by Jenna Jaxon
Violet’s head whirled. The swiftness with which Angelique worked astounded her. She had planned to ask the woman about possible employment, however she feared now her sewing skills might be found lacking by the energetic French woman.
“Now for the ‘at hand’ gowns le seigneur requested. Here, let us try this one.” From a huge box, she produced a half-finished gown and dropped it over Violet’s head.
“But—”
“Ah, that shade of blue suits you perfectly. Bon. Marie, pin the waist to mark it. Estelle, you do the same to the hem. Not too low. It must not drag the ground.” Stepping back, Angelique surveyed Violet, mounted precariously on a chair, while the assistants bustled about in a flurry of work. Madame Angelique was a hard taskmaster, it seemed.
“It will need trimming. Gold braid with pearls, I think. Make note of that, Estelle.” Angelique beamed at Violet. “I understand you will need complete outfitting, mademoiselle. Seigneur Trevor is a most generous man. Remove that one, Marie. There are still the cream print and the coral red jacquard to try.” She turned back to her box.
“I don’t think I need so many gowns, Madame.” Violet ran her fingers over the expensive blue silk before the servant unfastened it. How could she repay Lord Trevor for even one such gown, much less two or three?
“Nonsense, petite. Le seigneur informed me you had no suitable clothes.” Dipping into the box again, Angelique produced a beautiful cream-colored gown, figured with medallions of red and blue flowers. “He is a man who enjoys a well-dressed woman, non? I have worked for him several times in the past to outfit his mistresses.”
Violet froze. Of course he had told the seamstress she was his mistress. Her cheeks flamed. What must Madame Angelique think of her? She longed to tell the woman it wasn’t true. But she couldn’t let the secret out yet. And niggling at the back of her mind was the question: Would he ask her to be his mistress in truth? Perhaps it was wrong to be so suspicious of his motives. Still, why else would he go to such expense for her?
Angelique helped coax her arms into sleeves frothy with costly lace at the edges. “He expects me to provide one or two simple gowns today. After these fittings, we will sit with the sketches and fashion dolls I have brought and plan what you need, down to chemises, stays, panniers, stockings, and shoes.”
“But this is too much, Madame.” Violet couldn’t breathe. She would never have been able to afford such luxury.
“Of course it is not. You please Seigneur Trevor, he rewards you. C’est trés facile.” Catching her look, Madame frowned. “Do you not like this one, petite? You look as though you have swallowed a fly. I assure you, the gown is quite becoming with your coloring.” She turned Violet so she could see herself in the mirror.
The beautiful gown did make her skin glow. It was so soft she scarcely knew she had anything on. How she would love to wear it out shopping, or to church, or to pay a call. All the normal things a lady did. She longed to be ordinary again, although an ordinary woman could scarcely afford such gowns. Unless…
“Madame Angelique. I could not help but notice your two seamstresses have been extremely busy all during my fitting.”
“They are slower than a slug in a spring garden, mademoiselle. Marie, this hem will not do. It is more crooked than an old man’s back.” The seamstress bounded up and finished pinning it, glaring at her assistant as her fingers flew. “They come to me as refugees from France. I take them in, teach them valuable skills, and what repayment do I get? Crooked hems and huge stitches. Look at this. Such stitches you can put your finger through.” She shook her head and glared at Marie, who lowered her gaze and continued with the alterations.
“Perhaps you would be in the market for an additional seamstress?” Violet tried not to reveal her eagerness, but it was very hard. If she could get the mantua maker to agree to take her on, she would have an income, and access to materials to make clothes for herself at a fraction of the cost of fine ladies’ wardrobes.
“Oh, oui! Absolutement. Do you know such a person? If they do the work quickly and well, I can be very generous.” She stripped the gown off Violet, leaving her in a very short chemise. “Was this mademoiselle’s previous maid? Tell her to come to my shop, immediatement.”
“No, it’s not my maid, Madame Angelique. It’s…me.”
