Lady Meets Her Match

by Gina Conkle

  “I’m duly chastised.” She splashed and scrubbed and surrendered herself to drying and dressing.

  The transformation would have to be a quick one. Fine silk drawers and a chemise came first, followed by a corset strong enough to stand on its own. Claire held fast to the bedpost while the Frenchwoman tugged the silk corset from behind with the insistence of a sergeant-at-arms corralling a new recruit.

  “I’m sure you don’t have to cinch me”—Claire’s voice wheezed from another heave from behind—“that tightly.”

  “I’m sure I do.”

  The red gown spread across the white coverlet, a brazen slash of color in her sober garret. The daring neckline was pure Juliette in design; the sedate damask’s pattern of red on red posies and a small trail of white lace rimming the neckline saved the fashion piece from pure licentiousness.

  Juliette spun Claire around, her brows snapping together while she assessed the shape she wished to form. For the Frenchwoman, fashion was built from the first layers, artistry to be taken seriously.

  Claire touched the decadent white silk drawers. “Rather audacious for a man to order undergarments for a woman, don’t you think? For that matter, ordering garments for me at all is highly inappropriate.”

  “He wishes only for you to be comfortable and dressed well for the event.” Black brows winged high. “I do not understand this need of yours to argue about a man’s gifts. There is no such thing as appropriate or inappropriate. You are a grown woman. There is only what you want or do not want from a man.”

  A Gallic shrug followed her friend’s reasoning. Passion and beauty trumped propriety in Miss Sauveterre’s mind. Claire laughed, a jittery sound.

  “But, Juliette, undergarments?”

  Lush lips turned a familiar moue. “Do you like wearing them?”

  Her hesitation added fuel to Juliette’s argument, those dark eyes flaring wide at Claire.

  “You see? That is what this is about. Besides, your Mr. Ryland and I were of the same mind when it came to the ensemble. My finer creations begin with what’s underneath.”

  She would argue that he wasn’t her Mr. Ryland, but everything was blurring in a sea of wants. One thing was certain: boundaries of friendship and loyalty and confidences had shifted these past few weeks.

  “And you never breathed a word to me. You and Elise, sewing clothes for me.”

  “You would too if he offered you the same outrageous sum. He bought my talent and my silence.”

  Was all of midtown up for sale? Mr. Ryland tried to buy Nate’s silence with a gold guinea, and now her friends. She studied the salacious red cloth.

  Juliette’s gaze slid to the gown. “It is not such a bad thing to be wooed thus by a man. He was most emphatic about the gown’s color.”

  The strawberry-red color. Her friend smirked at her.

  “Step into this.” Juliette held out a white shot silk underskirt, the iridescent fabric shimmering with the palest shades.

  Claire had seen the fine, woven silk on ladies of the highest water. Her fingernails scraped the cloth, playing a whispered tune as Juliette secured the tapes.

  “Did he specially request the shot silk?”

  “Non, but he paid for it.” Juliette peered around Claire’s shoulder, her mouth curving in a wicked smile. “The man could not possibly know the undergarments he sought. So I helped him. All in the name of seduction.”

  Seduction, indeed.

  The red damask gown came next, beautiful enough to lure any woman into sensual territory. It was seduction masquerading as a proper day gown: practical in length, for showing pretty ankles, and a bodice trimmed with a dainty line of white lace. There’d be no modest disguising of her bust today. Three flounces decorated the back of the skirt, a visual diversion for a gown lacking substantial false hips.

  They had to move to the center of the room with the laundry lines crowding them.

  “Raise your arms,” Juliette ordered.

  A red cloud descended over Claire’s head, and another layer of silk slipped provocative softness over her body.

  “Today is not about seduction.” Claire’s fingers skimmed the low, scooped line. “Though there seems to be a dearth of fabric here…”

  Juliette fussed with the fitting before lacing Claire from the back.

  “Trust me, if a man requests a woman wear a red dress, he has only sensual pursuits on his mind. And there will be non neckerchief to ruin the lines of this bodice.” She worked efficiently at tying Claire into the dress. “Now for finishing touches. Hair and cosmetics.”

