Before the Midnight Bells

by Jessica Woodard

  “Now, what kind of man would think about another woman while conversing with his fake fiancée?”

  “The kind who is just a bit taken with the other woman, perhaps?”

  Max scowled at her.

  “I am not taken with a Low Street seamstress. The suggestion is ridiculous.” His voice came out in a grumble.

  “Of course it’s ridiculous. But that’s never stopped you before.” Max’s brow drew together in an alarming way, but Vivienne only laughed harder. “Goodness, Max, if she’s affecting you this badly why not just tumble the girl and get it out of your system? Just make sure you aren’t found out.”

  Max’s eyes flared. “Stop pretending to be nothing but a spoiled noblewoman, Vivienne. It’s beneath you.” His voice was hard and flat. “She’s from a good family and I like her very much, I would never just tumble her and then cast her off.”

  When Max spoke like that Vivienne knew she had pushed him too far.

  “I’m sorry, Max.” She was truly repentant. “I know you wouldn’t, I was just trying to tease you out of this mood.” Vivienne sighed, genuinely concerned for her friend’s happiness. “You’ve been mooning for days. Maybe you are taken with her. Have you considered it?”

  “Maybe I’m just worried that your scheme will be found out by his August Majesty, your royal father, and I’ll be caned for it.”

  “Now Max,” she smiled at him, “you know you’re too simple-minded to be worried by the threat of violence.”

  Max flashed his brilliant smile at her, and Vivienne knew she was forgiven. Then his face fell again—not into the storm-cloud look he had given her for prying, but rather pensive.

  “Vivienne, be serious. I can’t have anything to do with this girl. If your father catches so much as a whiff of my chasing another woman I will be in a great deal of trouble, and your plans will fall to ruin. Even after you go I am going to need to play the jilted lover for a while. I suppose I could have some sort of clandestine friendship with her, but I think she deserves better than that.”

  “Or you could always tell her the truth and ask her to wait on you.”

  “Wait on me for what?” He seemed genuinely confused.

  “Max, you are a confounded idiot.”

  “Well, if that’s to be your attitude I’ll not stay here and be abused by you, fake fiancée or not.”

  “Mmmmm... headed somewhere particular?”

  “Actually, if you must know, I have a fitting.” With that Max swept out of Vivienne’s private receiving room in the style of one of the grande dames. If only he’d been draped in purple silk the illusion would have been perfect, mused Vivienne. After the door closed behind him, Vivienne murmured her parting shot.

  “Oh no, not taken with her at all...”

  ***

  Max entered Ella’s shop only to stop, astonished at the sight that met his eyes. Every square inch of Ella’s counter, as well as her stool, dress form, and several spots on the floor, were draped in pink. Pink silk, pink gingham, pink chiffon, pink taffeta, it was an overwhelming visual smorgasbord of pink. Alerted by the tinkling bell above the door, Ella straightened up from behind the counter. She, too, was covered in pieces of pink fabric—hands, arms, and shoulders, and one apparently stray sample that had somehow made its way onto her head.

  “Oh, hello. I hadn’t realized it was getting so late.”

  Max stood there, for the moment struck speechless. Awash in a sea of pink fabric, Ella was adorable. And charming. And utterly irresistible. He considered that maybe Vivienne was right, and he was just a bit taken with her.

  “Max..?”

  “Sorry, I was...” What? Indulging in totally inappropriate emotions? No, he couldn’t say that. “What are you doing?”

  “I am trying,” Ella replied somewhat forlornly, “to find a pink that goes with red hair.”

  “What?”

  “You see, it’s Prudence.”

  “She has red hair?”

  “No, no, she wants a daughter.”

  “And she’s adopting a girl with red hair?”

  “No, of course not. She wants to have a daughter, and she wants to dress her in pink.”

  “And she foresees this being a problem because..?”

  Ella looked at him firmly.

  “My stepsister, who is in many ways a very fine girl, but occasionally is overtaken by pure silliness, has met and liked a young man with red hair, but she will not hear of him courting her, because she wishes to someday dress a daughter in pink.”

