Wedded in Scandal

by Jade Lee

  “Whose are those?”

  “My cousin’s, when he grew too big for them. Papa said there was no use in throwing out perfectly good boots.”

  “Hmph,” Helaine snorted. Even she could see where Francine’s feet were rubbed sore from the ill-fitting footwear. “Then we shall put your father’s feet in boots that are two inches too big and see how he likes trying to dance in them.”

  “I don’t like how they make such noise when I walk,” the girl confided.

  The rest of her clothing was serviceable but nothing refined. Cheap muslin for her shift and a corset as ill fitting as her boots. On a flash of inspiration, Helaine called for it all to be changed. A silk shift and a new corset. Indeed, Wendy had to run to the shop three doors down to obtain a corset of the right shape and fit. It was terribly expensive, but price was not the problem with Francine.

  By the time Wendy returned, Helaine had already restyled the girl’s hair. She was not especially skilled at it, but her years at school had taught her some things. After all, what more was there for girls to do in the evenings but play with each other’s hair?

  Finally they could get to the clothes. Silk shift and a corset that fit correctly went on first. Wendy had taken her cue from Helaine and brought in a pair of silk stockings as well. Pale blue slippers and then the dress, a beautiful, simple dress of midnight blue.

  “But it is so dark!” Francine protested. “I thought all young misses were supposed to wear pale colors.”

  “Oh, the tyranny of Almack’s!” Helaine huffed. “You are fortunate, my dear, that you are not constrained by those biddies. We shall fashion something exactly for a dance there when you go, but for now, be grateful that none of those harpies shall be staring at you. They chose those colors specifically because pale gowns are beneficial to their complexions and no one else’s.”

  Francine nodded, completely awed that someone would criticize that hallowed dance hall of the haut ton. In truth, as the daughter of a milliner, Francine would never be allowed inside the doors, but it never helped to point out a person’s social limitations. So Helaine spoke in “ifs” and “whens,” as she helped Francine into one of her simplest but most inspired designs.

  Simple, clean lines. A high back collar that plunged in front to a scandalous V neckline to show her cleavage. And best of all, a full drape of fabric to make her appear stately rather than frumpy. With her hair flowing softly about her face, she appeared like a queen emerged from her boudoir.

  “One last thing,” Helaine said as she carefully draped a necklace of deep amethyst about the girl’s throat. It was paste, of course, and rather dull at that. But it was all that was needed to complement Francine’s porcelain skin. “And now, the mirror.”

  Wendy waited a moment, pursing her lips. “The line ain’t right,” she said as she ducked forward. Wendy was lying. The line of the dress was perfect; it was Francine who was not right. She still slumped as she looked with worry down at the dark-colored fabric. “Lift up straight, else you’ll be nipped by the pins,” Wendy said.

  Francine did as she was ordered, lifting her chin, her torso, and then her whole body into a tall, statuesque line.

  “Oh, absolutely perfect,” breathed Helaine.

  Now came the moment of truth. Wendy stepped back and took hold of the muslin on the mirror. She paused to grin, and then she pulled off the fabric in a whoosh. Helaine held her breath. It all depended on whether Francine could see the change. Some women, she knew, would see only the ugly no matter what one did. But the girl was young, and life had not yet battered her into bitterness.

  The moment her reflection appeared, the girl gasped. Then she stared. Then she stared some more, her mouth ajar with shock. “But…but…” She was so stunned she couldn’t formulate the words.

  “Do you see?” asked Helaine with a grin. “You’re beautiful!” Then she crossed to the mirror and started pointing. “Your skin is flawless, like creamy foam. This dark color brings out that beauty. You should never wear pinks, Francine. It makes your cheeks look as if you were drunk.”

  “Mama loves pink,” she whispered.

  Helaine did not have to say anything. The girl’s tone said that she knew her mother was wrong.

  “Do you recall how you objected to the high collar of my designs? Do you see how it lifts and lengthens your neck? Does it hurt you at all?”