  “I don’t need cosmetics.”

  The Incognitas sprang to mind, with their towering hair and tiny, red bow lips. High-priced strumpets, Nate had called them. She opened her mouth to say as much, but arguments stalled under Juliette’s sharp glare.

  “Of course,” she conceded. “Where do you want me to sit?”

  Juliette pointed to the table laden with pins, tiny ceramic pots, and a brush and hair pads of varying sizes. Dutifully, she perched on the chair and let her friend brush her hair from scalp to waist. Though this was a simple daytime luncheon, she couldn’t help but feel she was being armed for a battle of a different sort.

  Juliette’s snappishness was edgier than usual. The mantua-maker cum lady’s maid, stepped back, assessing the architecture of what she would create.

  “We will have to go with a simpler style, non?”

  A smaller, cushioned piece crowned the middle of Claire’s head, but this modest pad gave her hair tasteful inches of elevation. Juliette coiled locks in a modest pile, covering the accessory. Pins scraped Claire’s scalp. Juliette stepped back again to assess her work, dark brows slashing downward. Her lips pursed before fingers tugged loose wisps here and there. Small scissors snipped, creating dainty strands of hair.

  “A little white powder for your skin, some kohl, a touch of rouge for your lips and cheeks would do you good, non? Très à la mode.”

  Claire tipped her chin high, grinning. “I thought you wanted a man to put color in my cheeks?”

  Juliette didn’t rise to the bait. She sat in the chair facing Claire, brushing a white powder of smashed vanilla, cacao, and almonds onto her palette. The powder’s aroma at least was pleasant. Claire closed her eyes, surrendering to the artistry. The gentle smells and the soft brushing on her skin calmed her.

  Outside, Cornhill burst with carts and carriages, a colorful buzz beyond her small window. Inside her garret, the soft clink of small ceramic pots sounded as Juliette worked. A brush tapped a jar, the music of a different kind of artist. A scrap of clean wool dipped in a tiny pot of carmine, and the Frenchwoman rouged cheeks and lips. Kohl rimmed the edges of Claire’s eyelids, giving the final touch.

  “Today is not simply about the art of fashion. I prepare you also for battle,” Juliette said, her voice hitting melancholy notes.

  Claire’s spine stiffened, already properly rigid from the whalebone corset. She opened her eyes, surprised at the faint lines etched around her friend’s mouth and eyes.

  “Juliette?”

  The Frenchwoman set down the slender kohl brush with deliberate care.

  “You, my friend, will lunch with some of London’s finest ladies today. They will not take kindly to one such as you walking in their midst.” A furrow slashed her forehead. “Especially because you’ve caught the eye of a man they covet for themselves or their daughters.”

  “It won’t be all that bad.”

  “You don’t understand.” Juliette sighed. “You are beautiful and you don’t need them. You don’t obey the rules of their world.” She patted Claire’s hand. “These things make you a dangerous woman. The power you have, and you aren’t even aware.”

  Covered in decadent silks and arrayed as a woman of fashion and leisure wasn’t her natural state. This was stiff and new, the same as her mind thinking
constantly about a certain man was new.

  But powerful?

  The corners of her mouth curled in a private smile. Better to say she was a woman falling weightless into a gray sea, unsure where this way led.

  “And you have his attention.” Juliette’s dark eyes sparkled at Claire before she rummaged around her basket and found a thin strip of black velvet. “This works since I have no jewelry to offer.”

  The slender adornment went around her neck, the velvet bow tickling her nape. Silks, velvet, and Cyrus: she was awash in sensual stimulation and she wasn’t in his presence yet.

  The silk drawers brushed her legs, the intimate scrape as enticing as his fingers exploring her drawers’ inseam in his carriage two nights ago. What would’ve happened if he had touched her there? Her thighs shifted within the brazen red skirt, the chair creaking beneath her.