  “Which she wouldn’t be able to.”

  “Of course.”

  “If her daughter has red hair.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So now you’re..?”

  “Rummaging through every type of pink known to man, trying to find a way to make it go with red hair, yes.”

  Max began laughing. Somewhat at the situation, but mostly at himself. Vivienne had most definitely been correct. He was a bit taken with this lovely woman. More than a bit.

  “Well, perhaps I could help.”

  Ella eyed him askance. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not, but even if he was serious, she wasn’t sure how he could be of assistance. Max seemed undaunted by her look, though, and reached across the counter to slide a swatch of fabric off her shoulder. He selected two more from a pile on the floor, but Ella was no longer paying attention. The silk brushing her neck was a fairly commonplace sensation, but the fact that Max had a hold of the other end of the fabric was making butterflies take wing in her chest.

  On the heels of that realization, she felt a corresponding sinking in her stomach. Her Godmother may have been right, and that couldn’t be good. Allowing oneself to become besotted with a noble was an excellent way to find oneself being taken advantage of. Any number of girls might have been content to be this man’s mistress, but not Ella. She had her work to think of, and a family to support and care for, and she wasn’t about to be sidetracked by a handsome man who was destined to leave her someday.

  Max could tell something was bothering Ella as he picked through the fabric, but he let her think and set his mind to his task. Two of the softer pinks from the pile on the floor, a patterned one from Ella’s shoulder, and a coral swatch he’d found in a pile of contrasting colors gave him a nice base palate. He added one of the more vibrant pinks and a bright tangerine to be used for accents, and then displayed his efforts to Ella.

  “That's very kind of you but I’m sure I can find it myse...” Ella trailed off. Max stood in the middle of the floor with six swatches draped over his hands, and Ella could see how the various shades complimented each other in such a way that...

  “That could be worn with red hair.”

  Max beamed at her, glad that she approved his selection. Ella’s sinking sensation melted away, replaced by a warm glow. This handsome, wickedly funny gentleman had just helped her with fabric swatches. Oh, she was in trouble now.

  Of course, she wasn’t all that sure she cared anymore.

  When Ella looked at his efforts and realized he’d done it, her whole face lit up. Her clear brown eyes started to glow, and Max felt an answering glow in his chest, which quickly spread like fire in his veins. He found himself moving across the narrow shop without consciously deciding to do so. He leaned slowly over the counter and plucked the rogue swatch from her hair, letting his fingers return to ghost along her cheek and play with the silky strands of her chestnut hair that had escaped from their loose knot. Her eyes widened and her chest rose and fell faster with her quickening breath. This time, he thought with satisfaction as he leaned closer, she wasn’t going to deny him a kiss.

  The bell over the door tinkled, and Ella darted out from behind the counter. Max closed his own eyes and swore vehemently, but silently, hoping that whoever just came in would suffer a long, slow death. Or, at the very least, a really nasty stubbed toe.

  “Mrs. Minglesall!” Max turned to view the unwelcome intruder. Ella had mentioned the woman at the Paupers’ Bal
l, so he assumed she was a returning patron. As pleased as he was for Ella, he fervently wished she had slightly better timing. “I thought we had decided on tomorrow for your fitting.”

  “We had, we had, most assuredly, we had, but I thought I’d go ahead and bring by the belt so you could attach it to the costume. See?”

  The woman held up a belt made of fine chain and small metallic disks, that tinkled sweetly as she moved it.

  “I’m glad you brought it by. Now that I’ve seen it, I think we should absolutely go with the copper trim instead of the silver.”

  “I agree, I agree, I am totally in agreement. I look forward to trying it on tomorrow.”

  Ella escorted Mrs. Minglesall to the door, discussing the details of her costume. Max still stood at the counter, watching in bemusement as the woman he had twice now attempted to kiss chatted easily with her customer about interfacing and buttons. He didn’t even know what interfacing was. He thought to ask Ella, but had a far more pressing question as the door at last closed on the still-chattering Mrs. Minglesall.

  “Ella?”

