Though why that should be, she did not understand. And not understanding increased her anger.
It would cost him dear to parade her about like a prize. To a ball, no less. And worse yet, a Drawing Room. Something five years ago she would have taken as her due. Would have revelled in. Now she could only think of it with dread. But that wasn’t the reason for the knot in her stomach. It was the knowledge of the price he would expect her to pay for his generosity. He would expect to take her into his bed.
Her stomach gave an odd little flutter of excitement.
Horrified, she pressed a hand to her waist.
‘Are you nae well?’ he asked in that soft burr of his that she felt rather than heard. It was as intimate as a caress across her breasts. She felt them tighten and grow heavy against her will.
She prevented her fingers from curling into claws and raking across his pretty face, or from sinking into his shoulders to test the strength of him, to feel muscle and bone. Either response would not help her cause of remaining detached.
But he would pay for causing that little jolt of lust.
She smiled calmly. ‘Perfectly fine, Mr Gilvry. Your Edinburgh roads are less well made than London’s.’
He grinned, his eyes lighting with a flash of humour. ‘Please accept my apology. We Scots are a rough lot, so we do not mind a bit of bouncing around.’
A double entendre? Likely. She pretended not to understand. ‘And is it like this in Dunross also?’ She frowned. ‘Where exactly is Dunross? I do not believe I have heard of it.’
His smile broadened. ‘Oh, aye. Not too many people have heard of it, even in Scotland.’
‘I assume it is not a large place, then?’
‘Not large at all.’
He was hardly being forthcoming. Did he suspect her of an ulterior motive in her questions? If he didn’t, he should.
‘And you have brothers, I understand. Do they also live in Dunross?’
‘My older brother, only. And his wife. My other brother Niall lives here in Edinburgh.’
Not someone she would be meeting, no doubt, but she could not help sharpening her claws on his conscience.
‘Oh, how nice for you. Are you staying with them?’ Her expectant look said she hoped he would take her for a visit.
His mouth tightened a fraction and his gaze slid away from hers. ‘I have lodgings elsewhere.’
The man had quick wits, clearly. ‘So you live and work in Dunross. It must be hard, living so far from civilised society. From town. From all this activity.’
He shook his head with a rueful smile. ‘I am thinking I get activity enough in my line of work.’
‘Smuggler.’
‘Aye. Not that I’d be admitting it to just anyone, you understand.’
‘Naturally.’
He leaned back against the squabs with an expression of curiosity. ‘What about your family, Mrs West?’
‘I have no family.’ None that would admit to a relationship, anyway.
‘Then no Mr West, waiting for you in London.’
Checking out the pitfalls. He was a smart lad. A husband might be one way to keep him at a distance. But, no, Jack would not countenance such a move on her part. ‘Sadly, no.’ She gave him a mocking smile and saw faint colour stain his cheekbones. ‘I am quite alone, now.’ Except for Jack and his damned schemes.
‘I am sorry for your loss.
He looked sorry. And her heart gave a stupid little hop.
‘You find living in London to your taste?’ he asked.
She hated London and its dirt and corruption. ‘There is no finer city in the world.’
He glanced out of the window with a grimace. ‘I might have argued, but this weather does not help my cause. Hopefully you will see Edinburgh on a better day.’
‘It is certainly full of people.’
‘Aye. All the folk have come to see the King. It is not usually quite sae full as this. O’Banyon was lucky to find rooms so close to the heart of it all.’
The carriage slowed, then halted. He leaned forwards to peer out at the street. ‘We are here.’ He opened the door.
Rain splattered his hair and face and shoulders. He reached up, grabbed an umbrella from the footman perched on the box, opened it and let down the steps. He held the umbrella up, ready for her to alight. Held it so it covered her completely and left him in the rain. She did not hurry. Let him catch a cold from a damp coat, or soaking wet feet. Not that he seemed to care about the rain as it trickled down his face and disappeared into his collar.
