His gaze narrowed. By God, it was true.
She was now showing them the lengths of fabric that Cain Sinclair had brought. Silks, satin, and lace in every color for constructing the unmentionables. He recalled Victoria’s earlier admission, that the garment she’d given to Mr. Sinclair was black with lace.
The image of her wearing such a corset, of black against her silky skin, her breasts veiled by a layer of lace, was deeply arousing. He’d never imagined she was the sort of woman who would make such garments, but clearly she had already done so. Was she that desperate for money that she’d resorted to something this scandalous?
Her father was likely an officer, and from the modest house in which they lived, he suspected they were upper middle class. They ought to have enough funds to live on, without lowering themselves in such a way.
And yet, she’d mentioned financial difficulties that she didn’t want to reveal to her father. Surely there was another way of clearing their debts rather than indulging in such prurient methods.
If anyone found out, the scandal would ruin their family. Jonathan couldn’t let that happen. He owed Victoria his life, and a large sum of money would eliminate the need to earn funds in this way. She could return to embroidery or sewing samplers, instead of working as a seamstress.
Laughter abruptly resounded from inside the dining room. Curiosity overcame him, and he used the walking stick to move in closer. He balanced against the wall beside the doorway, leaning in to eavesdrop on what the women were saying.
“It’s nae good, making these out o’ silk or satin, Miss Andrews. If ye wash it once, the lye soap will burn right through it,” one remarked.
“But only a lady could afford them,” another interjected. “The cost would be too dear for the rest of us. And if they don’t use them more than a few times, it will nae matter. They’ll have to buy more, won’t they?”
A courtesan certainly would. Jonathan still couldn’t grasp what he was hearing, and it was all he could do not to interrupt them.
“Miss Andrews, pardon me for saying so,” the second woman continued. “Ye shouldna be afraid to take chances. If a woman’s trying to get herself a wee bairn, then why put anything at all over her breasts? Make it out of lace or very thin nettle cloth. She’ll have her man on his knees, beggin’ for her.”
Jonathan nearly choked at what he was hearing. Nettle cloth was almost entirely transparent when it was woven thinly—just as daring as lace.
His mind reeled at the discussion. He couldn’t even conceive of Victoria creating seductive unmentionables. Not a woman who, until a few days ago, had never been kissed.
Why does it matter what she does? his mind demanded. You’ll be gone from here, soon enough.
She was an innocent, completely unaware of the consequences of these actions. She knew nothing at all about the intimacies between a man and a woman, and he was torn between wanting to drag Victoria out of there… and wondering if she was as naïve as she seemed.
The taste of her lips haunted him still. He wanted to conquer her mouth again, driving her mad with desire. He wanted to share her bed and awaken in the morning beside her body.
She was an unfulfilled desire—that was all. Why, then, couldn’t he convince himself to let her go?
Chapter Ten
OVER THE PAST few days, the women had spent their time cutting up silk, sewing in various rooms throughout the house. Jonathan had glimpsed bold colors and unmentionables that would make any man uncomfortable. Though the women had raised curious eyes at his presence, they’d kept their distance. And true to her promise, Victoria had paid them wages, though he didn’t know where she’d found the money. Possibly from her own saved coins.
Today, thankfully, was Christmas morning, and they were all gone. Even the servants, whom Victoria had granted a few days off for their holiday.
Using his walking stick, Jonathan hobbled toward the kitchen in search of food. He made up a plate of cold goose and sliced a chunk of clootie dumpling that Mrs. Larson had made last night. It was simple fare, but enough to keep them from starving.
He balanced the plate while struggling to return to the dining room. Victoria sat at the long mahogany table, with piles of fabric surrounding her. She was busy stitching whalebone into a panel. When she saw him, her face flushed, and she gathered up a pile of material to hide her work.
“Good morning,” she greeted him. “I didn’t expect you to be up and about this early.”
“Merry Christmas,” he countered, setting down the plate. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“Christmas.” She set down her needle, an embarrassed smile coming over her. “I’d completely forgotten.”
“I suppose you didn’t buy me a gift, did you?” he ventured.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t go out to buy one.” But she’d recognized his teasing and answered it with a soft smile of her own. Her hair was tucked up in a hurried arrangement, and a long blond strand curled across her neck. He wanted to touch it, to pull the pins from her hair and see it spilling out over her shoulders.
Although he’d come to know her as a demure lady, he’d glimpsed another side to her that he’d never suspected. Knowing that she was spending her hours creating seductive unmentionables only intrigued him more. He imagined her slender body clad in red silk and lace, the chemise following the lines of her curves before flaring out again.
Being with her now was weakening his sense of honor. He wanted to entice this woman, to awaken her into desire until he could taste the sweetness of her skin, watching her come apart.
She was a forbidden temptation, entirely too innocent to be sewing such garments.
“What are you making?” he asked, knowing full well what it was. He wanted to hear whatever explanation she could come up with.
“It’s a-a ladies’ garment.”
“With whalebone,” he added. “I suppose you’re making a corset.”