  If her friend only knew how close she was to yielding all to Mr. Ryland after all…

  “And I thought you were going to give me advice on how to have a proper dalliance,” she said, trying for humor. Claire got up and walked to the spot where she’d discarded her brown shoes before the bath.

  Juliette planted a hand on her hip. “You mean with the man you keep telling me you have no feelings for at all?”

  She hid her smile while slipping one foot into the worn leather. There was nothing like low-heeled footwear to proffer gentle reminders of where she came from and to where she’d return. In the act of sliding on the other shoe, Annie poked her head around the doorway.

  “Miss Mayhew, Mr. Ryland’s carriage awaits.” She stepped into the room and ducked past lines of hanging laundry with a box in her hands. “And this came for you too. A footman brought it to me when I gave him the pastries for today.”

  She waved the cook in. “Put it on the bed, please.”

  More strawberries?

  There’d be no privacy for this opening. Two inquisitive females hovered close, staring at the unadorned box. Claire lifted the lid and there, amongst a soft sea of white linen, sat a pair of red silk shoes, the same damask silk as her day gown. Elegant, curved-heel court shoes, but these tied with a black silk bow.

  Her lips parted on the beautiful sight. With care, she lifted one shoe, a work of art in her hands. Inside, her fingers rubbed buttery smooth leather dyed to match the red of her gown. The Waverly & Sons imprint pressed the inside heel, a circle embossed in gold…the finest cobbler in London, known for crafting footwear for Queen Charlotte and the young princess.

  “There’s a letter,” Annie said, pointing to folded foolscap half-buried under the linen.

  Claire looked to both women, whose heads bent close. Both inched discreetly back, Annie with her eyes wide and light as pale blue glass and Juliette, another smirk on her lips. The I told you so knowing on her friend’s face couldn’t dampen the heavenly lightness enveloping Claire.

  “Did you know about the shoes, Juliette?”

  “Non, but I am not surprised.”

  Claire set the shoe back in the box and opened the note. What she found inside was concise and to the point, rather like the man who wrote the message.

  No need to return the shoes to me at midnight or any other time. I’d have difficulty wearing them.

  She laughed, pressing the note to her chest. His brand of humor was a nice surprise. She lowered the missive, the paper crinkling in her hands.

  Since you have trouble keeping your shoes on in my presence, bows will save you the problem of broken buckles.

  With hopes for more midnight meetings—

  Cyrus

  Naughty images of her patten slipping off her foot on their midnight carriage ride came to mind as did black silk bows—the same as a certain queue she wanted very much to unravel.

  * * *

  A pair of fine doors parted, their intricate gold-leaf etchings drifting into her periphery. Belker announced her name to the drawing room, but her mind was in a daze. She wanted to see Cyrus and, tasting the carmine on her lips, decided she would kiss him too.

  How to fit a romantic interlude into a staid luncheon created a new and interesting dilemma.

  Her feet moved into the vast space, but all she could see was Cyrus. He strode through the room the way a ship captain commands the deck of his ship.

  Was it possible his maroon bruise made him more dashing?

  He was a fine sight in a black broadcloth coat. Her salacious gaze dropped to a brass button lower on his waistcoat. The metal glimmered, winking at her with flirtatious intent very near the tuft of hair she remembered so well at his navel.

  The corner of Cyrus’s mouth crooked. If she looked ready to devour him, he read the message on her face, no words required.

  “Claire.”

  He said her name like a treasured sound. Then, her landlord bent low over her hand, kissing her knuckles and keeping her fingers in a tender hold.

  Her flesh sung a merry tune recalling how she’d gripped those broad shoulders of his in a fit of passion. Was that only two nights ago? Her cheeks turned hot at the memory.

  Cyrus rose to his full height, holding her hand. He planted a tender kiss on her forehead.

  “Mmmm…” he hummed approvingly. “You smell of almonds.” His lips lingered on her hairline, giving her another soft kiss. “And vanilla, I think. Something you cooked?”

  He breathed in her scent, standing close yet not intimidating in the least. His own smell was clean and starched with a hint of coffee. She reached high, touching his face like a woman with every right to partake of the feast he offered.

