status quo.'

To say nothing of the fact my pego would shrivel up from lack of use.
Nevertheless he was determined they would keep in touch and she would learn to accept him in her life one small step by step. He had no certainty of a happy ending, but it would not be for want of trying.

‘That would be a pity,' he said. ‘Now are you sure you are all right?'

She blinked. ‘Of course. Why should I not be?'

‘Rosemary is a vindictive woman.' Surely Madame Belle knew that? ‘I wanted to reassure you there will be no comeback over your actions.'

She nodded. ‘So C…Lady Clarissa assured me.'

C…?
‘Do you know my sister well?'

‘Quite well, my lord. She has championed me from the first.'

Damn.
‘I see.' He didn't. ‘Therefore you know that our family mean what they say?'

‘Of course. Now may I offer you a drink before you leave?'

It was a wonder she didn't hand him his hat and cane and push him out of the door. ‘Are you in so much of a hurry to see me go?'

Madame Belle flushed. ‘No, of course not, how rude that must have sounded. I didn't want you to feel obligated to stay, however.'

‘I don't,' Phillip said gently. ‘As for a drink, yes a glass of brandy would go down a treat.'

Belle grinned and he saw a carefree side of her, hitherto hidden from him.
Damn she
does
remind me of someone, but who? As much as he racked his brains the connection hovered just out of reach.

‘Not tea and scones?'

‘Not this time. Brandy and gingerbread perhaps?' Phillip asked hopefully.

‘Gingerbread with brandy?' she said incredulously. ‘What a mixture.'

He shrugged. ‘Why not? I like gingerbread and the building is redolent of the aroma.' He'd scented the mouth-watering smell the minute he'd entered.

Belle rolled her eyes. ‘Mrs Lovett's baking day. Of which she has several each week. If you pour yourself a glass of brandy, I'll get you some gingerbread.'

‘No brandy for you?'

She shook her head and grimaced. ‘I hate the stuff. I believe there's a fine Highland Park whisky from the distant Orkney Islands in that carafe behind you. I'll have a tot of that, please. Half whisky and half water from that bottle over there.' She pointed to a tall green glass bottle next to the golden liquid in a bevelled glass carafe.

‘You dilute it?' All the whisky Phillip had drunk was pure spirit. Not his favourite drink, it had to be said. ‘Is that a woman's preference?'

‘No, I have it on good authority it is the way it should be drunk. If you wish to try it feel free.'

He nodded, as she whisked out of the room. Tempting as it was to do a little spying he would not. Anything he found out about the mysterious Madame Belle would be information she gave him freely. Or information his sister gave accidentally. He didn't count trying to wheedle information out of Clarissa as unethical, just sensible.

Phillip poured two glasses of what Madame Belle had called Highland Park, and sniffed it cautiously. Peat, smoke and honey hit his senses and he sniffed again in appreciation. Much richer and smoother than any whisky he'd tasted before. With a quick look around to ensure the room was still empty except for himself, and with a wry grin at his stealth, Phillip dipped his little finger into one glass and licked the liquid that gathered on the tip.

Smoky sweetness curled around his taste buds and he groaned with pleasure. It was perfection. He could easily change his mind about the spirit. Why add water? However, mindful of the way Madame Belle had been advised by those in the know about the proper way to appreciate the spirit, he carefully measured an equivalent amount of water into each glass. The colour paled but mysteriously seemed deeper and more complex. It was nothing like any whisky he'd met before and Phillip wondered if it was duty paid? The bottle was undistinguished and unlabelled. Not that he would quibble over that. He had no qualms about spirits from the gentlemen and never had. Sadly with peace declared, smuggling was on the wane, and duty was more often than not now paid on spirits and silks. Perhaps it was different in Orkney? The people from there were considered to be different.

Goblet in hand, he wandered over to the window and gazed into the tiny garden. Neat and tidy, it was obviously well tended and loved. Who was this woman? With everything he learned he became more intrigued. Phillip sipped his now diluted whisky and savoured the taste and scent of the aromatic liquid as it slid silkily down his throat. He would have to enquire where it came from and see if he could add a few bottles to his own cellar. Plus the water of course.