A red flush came over her cheeks. “What would make you believe it’s something like that?”
“Your sister’s letter. And I overheard what you said to the crofters’ wives the other day.”
“Now why would you read my sister’s letter? It was never meant for you.” She rested her hands upon the table, dismay in her eyes.
“You left it open.” He leaned against the table not denying his guilt. “But even if I hadn’t, it’s not difficult to guess what you’re making.”
Victoria stiffened, as if not knowing what to say. When at last she raised her gray eyes to his, she remarked, “I suppose you’re appalled.”
Jonathan reached for the hidden pieces and saw that the newest corset was made of a deep violet satin. He ran his fingers over the material and noticed a bit of padding sewn into the bottom of the bodice. The effect would make a woman’s breasts appear larger than they were. He didn’t know whether to be amused or indignant.
“You’re selling lies, Miss Andrews.”
“Not lies.” She bit her lip, snatching the garment back again. “Just a bit of help. To those less fortunate.”
Jonathan bit back his laughter. “And what happens when her unfortunate lover discovers that the lady’s curves are not her own?” She gave a shrug, and he knew he’d cornered her. “Lies,” he repeated.
“All right. So they are. But I’ve earned more from these unmentionables than any of the gowns I’ve made.” She picked up her needle again and pulled out the purple satin. Her needle moved in and out of the fabric in tiny stitches as she attached the boning. “This may be shameful to you, but it provides money for my family. And for those women.”
“What will you do when your secret is discovered? How do you think your father will react when he learns what you’ve done?”
“He won’t learn of it. Mr. Sinclair is quite discreet.”
“All of London is not discreet, Miss Andrews,” he pointed out. “If no one knows who is making Aphrodite’s Unmentionables, the secrecy will drive the gossips into a frenzy. It could harm your fa
ther’s military career.”
“We don’t have a choice,” she countered. “My mother spent most of my father’s income on repairs to the Norfolk estate and on taxes. Unless we come up with enough money to pay our debts, it may be inevitable that we’ll have to sell this house.”
“And you’re not ready to leave.”
She shook her head, reaching for her needle and continuing her work. Her mood had grown somber, as if she questioned her ability to get past the front door.
Jonathan crossed the room, leaning on his walking stick, until he reached the fireplace. He tossed a few more peat bricks on the fire and asked, “What work did you give to the crofters’ wives?”
“We’ve already cut out the pieces, and I showed them some samples. They’ll stitch them together, and I’ll teach some of the other women to add the whalebone.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” He could hear it in her voice, in the bright tone of interest.
Her needle moved in a rhythmic pattern, and she nodded. “I’m giving them a way of helping their families. And it helps my sisters and me, for when Mr. Sinclair returns, we can give him dozens of garments to sell.” She added another strip of whalebone and admitted, “It’s a sort of work I’ve never done before. I like the challenge of it.”
He stood by the fire, warming his hands. She didn’t truly understand the purpose of the unmentionables—to tantalize a lover. And though he recognized her desire to make a profit, her innocence would hold her back.
“Will you come and join me for a moment?” he asked quietly.
She finished sewing a seam and set it aside. “Of course. Is something bothering you? Your leg, or—”
“It’s not my leg.” He stared into the bright coals, and she came to stand beside him.
“What is it?”
He faced her, but when he looked at her face, he saw a woman who allured him like no other. A woman without guile, who had never once asked for his money. Instead, she’d begun creating her own business. Despite the way she lived like a recluse, he respected her intelligence and her willingness to solve her family’s debts.
He liked her. And he admitted to himself that he’d enjoyed these days spent within her house. It had been such a relief to be an ordinary man for the past fortnight. She didn’t know who he was, and it had enabled them to become friends.
He wanted to do something for her, to share with her some way of admitting what this respite had meant to him. And since it was Christmas, it seemed an opportune time.
“We only have a few days left before I go,” he reminded her. “Franklin and my staff will arrive soon.”
Her mood dimmed, and she predicted, “You want me to try walking outside again, don’t you?”
It wasn’t quite what he’d intended, but it was one way of distracting her from the sewing. Jonathan stretched out his hand to her, setting the walking stick aside. “I want to try walking on my own. We could go together.”
She appeared wary of his suggestion. “And what if you fall?”
He made no reply, but beckoned to her. She released a sigh and took his hand. Jonathan guided her palm around his waist, placing his arm across her shoulders. “You’ll help me keep my balance.”
Though she appeared worried at their closeness, neither did she pull away. Instead, she guided him forward, allowing him to lean against her as he needed to. With her body pressed close, he caught the soft floral scent of her hair. The wayward strands curled across her throat, but he kept his arm around her shoulders, trying to ignore the urge to act upon his instincts.
“You’ve already touched the door once,” he said. “Walk with me again. Just to the door.”
Her steps slowed the closer they came. Jonathan tightened his arm around her, offering, “I’ll be with you, every step.”
“Don’t be angry with me if I fail.”