She took his hand and stepped lightly on to the pavement. ‘Thank you.’
He nodded. ‘Come back for us in an hour,’ he called up to the coachman and she trod daintily across the flagstone and under the portico of the shop. Petty. Very petty. It was almost as if she had to remind herself to despise him. How could that be? She wasn’t one to play favourites. She despised them all equally.
He opened the door and she stepped into the dry of a well-appointed dressmaker’s shop.
The seamstress came forwards with a smile of greeting when she saw him. Her smile turned to a slight crease in her brow as she realised Charity was not someone she recognised.
‘Good day, Mr Gilvry,’ she said. ‘I was not expecting you, was I? I don’t think I have any items for Lady Selina.’
Lady Selina, was it? Not just a common smuggler, then. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, if he could command an invite to a ball attended by the King. Oh, he really deserved to be punished for that piece of folly. Even if it did fall in with Jack’s plans.
‘What a lovely shop you have, Mrs...’ She arched a brow.
‘Donaldson,’ Gilvry supplied. ‘This is Mrs West. She needs gowns for the King’s Drawing Room and the Peers’ Ball.’ He flashed the woman a charming smile. ‘I told her that you are the best mantua-maker in Edinburgh.’
The seamstress preened at his flattery, then caught herself with a frown. ‘I am no’ sure I can do anything so grand at such short notice, Mr Gilvry. I don’t mean to be disobliging, you understand.’
Charity trilled a little laugh. ‘Oh, come now, ma’am, any dressmaker of note in London would not disoblige a customer of Mr Gilvry’s standing.’ She unbuttoned her spencer. ‘I swear I am damp to the bone after braving the rain. A cup of tea would not come amiss.’
Mr Gilvry helped her out of her coat. His eyes widened when he took in the gown beneath it. A sheer lemon-muslin creation that had a bodice more suited to the drawing room of a bordello than an afternoon of shopping. She smiled up at him. ‘Do you like it?’
One look at the dress had the seamstress as stiff as a board. ‘Mr Gilvry. I really do not appreciate you bringing your—’
For the first time since she had met him, his jaw hardened as if carved from granite and Charity felt a flash not of the pleasure she had expected from making him pay for his lustful thoughts, but of anxiety for the seamstress.
‘My what?’ he asked in what to Charity sounded like a very dangerous tone.
Apparently it had the same sound to Mrs Donaldson. ‘Your friend,’ the seamstress gasped. ‘This is a respectable establishment. Please, Mr Gilvry. I have my reputation to consider.’
‘And how many other ladies are you dressing for the King’s Drawing Room?’ he asked. This was the man who challenged revenue men and criminals like Jack. She should have guessed that the youthfully innocent demeanour was a front.
She should have known better than to throw down such a challenge. And yet his anger thrilled her in the oddest of ways. It touched a place in her chest that seemed to warm with a feeling of tenderness. Because he was acting as if she was a lady. It had been years since anyone even hinted she had a shred of honour worth defending.
She hardened her heart against such nonsense. Such weakness. He
was a man. He wanted what he wanted and would do anything to get it.
Still, she felt sorry for the seamstress’s quandary. She put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Really, Mr Gilvry. We can go elsewhere. It does not matter.’
‘It will matter to Lady Selina,’ he said grimly.
Mrs Donaldson sank inwards on herself. ‘Well, if the young lady is a friend of Lady Selina’s,’ she said, weakly grasping at a very fragile straw, ‘I am sure I will do everything in my power to...please.’ Desperation shone in her gaze. ‘I have a private room in the back...’ she swallowed ‘...where you can view...fabrics. Fashion plates. Take tea. I will have whisky brought on a tray...’
The green eyes were chips of ice as he sent an enquiry Charity’s way.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, not wanting him to cause the woman embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’
The woman whirled around. ‘This way please, madam, Mr Gilvry.’