  Francine twisted her head left and right. “It feels divine!”

  “Especially since there is no starched lace. That, my dear, feels terrible. But this? Heavenly.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Now, some will say that your neckline is too low, that it should be square, and all sorts of other nonsense. Look here, my dear, the men will see this”—she outlined the dark crevasse of her cleavage—“and they will think lustful thoughts.”

  “Mrs. Mortimer!” the girl gasped, but it was mock outrage. Helaine could see that she was thrilled at the idea. Likely she had never thought of herself as someone who could inspire carnality in any man.

  “And here is the best part of all,” Helaine said. “Walk a bit. See how the light blue slippers peek out as you move? Men shall be looking to see your dainty ankles, and you do have divine ankles, my dear.”

  “I do?”

  “Well, of course you do! Just look.”

  Francine did, and it was all Helaine could do not to laugh. The girl lifted her skirt enough to see her ankles in the mirror, and then she released a giggle. Twisting her foot left and right, she inspected her ankles from all different angles, her expression shifting to a happiness that seemed to suffuse her entire body. It flushed her cheeks, straightened her spine, and generally brought life to all of her.

  “I do! I do!”

  From beside the mirror, Wendy had folded her arms across her chest but was looking on with a grin. “Told you a good dresser was all you needed.” She said the words to Francine, but her eyes were on Helaine. And in the sparkle of delight, Helaine read a satisfaction that could only come from work well done. The design, the sewing, and even the slippers and necklace all combined to create a reflection that was not perfect so much as alive with joy. And joy was so much better than perfect.

  “Look at yourself, Francine,” Helaine said. “Look at your face and your eyes. You are happy. You are beautiful. And that, my dear, will attract men like moths to a flame.”

  Francine turned, her eyes shimmering with hope. “Do you think so?”

  “Of course I do! And if you don’t believe me, then there is a man just on the other side of this curtain. I heard him come in just a few minutes ago. He is our bookkeeper and he has been sitting there most patiently. His name is Anthony and he is a man used to numbers. You know the type, I believe. Your father is such a man.”

  Francine wrinkled her nose. “Yes. He’d never lie about anything even when he should.”

  “Exactly. That is Anthony through and through. He will tell you exactly what he thinks.” Then she stepped forward to whisper into Francine’s ear, “And mind you watch his eyes. See where they go. I wager they will drop right here.” She gestured to the girl’s ample cleavage. “And if he blushes, then you shall know that there are lustful thoughts in his mind. Even in one so prosaic as Anthony.”

  Francine giggled, but she was more than excited by the idea. Helaine waited a moment to be sure all was ready. Then she called through the curtain to the workroom behind.

  “Anthony, would you mind terribly? I have something I need to ask you.”

  She heard a rustle of a chair scraping backward. Her desk was there and she knew that, as their bookkeeper, he had no doubt been going over the accounts.

  “Anthony?” she called again when there was no answer. Then, with a wink to Francine, she hauled open the curtain.

  There, sitting in the center of her workroom, was not Anthony. It was Lord Redhill.

  Chapter 4

  Robert hadn’t known what to expect when the curtain parted between workroom and showroom. Of course he’d hea
rd the women’s voices, even knew that the enterprising Mrs. Mortimer was one of them. But he had not expected to come eye to bosom with a young girl of a decidedly lush figure.

  He leaped to his feet, as did Anthony beside him, at the very same moment that Mrs. Mortimer squeaked in alarm.

  “Lord Redhill!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  Robert forcibly dragged his eyes away from the girl turned nymph. And not an anemic nymph as drawn in children’s books, but the kind pictured on Greek vases. “My God, woman, what have you done to the girl?”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Mrs. Mortimer said stiffly, obviously not sorry at all. “But you do not belong here.”

  “I don’t belong here? No decent woman belongs here! Is that what you intend to do to my sister?”