“You?” The mantua maker stared at her as if she had grown two heads. “You wish me to employ you? C’est incroyable.” Then she shook her head and laughed. “You have had the little joke with me, eh, mademoiselle? Another talent to amuse Seigneur Trevor, oui? But you should not suggest I would take his lordship’s mistress from him. My custom would be ruined, not only with Seigneur Trevor, but with all of his friends as well.” With a shiver she crossed herself. “No, cherie,” she said, patting Violet’s arm, “do not jest about such things.”
Violet closed her eyes and sighed. Another avenue closed to her.
“Come, we have much to do, damoiselle.” She drew Violet to the chairs before the fire. “Here, these are sketches using some of the fabrics I have in my shop. We must choose six more dresses and two ball gowns.”
“Ball gowns?” Her high-pitched squeak sounded loud in her own ears.
“Mais oui, his lordship insisted.” Angelique smiled, and Violet’s spirits sank at the predatory gleam in the seamstress’s eyes. “I have just the thing at my shop, the perfect fabric to bring the gold in your eyes leaping straight to Seigneur Trevor’s heart. It is a heavy silk with a lace pattern woven into the fabric. It is beige and rust on a dark brown, all shot through with golden threads. It will be an exquisite ball gown for you, my dear. His lordship will not be able to take his eyes off you, especially after I lower the neckline several inches.”
Dear Lord. If the woman lowered the necklines of the ones she’d just tried on, she’d be showing her bosom down to her navel. They needed a fichu now. Still, the designs were entrancing. She could imagine herself dancing at a ball in the one Madame Angelique held before her, a robe à la française in lavender and green stripes over a lavender petticoat with scrollwork edged in rust around the jacket front. Oh, but she hungered for the feel of such a gown.
“Mademoiselle Cassandra, you must choose, my dear.”
Violet jumped, startled as much by the voice as by the name.
“Seigneur Trevor insists all the gowns must be completed no later than next week. I must begin this afternoon.” Angelique cocked her head like an expectant bird. “Your choices, mademoiselle?”
Desire to appear once again as she had before Jamie’s death coursed through her. She should take Lord Trevor at his word. Surely, he wished her nothing but well. In order for her to appear as a member of good standing in Society of course she must look her best. Even a companion needed different gowns. And he had spoken of perhaps a marriage. In order to attract a gentleman of the nobility she would have to be outfitted splendidly, according to her station. This was what Tristan had had in mind by giving these instructions to Madame Angelique.
Heartbeat pounding, she pointed to the lavender and green stripe. “This one, Madame. Along with the one in beige and brown you described for the two ball gowns.” Violet picked up the other sketches and smiled at the mantua maker. This would be exciting and fun. Life as a faux mistress had distinct advantages. “For the day gowns, I think I prefer the robe à la anglaise, in this salmon print and in this light blue brocade. Then I believe the cream-colored one with the embroidered stomacher will do nicely as well. And do you have any others in lavender or violet? Those are my favorite colors.”
* * * *
Attired in the two-piece cream print gown, Violet spun in her room, laughing in sheer delight at having a new and fashionable gown. While she and Madame Angelique had finalized her selection of gowns, the two assistants had stitched and tucked and hemmed like fiends to ready the gown before they left. The result was an outfit that made Violet hold her head high, ready to meet the world head on. Her lack of clothing had compromised her s
elf-esteem. Now armed with this new gown, Susan’s expert hairstyle, a pinner cap, and the silk mules, Violet marched down the staircase confident for the first time in weeks that life would work out to her satisfaction.
She stuck her head in the kitchen and was greeted with the deliciously sweet aroma of baking breads. “Mrs. Parker, could you please arrange a tea for me?”
“Of course, miss. Shall I serve it in the parlor or the music room?” The kind woman looked up from the dough she was rolling out and smiled.
“There is a music room?” The day kept getting brighter and brighter.
“Yes, miss. Just across the hall from the parlor.” The cook nodded toward the door where Violet stood. “We’ve been so busy putting the rest of the house to rights, and without Mr. Gates to oversee the work—the man knew everything about running a household—we’ve not been as swift to have the house just so for you.”