The noise of the door behind him opening alerted him, and Phillip turned around to see Belle enter carrying a large tray. He hastened to relieve her of it and put it down on the table she indicated. The aroma of warm gingerbread permeated the room, and he nigh on salivated. With a jolt, Phillip realised he'd missed lunch. Amongst many gentlemen of the ton, luncheon was considered effete. Not by Phillip—he had long decided his body needed frequent refuelling even if it was only a small meal. However, that day he'd been at Tattersalls to check out a horse one of his peers had recommended. By the time he'd purchased the animal and arranged for it to be delivered to his stables, it had been mid-afternoon, and he had made his way to Watier's. It was almost without conscious thought he'd directed the hackney driver to take him to Bruton Street, and knocked on the door of Belle's Salon.

Only a very discreet brass plate indicated who resided there, and what lay within the walls. Phillip approved. Classy.

‘I brought tea as well. Mrs Lovett insisted. Said it went with her baking and who am I to argue?'

‘Nor me. I'd drink three cups if it gave me access to her cooking.'

Madame Belle grinned at him. Her interest in why he had visited was palpable, and Phillip had to admire her self-restraint as she poured tea and handed him a plate of gingerbread, and merely talked platitudes. It wasn't until she was also seated and he'd eaten his first slice of the sticky gingerbread that she went, as he thought of it, on the attack.

‘So, my lord, why are you here? I doubt it was solely to see what confection my housekeeper had concocted.' Her eyes twinkled but her expression was wary.

Phillip swallowed the mouthful of food and brushed non-existent crumbs from his waistcoat as he stalled for time. He might have known Belle would go straight to the point.

‘And do not say something pathetic, like you wanted to make sure I was all right,' she said emphatically. ‘Why should I not be? And if you were thinking I might take Lady Rattenberry's place think again. I will be no man's mistress.'

As he thought. Plain-speaking and straight to the point.

Phillip opened his mouth to answer her and a wayward crumb stuck in his throat. He began to cough, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he shook his head to try and dislodge the tiny morsel. That was all he needed. To be carried off by a crumb.

‘I…I…' He wheezed like an old man as Belle stood up, and moved behind him. Her breasts brushed his back and even in his distressed state his ever eager pego began its ‘notice me' dance. She pushed him forward and began to thump him on the back. All thoughts of sex, dalliance or anything else arousing disappeared. She had enough strength to hold her own against many a pugilist he'd sparred with.

‘Enough, thank you,' he said once he was able to speak coherently.

Belle handed him a clean napkin to wipe his face and hands and sat back down.

‘You were saying?'

Phillip couldn't help it. He laughed, and shook his head. There he was, having almost choked to death, and all she was worried about was the reason he'd called.

‘I don't know why I called to be honest. I was worried about you, and I did want to see you again. I want…' He hesitated, unsure how truthful he could be and not be shown the door. ‘I want to get to know you better.'

‘Hmm.' Belle narrowed her eyes and he swore she saw into his soul. It was an unnerving experience. ‘Why? I've told you I won't be your mistress.'

‘I'll accept that. And remember I haven't asked you.' He had wondered about it, to be honest, but luckily she'd scotched that idea before he was able to embarrass either of them. He forbore to add ‘yet'.

She went red. Phillip looked down at his teacup and refilled it as he fought not to laugh. Once he had his mirth under control he spoke again. ‘In all seriousness, Madame Belle, I would like to be your friend.'

‘Why?' Belle asked him baldly. ‘Gentlemen of your ilk do not befriend the likes of me. Unless it is for ulterior motives. I'm only a lowly seamstress, and will never be any man's playing.'

Phillip was uneasily aware he could have such motives, if he had half a chance. But…

‘Belle, my dear, you will never be a lowly anything. Your goodness and integrity would outshine any lady—whether in the ton or not. Oh, I'll be honest, I think you're everything I ever want in a woman. Of course I'd like to bed you if you were willing. What hot-blooded rake wouldn't? But here's the difference between myself and many others of my ilk: I would never, ever, try to coerce you or force you to do something abhorrent to you. Mind you, that's not to say I wouldn't try to change your mind in other ways.' He winked. ‘But for now, my only goal is to make you comfortable in my presence and warn you I intend to use your services whenever necessary.'

Belle raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘When you want to pay off a mistress?'

‘And to ask your advice on a present for my sister.'

She inclined her head. ‘The latter is fine; the former worries me a little. I don't want it to be thought that to be “Dressed by Belle” is the death knell to a relationship.'

He hadn't thought of that.

‘However,' Belle continued, ‘we can cross that bridge when we come to it.'