He put his hand on the small of her back and urged her to follow. The pressure of his hand seared through her gown and came to rest low in her belly. Heaven help her, what was she going to do about him?
Nothing. She could not afford to be weak. To care how low she brought him would be a mistake that would cost her dearly. Sentiment had ruined her life once. She could not let it happen again. Even so she would let him dress her respectably. She had no reason to want to shame him before his peers and his King.
She owed him that much for his defence of her today.
That much and no more.
Chapter Four
The pleasure of clothing a woman. Sanford’s words drifted through Logan’s mind as he sat tucked away in a back room of Mrs Donaldson’s establishment. He gazed openly at the beautiful woman standing without shame in naught but shift and stays on a pedestal. Surrounded by mirrors on three sides, there wasn’t an inch of her he could not see. Sanford had been right with his use of the word pleasure. It was the sort of pleasure reserved for a husband. Or a man with a mistress. Which was likely what the seamstress thought and the reason for her hiding them away at the back of her shop.
In times not so distant, according to his mother, it hadn’t been at all unusual for a married woman to entertain her particular male court in her boudoir. Allowing them to choose her garments for the day while they gossiped and flirted. All perfectly respectable in the presence of a maid.
This didn’t feel in the least bit respectable, despite the presence of the seamstress’s assistant busy taking her measurements with pieces of string.
Stretching out his legs to one side of the low table in front of him, he admired her lovely form. The curve of her bountiful milky-white breasts above the lace edge of her transparent chemise, pushed higher by her close-fitting stays, beckoned his touch. The deep valley between begged for exploration. The crescent of areola, darker smudges of rosy brown, located her nipples and hinted at decadent delights. The dip of her waist was so tiny as to be unbelievable. He could span it with his hands and the view of the triangular shadow at the apex of her long slender legs, not dark, but not blonde, left him dry-mouthed.
She was Venus come to life. And for the second time in as many days, he struggled to maintain his detachment. She was not easily ignored, despite years of practise.
He glanced up to find her gaze fixed on his face. Pride tinged with wariness.
Her expression challenged, even as her lips curved in her carnal pouting smile. Her eyelids drooped, acknowledging his thoughts, his lust, and threw down the gauntlet. I’m ready for you, those eyes said. Do your worst. You can’t touch me.
The thought shocked him. Angered him. Did she think he was an animal? That he would ravish her where she stood? Press her up against the wall and have his way with her? Lust hit him unexpectedly hard.
Ruefully, he acknowledged that he’d been aching with it on and off since the moment he saw her. But that didn’t mean he had lost control. He meant he needed to be more on his guard.
He wasn’t a fool, he knew she was Jack’s creature, that they would try anything to gain the advantage. Normally, he wouldn’t care. For some reason, it infuriated him that such an outstandingly lovely woman should be so debased.
And so he would not play the game.
He withdrew his hands from his pockets and sat straighter in the chair, trying not to break his granite-hard shaft in two as he crossed his legs at the ankles. He picked up a magazine from the table beside him. Flipped through its pages. Ignoring his body’s demands was second nature.
His eyes finally focused on the page before him. Damn it all, he was looking at corsets for the male figure and swallowed a laugh. At himself.
‘Do you need one?’ Amusement flickered in those cat-like eyes as if she had shared in the joke. A brief exchange of mutual understanding.
He laughed out loud and looked at her face. He had no need to ogle her body, her face was so very lovely. ‘Not for a while, I’m thinking.’ He nodded at the tea tray one of the assistants had brought while the seamstress had fussed around with her measurements. ‘Can I pour you a cup?’
Something else flashed in her eyes. Surprise? ‘Yes, please.’
Her voice was low and husky. It grazed his skin like a caress. Two simple words and he wanted to purr like a cat. Rub himself up against her skin. Feel the weight of those luscious breasts in his palm.
No. He was her escort. Not her lover. He pushed to his feet and poured the tea. ‘Sugar?’ he asked, the tongs hovering over the bowl.