“I’ll just kiss you, if you do.” He tossed the threat lightly, not really meaning it. But the color rising in her cheeks made him aware that she wasn’t impervious to his attentions. “Unless you want to fail.” He stopped walking, waiting to see her response.
She didn’t look back at him. “I’ll do the best that I can.” Her mouth tightened in a line, as if she were trying to muster the courage.
He squeezed her fingertips in silent reassurance. “Remember, you’ve done this before.”
She nodded and took one step forward. There was hesitation in her gait, and he saw the fear beginning to slip under her skin. To distract her, he said, “Tell me about your other designs. Besides the unmentionables.”
Victoria gripped his hand and looked into his eyes. “The last gown I made was white with blue stripes. It was for my sister.” Another step forward, and he allowed her to set the pace, not forcing her to move any sooner than she was ready.
“Do your sisters sew?”
She shook her head. “Margaret can do some sewing, but it’s not really her favorite pastime. She prefers to order us around.” There was a glint of humor in her eyes. “Although I’m the eldest, she likes to inform everyone of how a proper lady should behave. I believe she’s memorized some etiquette books.”
“And the others?”
She took another step, but her tension seemed to ease as she talked of her family. “Juliette is nineteen, and she’s very good with numbers. She’s the one who slipped into Mother’s study and saw how dangerous the finances were. Mother likes to pretend everything is all right, but Juliette told us that we’re several thousand pounds in debt.” She sobered a little. “If my sewing can help remedy that, then it doesn’t matter what we sell.”
He offered no argument, though he had already decided to quietly settle their debts. The money meant nothing to him, and it was the least he could do for their family after Victoria had saved his life.
She faltered as they grew closer to the door, and he asked another question to distract her. “What of your youngest sister? There are four of you, am I right?”
“Yes. Amelia is sixteen, and she’s quite good at cajoling others into doing whatever she wants them to. She could sell wool to a sheep,” Victoria remarked.
They were standing at the door, and Jonathan continued to hold her hand. She had gone pale, her gaze fixed upon the floor. From the stiffness of her demeanor, he predicted, “You’re not ready to step beyond the door, are you?”
“No.” Her voice came out emotionless, as if she were trying to hold back an immense fear. In every facet of her bearing, she looked ready to run.
He relaxed his grip on her hand, only to realize that she was holding tightly to him, as if he were giving her the strength to stand there. As if she needed him.
The knowledge slid over him, past the years of loneliness. His hand closed over hers, guarding her. For the past few years, he’d done everything he could to become the richest man in England. And the more wealth he’d amassed, the emptier his life had seemed.
Until now. This woman knew only the man, not the duke. And the more he came to know her, the more he understood how rare she was. Whether or not she could overcome her fears, he couldn’t say. But he felt the need to help her, to do something in his life for another person. It was Christmas, after all.
“One day soon, you’ll have to visit the crofters,” he reminded her. “To inspect their work.”
She shook her head. “I’d prefer that they come back to the house.”
He guided her hand to the doorknob, and her fingers had turned to ice. “How do you know they won’t sew unmentionables only suitable for courtesans?”
Victoria drew her hand back from the doorknob. “Just because we make undergarments that are… different does not mean we’re designing for ladies of that nature. Some of the garments are—” Her voice broke off, and her face transformed, as if an idea had suddenly struck her. Inhaling sharply, she stared at him. “You’re right. I never thought of it that way, but we simply must.”
“Must what?”
Victoria let go of his hand and tore away f
rom him, racing up the stairs. “I need paper and ink.”
He stared at her, wondering what thoughts had suddenly taken possession of her. When one minute passed, then five, he realized she wasn’t planning to return. It struck him that he’d effectively been dismissed.
Making his way toward the stairs, Jonathan debated on whether or not to wait longer. In the end, he decided to satisfy his curiosity. He leaned on the banister, struggling to climb the stairs. He reached the first landing and called out, “Miss Andrews?”
No answer.
He muttered a curse beneath his breath and managed to drag his useless leg up the remainder of the stairs. One of the doors in the hall was slightly ajar, and he hobbled his way toward it. When he knocked, he heard her answer, “I’m not finished yet.”
Peering inside, he saw that she was seated at a desk, writing furiously. Jonathan opened the door a little wider. “What are you writing?”
“I’m sketching.” She dipped her pen in ink and scribbled faster. “More designs.” She turned back to look at him, and there was excitement in her eyes. “You were right, you see. There are many different women. Some will prefer a more modest design. Others… well, they may want a more—” She stopped, as if unable to choose the right word.
“Seductive?” he offered.
“I was going to say a more ‘daring’ garment. But they should have the choice, don’t you see? If they want a beautiful chemise made of silk and ribbons, then they should have it.”
He leaned against the doorframe, torn between wanting to dissuade her from these ideas… and wanting to see precisely what her imagination had come up with.
“And what sort of ‘daring’ garment did you envision?” he asked, crossing his arms as he stared at her.
She blushed, not answering the question. Instead, her pen continued moving over the paper, though the lines were slower. He watched her for a moment before offering his own suggestion.
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