  The woman arched a brow at him, but he did not miss the way her clenched fists had landed on her hips. She was trying to control herself, but there was raw fury inside her.

  “Lord Redhill, you forget yourself!”

  “I most certainly do not!” he roared. “I won’t have you doing that to my sister!”

  Mrs. Mortimer was about to object. She drew in her breath, but she never got the chance to speak her mind. The girl grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way. And then she stepped right up to Lord Redhill, her face flushed and fearful.

  “What has she done to me?” she asked.

  He looked down at her and, as God was his witness, he could not prevent his eyes from dropping farther. He didn’t intend to, but they were right there. And he was a man after all.

  Then the girl stomped her foot, making her bosom jiggle in the most delightfully terrible way. “Tell me! What has she done?”

  He dragged his gaze up to the girl’s face. He tried to modulate his voice, but his throat was choked off. “You seem like a nice young woman,” he said gently, “but this…woman…has dressed you as a…a…”

  “A tart?” the girl asked, her voice shaking slightly.

  He shook his head even as he said, “Yes. Well, not exactly a tart. Much higher class than the usual flyer. But I’m afraid no man can look at you like that and think of anything but…but…” He felt his face heat in a blush. In desperation, he looked back at Anthony, hoping for help in explaining the situation. Sadly, the poor bookkeeper had flushed a bright crimson and his gaze was locked exactly where it ought not to be. “Oh, bloody hell,” he murmured, only to belatedly realize he shouldn’t be saying such words in front of ladies. “Well, you can see exactly what happens when you are dressed like that.”

  With a soft curse, he walked directly in front of the bookkeeper, blocking his view. “Anthony, I believe I should like that tea now,” he said by way of distraction. It didn’t work. The boy was clearly still dazed. So Robert had to snap his fingers. “Anthony! Tea!”

  The young man blinked. “Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course. Yes. Tea. Right away…”

  Except the man didn’t leave. He took a meandering route to the workroom kitchen that allowed for him to see the girl the whole way. He didn’t even bother to hide his intentions, but stared slack-jawed the entire way. Fortunately, Mrs. Mortimer wasn’t completely lost to propriety. She released a heavy sigh.

  “Perhaps you could have my mother assist, Anthony. In the kitchen upstairs, if you would.”

  Anthony nodded, and finally disappeared up a staircase to the upper rooms. Only then did Robert turn back to the girl.

  “You see,” he said gently. “Dressing in such a way is not at all appropriate. What would your mother say?”

  That was the wrong question to ask. He knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The girl’s eyes widened. At first he thought it was in horror, but it quickly became something more like glee.

  “Mama will hate this!” the girl gasped. “Hate it with a passion!” Then she leaped forward to engulf Mrs. Mortimer in a hug. The lady stumbled slightly, but quickly regained her footing, returning the hug threefold.

  “Oh, Francine, you are most welcome!” she said with a laugh.

  “I want three more dresses like this!” the girl said when she stepped backward. “No, ten more! I shall have my entire wardrobe redone just as you think best!”

  Robert groaned. He couldn’t help it. “That is not at all what you should do.”

  Then the girl turned to him. Her back was straight and her eyes glittered with happiness. “My lord,” she said loftily, “I believe you and my mother would get along quite famously. Her dresser is down on Bond Street with all the other stuffy old people. I suggest you go there and leave the younger generation to dress as we wish.”

  Robert gaped at the girl, completely flabbergasted. It was bad enough that she had spoken so tartly to him—a peer of the realm. But to call him stuffy? Old? Good God! Thankfully, Mrs. Mortimer intervened before he could find the right words to blast the chit back into her place.

  “Yes, well, I believe Lord Redhill’s tastes have been adequately expressed. Come along, my lord. This is a place for ladies. I believe your tea awaits in the front room.”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled him along. She could not have budged him if he had not allowed it. But his mind was still grappling with the girl’s words. Had it happened to him? Had he really turned old so young?