‘Lots,’ she said.
After he dropped in three lumps, he raised a brow.
‘More,’ she said. ‘Please.’
And he almost dropped the damned things in the tea at the vision of what more might mean when said in that precise tone of voice in a different location. But he knew it to be artifice and added two more lumps and carried the cup and saucer to her outstretched hand.
She took a sip and smiled her pleasure. A sweet smile that softened her sharp edges to the point of vulnerability.
A shocking transformation. And one he wanted to explore. He nodded at the sugar bowl. ‘You’ve a sweet tooth.’
‘I do.’ Her eyes became distant. ‘My father was the same. He carried bulls’ eyes around in his pocket and would pop one in my mouth when my mother wasn’t looking.’
‘Your mother didn’t approve.’
A twinkle gleamed in her eye. ‘They made me very sticky.’
The vision made him chuckle.
‘I have found just the thing, madam,’ the seamstress said, marching in with a froth of gowns over her arm.
The smile disappeared and the mask dropped again, hard and impenetrable. Disappointment tightened his gut. The icicle had returned. More frosty than before, judging from the chill wafting in his direction as she imperiously held out her cup to him. And yet he found himself more drawn to a sticky little girl, than the siren who now appeared before him.
He returned the cup to the tray, feeling very much in the way as they pondered fabrics and styles. Wandering the room, he gazed at fashion plates artfully framed and placed on the walls like fine works of art. Drawings of women in various poses, ridiculous hats perched on starchy curls. He hoped she didn’t turn out looking like that!
The sounds behind him dwindled. Curious, he turned and caught her critical gaze as she took in her reflection. The seamstress gave a final twitch to the pale-peach skirts falling from beneath that magnificent bosom rising above a teasing edge of spangled lace.
‘Mr Gilvry?’ the seamstress asked. ‘Will it do for the ball?’
The effect was stunning. She’d gone from ladybird to lady in a few beats of his heart. She looked elegant. Graceful. And more than the sum of her parts. She looked as if she belonged to the upper echelons of society.
The slight stiffening of her body brought his gaze to her face. ‘You
don’t approve,’ she said.
Approve? ‘It looks eminently suitable.’
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Macdonald said. ‘It was made for a young lady’s trousseau. Her mother was most particular.’
‘But she did not take it?’
The dressmaker’s face drooped. ‘Her betrothed died shortly before the wedding. She wanted none of the gowns.’
‘How sad,’ Charity said, sounding grim. She gave the woman a sharp look. ‘Then you have received some payment for these gowns?’
Was she trying to save his money? That he had not expected.
‘A deposit only,’ the seamstress was saying. ‘I will deduct it from the price, of course.’
She would now, Logan thought. He glanced at Mrs West, but she was focusing on the image in the mirror. ‘The hem must be lengthened,’ she pronounced.
Indeed it must. A good three inches of her lower legs were visible, exposing beautifully turned ankles. Fine boned like the rest of her. And long and slender feet.
‘I’m not entirely sure about the colour,’ she said.
He caught her unguarded expression in the mirror. Not coquettishness. Not looking for a fulsome compliment. She was uncertain.
‘The gown is perfect,’ he said soothingly.
Faint colour stained her cheekbones as if she had forgotten his presence. ‘An expert in fashion, Mr Gilvry?’ she said haughtily, hiding her misgivings, no doubt.
‘I have eyes in my head, Mrs West. This one will do. A court dress now, if you please, Mrs Donaldson,’ he said firmly. A man could only stand so much of this, pleasure or not.
The seamstress gestured to a white gown draped over the chaise. ‘This one is all I have, Mr Gilvry.’
‘Then we will take it. You have the measurements you need.’ He recalled Sanford’s earlier words of advice. ‘Mrs West will need ostrich feathers for the Drawing Room. And whatever else you deem is required.’
Falling for the Highland Rogue Page 5