“Well, I think everything here is wonderful, Mrs. Parker. Thank you so very much for taking such good care of me.” The closed door at the end of the hallway beckoned. Excitement raced through her veins. “Could you please serve tea in the music room? I would like a little time to explore now that I am more settled.” She smoothed the skirt of her new dress. Amazing how a fresh, handsome gown had made the whole day seem better. What wonders were in store for her in the music room?
“Of course, miss. Would you like to wait until this batch of shortbread comes out of the oven?” She gestured to the dough lying thick, sparkling with a dusting of sugar on the butcher block table. “I’ll have it in the oven in a twink.”
“Oh, yes, please.” Violet’s mouth watered. “That would be lovely.” She backed out of the kitchen and strode down the corridor, noting the Turkey carpet and the tasteful landscapes on the walls. Tristan certainly seemed to enjoy the arts. Painting, carpets, furniture, fashionable gowns. Did he also attend the theatre? Perhaps he was an artist himself. That would certainly make sense. He seemed a very sensitive man, much different than her brother and their cousin, who had been loud and boisterous. More like overgrown boys than men. Tristan was most definitely a man—a very handsome and charitable one.
She pressed down the latch and opened the door on a room similar in size and elegant furnishings to the parlor across the hall, save for the beautiful cherry wood spinet that sat before the bay window looking out onto the street. Very carefully she walked forward, ran her shaking fingers across the gleaming surface. Lovingly, she stroked the exquisite instrument, played a C, then an F. In tune, and with a lovely tone. She sat on the stool and rested her hands on the keyboard.
Their harpsichord at home had been the first thing sold, her harp the last before she and her grandmother had been forced to move to London. She had sorely missed playing every day. The few times she’d been asked to entertain at a party with a song she’d been forced to choose easier pieces because of a lack of means to practice. Her exhibitions had thus not shown off her talents to their best ability. Perhaps that had been a factor in not attracting a husband.
Where might they keep sheet music? A lacquered cabinet beneath a picture of Venus and Cupid seemed a likely place. A search of it turned up a case with several pieces she did not know, and one sonata by Scarlatti that she did. She clapped her hands and took it back to the harpsichord. After laying out the music sheet by sheet, she settled onto the bench and ran her fingers over the keys. It was like coming home. Scales as always to warm up. They came automatically, even after all this time. That done, so much more palatable now she’d actually missed them, she set about re-familiarizing herself with the Scarlatti.
The concerto K1 hadn’t been one of her favorites, still she’d learned it once and could certainly do so again. She began slowly, stopping and starting, then found remembered passages where the music flowed effortlessly from her fingertips. After one such passage, however, she faltered, her fingers losing the thread of the keystrokes, and she jangled to a discordant end. She stretched her hands, then flexed them, and smiled. With daily practice she could master the piece once more.
Enthusiastic clapping from the doorway behind her sent her hurtling to her feet. Her hand knocked the music to the floor and Tristan darted forward, scooping up the sheets almost before they hit the polished planks.
“I beg your pardon, Violet. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He smiled and her heart stuttered. “But I always acknowledge a rare talent when I hear one. Brava!”
“You heard me playing?” She didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified.
“I came in about halfway through. Just before you broke free.” Straightening, he handed her the sheets of parchment. “It was like watching a bird leave the ground and soar.” His fingers brushed her palm as he passed the music to her.
The spark that leaped from him to her sent her reeling. She stumbled back and he caught her wrist, scalding her, making her tremble inside.
“I do beg pardon. I shouldn’t have startled you so. Come, sit down here.” He escorted her to a chair before the fire. “Let me get Mrs. Parker. She had brought the tea tray while you were playing, but I selfishly sent it back.” His eyes were warm and dark. “I didn’t want you to stop.” He disappeared into the passageway, calling for the cook.