  “Yes, Max?”

  “Was the redoubtable Mrs. Minglesall just waving around a belt for a belly dancer costume?”

  “And if she was?”

  “If I have to look at that woman’s bare midriff I am skipping the next ball.”

  Ella laughed. Mrs. Minglesall was an unfortunate woman with absolutely no flesh on her body, and a rather horsey face, but she had been Ella’s neighbor for years. Despite a tendency to begin her sentences three times, she was in general a kind and generous woman, and she was patronizing Ella’s shop as a way of supporting her, since she certainly had the means to go to a larger, more established couturier. Ella couldn’t deny, though, that the image of Mrs. Minglesall in a belly dancer costume was one she didn’t care to entertain.

  “Shame on you, Max, maligning a lovely woman like that. And double shame on you that you would skip wearing your costume—which is magnificent, by the way—over something as silly as bare skin.”

  “No, Ella, I cannot be swayed. I am a coward in the face of a woman’s stomach. The very idea of an exposed navel petrifies me. Tell me she isn’t going as a belly dancer, or I will spend the whole evening hiding in my room, magnificent costume and all.”

  “Well, in that case,” Ella’s eyes twinkled as she spoke, “I am pleased to inform you that I have convinced Mrs. Minglesall that her exotic belt would make a splendid hair piece for a Desert Princess. A fully clothed, veiled, Desert Princess.”

  Max heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “In that case, might I persuade you to give me a glimpse of my most magnificent costume?”

  “You may have more than a glimpse, kind sir, you may go try it on.” Ella gestured to the back room as she spoke. “It’s in the wardrobe.”

  Max moved to the back of the shop and drew the curtain. He found his costume where Ella had indicated, and stood for a moment, taking it in. On the floor rested two heeled shoes with crimson and yellow ribbons attached; above that white silk stockings and black woolen knee breaches were draped on the small wardrobe shelf. A velvet frock coat of a deep, rich crimson hung in the wardrobe. It was embellished with several rows of golden buttons, and gold braiding lined the collar, wrists, and hem. Next to the coat was a white silk shirt, with a cascade of ruffles billowing from the throat. The golden sash of office was hanging on a hook beneath the elaborately embellished crimson and gold tricorn.

  Max ran his fingers over the fabrics, and then inspected each garment individually. Though asking Ella to make him a costume had started on a whim, he was pleased with the results. She was obviously very skilled. He began laying his own clothes to one side; he was eager to start trying things on. Just as he picked up the stockings he heard an impatient noise from just outside the curtain. She was hovering. He grinned.

  “Well?”

  “Give me time, woman, give me time. I had to recover from the sight of all this magnificence before I could dress.”

  Ella mumbled something.

  “That sounded remarkably like, ‘Get a bloody move on.’ But I’m sure it wasn’t. You’re far too well bred for that sort of thing.”

  Her voice came back to him, loaded with false sweetness. “Of course I am. I never say bloody. Or arse. Or blower, or ponce...” Max had one leg in the breaches, but he was laughing so hard he thought he’d lose his balance if he tried to put the other one in. “...or ladybird, or macer. I certainly never say dollymop...”

  “Enough! Enough! I capitulate. You are the epitome of all that is good and sweet.” She subsided. Max managed to pull the breaches on, still chuckling. He couldn’t just let her get away with that, but what to say... Ah yes.

  “Oh dear, Ella, I don’t think these fit at all.”

  The curtain was immediately whipped aside. “What?!” Ella cast her eyes over his stocking clad legs and the breaches, which certainly seemed to fit perfectly. She stuck one finger in the waistband and ran it around, finding that there was just enough space for her finger to fit snugly between Max’s waist and the band from every direction. She was confused, what was wrong with them?

  “My mistake.” Max’s voice had suddenly thickened. “I guess they fit perfectly.”

  Ella froze. Quickly she took stock of what she was doing. She whipped her hand out of Max’s breaches and dashed back through the curtain, yanking it closed behind her.

  Max laughed. Truthfully, now that Ella had touched him, his pants were uncomfortably tight, but it wasn’t the fault of the tailoring.