  “It’s face powder.” One finger stroked the smooth square of his jaw, her voice curving with amusement. “Today I join the ranks of ladies who meet for luncheon, and I can’t be sure if I’ve been lured here or goaded by one very challenging man put on earth to harass my senses.”

  She caressed his jaw, the grain of his skin smooth to the touch. He must’ve shaved in the last hour. His mouth quirked sideways, pressing the maroon bruise higher up his cheek.

  “Something tells me you’re the perfect woman to soothe such a man or put him in his place.” His pewter stare flicked over her exposed skin, settling on her cleavage. “As to your senses, I shall treat them with the utmost care.”

  She laughed soft and low. Her heart swelled again, the floor turning ephemeral beneath her. Lustrous undergarments rubbed her skin, a tactile reminder that her feet were grounded next to an exhilarating man.

  One feminine brow shot high. “I can’t say that I approve of your purchase of scandalous undergarments,” she scolded, suddenly aware she hadn’t checked if there were others in the room.

  Her hand dropped to her side, and she peeked around his shoulder. Mirrored sconces lit the midday room to a brilliant glow. Her gaze bounced around the vast chamber treated with vibrant shades of blue and red. She paused on three stunning tapestries hanging on one wall. The large middle piece featured a well-muscled hero slaying a lion.

  “We’re alone. I wanted some time with you first.” He stood in that square-shouldered way of his with one hand behind his back. “And I want you to be comfortable in my home.”

  She touched her bodice, the grandeur of Ryland House pummeling her. He wanted her comfortable in his home; she wanted to be comfortable in his home, but she wasn’t.

  Four polished silver tea urns lined an elegant satinwood table, ready to serve at the pleasure of a Ryland House guest.

  “You look like you could use a coffee. It may not be as good—”

  “No. No thank you. Though I’m sure your cook only serves the best.”

  His brows snapped together. She was a little twitchy, interrupting him. If she could read his mind, Claire was certain she’d find a bolstering, You’ve come this far. Don’t fail me now.

  Was this in some way about him needing her here?

  “A house like this make
s me feel like I ought to have a rag on hand to clean something. Nothing can be out of place.” She took a bracing breath, looking to the back courtyard. “Why don’t you show me your gardens?”

  “When a woman asks a man for a walk in the garden, it means she’s seeking kisses or escape.”

  She craned her neck, viewing the ceiling’s gold-leafed boiseries overhead. The elegant design curved in an elliptical pattern.

  “A walk in the garden would be nice. I admit, I feel…overwhelmed in here.”

  “Escape it is.” He chuckled. “I won’t let your reason for a garden stroll dent my pride.”

  Cyrus led her out to the courtyard. She welcomed the cool air and the relief found in this small slice of nature. The sedate garden, stretched half-undressed from fall’s foliage. She couldn’t help but wonder what her father would think of the Ryland House garden, smaller than Greenwich Park’s but substantial for Town.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked.

  She adjusted her shawl and slid her hand over his sleeve, needing more of him. “You were going to show me your garden.”

  “No, you were on the verge of taking me to task for purchasing your undergarments.” He steered their first steps, glancing at her hem. “And the shoes? Am I to receive a tongue lashing for those as well?”

  Her free hand tugged her skirt higher, revealing the pretty footwear and a hint of her silk-covered ankle.

  “For shoes this lovely, I can forgive you anything.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. Something tells me you may require my assistance to keep you supplied in shoes and gowns.” Cyrus wrapped his hand over hers resting on his arm. “The way you’re leaving clothes behind, you’ll soon be known as the naked proprietress.”

  “Naked?” She laughed. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Their ramble took them off the pristine courtyard and onto a wide, crushed-stone path.

  “You’ve taken on an unusual habit with me. At least I hope I’m the only man?” One brow arched high.

  His bold smile told her he was already confident of the answer. If she had a fan, she’d have whisked the thing furiously to cool her cheeks despite the crisp air.