Torn between the elation of playing music again and the shock of Tristan’s touch, Violet sat in the chair, allowing the warmth of the fire to soothe her for a moment or two, until he reappeared. At least he had liked her playing, although she was mortified he’d heard her stumble so badly at the end. She would practice hard so when he heard her again he would be even more pleased. And she did want to please him. A small repayment for his numerous kindnesses, but something within her power to do.
Tristan entered bearing the tea tray himself and she rose, holding out her hands to take it from him.
“No, my dear. Please sit.” He nodded to her chair and she sank down again. “You’ve given me a treat after a long and taxing day, so indulge me by allowing me to serve you.” Once he had settled the tray on the music chest, he pulled a small flute-edged table in front of her. “Mrs. Parker assures me the shortbread came out of the oven not ten minutes ago.”
Violet inhaled aromas of fragrant tea and sweet pastry and her stomach gave a growl. She clamped her hands over the offending organ as heat rushed to her face. Curse it. Just when she might have become comfortable with him.
“You are ready for tea, I see.” He grinned, taking some of the embarrassment out of the moment. “Well, I could tell you have worked hard for it. That is why you are so accomplished.”
“Not very accomplished now,” she said, accepting a napkin from him.
“Nonsense. I’ve no musical ability myself, but I recognize true talent when I hear it. Sugar? Milk?” He poured a cup, then hovered over the bowl of sugar with a pair of tongs.
“One lump and a splash of milk, please. I have not played for a very long time. And even longer since I had the opportunity to practice regularly.” She sipped the tea, deliciously hot and sweet, and took a bite of the still warm petticoat tail. “Ummm.” Violet couldn’t hold back the sigh of contentment. The confection all but melted on her tongue.
“Mrs. Parker’s shortbread would rival Mrs. McLintock’s I’m sure.” He leaned back in his chair opposite her and crunched into a wedge. It disappeared in two bites and he reached for another one.
“Who is Mrs. McLintock?”
“The Scottish woman who apparently invented shortbread about thirty years ago.” When he laughed, his face turned boyish. “At least she gets the credit for writing it down in a recipe book before anyone else. Mrs. Parker told me the first time she baked them for me.” His laughter died as he looked at her, his gaze traveling from her head to her feet. “I see you met with Madame Angelique.”
“Yes, I did. It was quite a surprise.” Completely aware of his scrutiny, Violet sat straighter and smoothed out her skirt. “I cannot thank you enough, my lord.”
He glared at her over the shortb
read. “My lord?”
“Tristan. Tris.” She blushed and could do absolutely nothing about it. “You have been more than generous to me. I cannot think how I shall ever repay you.” There. She had given him the opportunity to issue the suggestion she still half expected. Better to get it out in the open and be done with it.
He raised his eyebrows as he lifted his teacup to his lips.
Those very full, very sensual lips she could still feel kissing her body.
“Can you not, my dear? Perhaps I can think of a way you could repay me that will be to our mutual satisfaction.” Tris set his cup down and took her hands.
Her pulse raced and her mouth dried to dust.
“Will you become my mistress?”
Chapter 8
Tris waited for Violet’s outraged explosion, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Despite their conversation this morning, he knew she expected him to issue the indecent proposal. She’d given him the opening deliberately and he’d taken it. He stared longingly into her eyes. He loved to tease and suspected she’d be a fun target.
Violet bit her lip. Her face paled a trifle, but she squeezed his hands and said quite calmly, “Yes, I will.”
“What?” Tris jerked his hands away from her and pushed himself back in the chair, setting the cups and saucers to rattling. If he could have gotten farther away he would have. “What do you mean, ‘yes’? You should have said absolutely not.”
A puzzled frown ruffled her brows. “But you said I could repay you—”
“Christ in Heaven, I was teasing you, Violet.” He pounded his fist against his forehead. Idiot. “You seemed to expect such an offer, despite my words this morning. I thought you’d turn me down with a large flea in my ear.” ‘Sblood, he had to make this right. Poor Violet looked as though she was about to cry. “I do beg your pardon, my dear. It was a very ungentlemanly thing to do.”