  Ella leaned up against the wall of the shop and took several deep breaths. Max’s bare chest looked every bit as good in reality as it had in her memories. A shame he hadn’t complained about the fit of his shirt. Then she could have run her hands all over... No. No, no, no. Thinking like that was not a good idea.

  Max was silent a few moments, and then he spoke again.

  “You know, I could get a much better idea of what I look like if you had a mirror back here.”

  “I used to have one.” Her voice was so sad that, this time, Max opened the curtain.

  “What’s wrong?” He had slipped on the shirt and coat, and his fingers swiftly laced up the shirt as they spoke.

  “I had a beautiful mirror with a silver filigree frame. It was my mother’s, and I’d had it since I was a child. I suppose I should get a replacement, but it’s been such a bustle, preparing for the balls.”

  “What happened to it?”

  Ella could have prevaricated, but in the face of his obvious concern she didn’t have the heart to lie.

  “I had to sell it.”

  Max didn’t know what to say. He looked around her shop. It was small, and not well stocked. He recalled her speaking of her stepmother and stepsisters at the ball, but no father or brothers. Was it possible that her family was in some sort of trouble? Was it possible that Ella was supporting them?

  Max looked into her face and knew it was more than possible, that it was, in fact, the case. He made up his mind to find out more about the state of the Emberton family. For now, though, he wanted to erase the sadness from her face. He gently tilted her chin up with his hand. “Perhaps you can buy it back someday.”

  “Perhaps.” Ella straightened, and pulled away from his hand. “How do you like your costume?”

  Max wanted to help, but he let her change the topic. “I need your help with this sea of ruffles; are they supposed to cascade or poof?”

  Ella gave a little smile. “Obviously they’re supposed to gently fall. Here, let me.” She reached up to arrange the neck ruffles, which let Max gaze down at her face. It was a pleasing arrangement.

  “I noticed you left the padding out of the frock coat.”

  “Yes, well, your shoulders are quite broad enough, I didn’t want to make you seem deformed.”

  “Most tailors require a fitting or two to convince them of that.”

  “I was paying attention, I suppose.”

  “Mmmmm... I remembe
r.”

  Ella looked up at him. Max’s face was breath away and the look in his eyes made her chest catch fire. At the same time she felt a surge of panic. She hadn’t forgotten what caused her to pull away the last time they stood in this position, and if her Godmother was right, and she was besotted with him, then that only made this more dangerous to her. He would walk away when he tired of having his fling, and she would be left, not just ruined, but brokenhearted as well.

  “Max...”

  “Ella?” His low, intimate tone sent shivers up her spine.

  “Try on the sash.”

  Max blinked. The girl kept pulling away, although for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He reached for the sash, still puzzling over what had spooked her.

  “I’m glad I chose gold for the trim; you look quite regal.”

  Max froze. He didn’t see any way that Ella could have realized that he was, supposedly at least, destined to become His Royal Highness, Christopher Maximillian, but it seemed like an odd choice of wording for her.

  “You’ll match up well with all the other nobles, even if they compare you to the new princeling, I’d guess.”

  “You don’t know him then?” Max held his breath, waiting for her to answer.

  “Me? Max, my family is respectable but hardly noble, and I work as a dressmaker. I’m barely more than a servant. I don’t associate with nobles. I work for them.” Ella kept her voice light, but she hoped Max was getting her point. “You, on the other hand—I would wager you know Lord Wellesley and Princess Vivienne. You’ve probably even been presented to King Regal.” She shrugged her shoulders, aiming for a careless manner. “We are worlds apart, Max, and I don’t know anyone from your world. It’s merely chance that I even know you.”

  Max relaxed as he listened to Ella. She had no idea who he was, which was good. He wanted the chance to tell her in his own way and, more importantly, in his own time. He also realized that their relative social status was bothering her, but he brushed that aside. As far as he was concerned, social status was only significant when it came to formal contracts, and he, at the moment at least, was completely incapable of making a formal contract. Even if she didn’t know that.