  He stepped into the front parlor, moving easily to the settee as Mrs. Mortimer directed. Anthony appeared a moment later, the tea set rattling on the tray.

  “Thank you, Anthony,” said Mrs. Mortimer as she gracefully removed the tray from his hands before the china shattered. “And in the future, I believe guests should wait in this parlor, not the back workroom.”

  Robert looked up to see the young man blush again, his gaze going down to his feet. “Er, yes, mum. It’s just that…er, well…”

  “It was raining,” Robert inserted, trying to rescue the man. “And I was rather forceful in pushing my way into the nearest doorway.” He had, in fact, maneuvered exactly to get into the back workroom. He learned much more about a business from the back.

  The lady turned to frown at him. “You bullied your way inside my workroom?”

  “Er…yes.”

  Her eyes narrowed and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to receive a well-deserved dressing-down. It didn’t come…at him. She turned to poor Anthony, and he was stunned to hear how cold her voice became.

  “Any number of lawbreakers and miscreants will attempt to push their way into the back. If you cannot stand proof against them, then you are of no use to me.”

  As expected, Anthony flushed a dark red, but he was not entirely without a spine. He lifted his chin. “I am an excellent bookkeeper, Mrs. Mortimer. I have served you extremely well in that capacity.”

  “Not if you allow anyone to push their way uninvited into my back room. Good God, Anthony, there are ladies there! Clients and their families, not to mention Wendy and myself. Can you imagine what could happen?”

  Robert all but rolled his eyes. “Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t you? I hardly think you were in any danger from me.”

  “Really?” she drawled as she spun around. “And how would you feel if I pushed my way past your valet to enter your bedroom, my lord?”

  It was a poor choice of words, especially since he was thinking how magnificent she looked. Her clothing was perfect, emphasizing her height and her full bosom, but it was the color in her cheeks and the smudge of dirt on her forehead that he found so appealing. She appeared both statuesque and infinitely human. Which made her a woman in his mind, and a very appealing one.

  His thoughts must have appeared on his face, because she abruptly glared at him. And that, perversely, made her more attractive to him.

  “Very well, my lord. I shall remember that you find it perfectly acceptable for a stranger to bully your staff, enter your library, and rifle through your personal papers at will.”

  “That would be most unwise,” he said, his voice dropping at the very idea.

  “As it was for you to try the same with my ow
n.”

  He arched his brow in outrage, but honesty forced him to keep quiet. That was exactly what he had been trying to do when he went into the workroom. He had wanted to know what sort of woman she was. But all he could manage was a stiff rebuke.

  “Anthony was most discreet regarding your personal affairs. And he never left me alone in the back.”

  She huffed as she turned to face the boy. “And that, my lord, is the only reason Anthony has not been sacked.”

  He could see her words hit the young man, as well they should. In truth, no bookkeeper would stay employed for long if he did not live and breathe the word “discretion.” But he didn’t say that aloud. At least not until after Anthony had bowed stiffly and retreated. And even then, Robert waited while Mrs. Mortimer took her seat and served him tepid tea.

  “Not many young men can withstand a peer, you know,” he said gently.

  “And I’m sure you were most forceful.” She lifted her chin. “That does not endear you to me.”

  Far from being insulted, he was rather amused by the idea. Usually merchants tried to ingratiate themselves with him, not the other way around. He found the difference in her delightful. But that did not mean he had to be nice.

  “And I find your manner of dressing women to be deplorable,” he said.

  She nodded. “And I agree with Francine. You should dress yourself on Bond Street. Leave the young to those who are young.”

  He arched a brow. “Are you calling me old, Mrs. Mortimer?”

  “And stuffy.”

  “Good Lord, soon you will be offering me a cure for rheumatism.”

  She tilted her head. “I believe my mother has one. Would you like me to fetch her?”

  He shook his head, startled to find his lips curving into a rueful smile. “I believe I have more than enough women in my life.”