Jean was her biggest problem. Jean was poison and antidote, desert and drought—and Jean, just like every other problem in her life, represented a tremendous failure of her will. A problem that she could have solved, by simply turning him away that first day.
But she hadn’t. And Jean LeClerc, the mysterious male modiste from France, would be arriving presently for fittings. Just as he had arrived every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday for two full weeks, making the long journey from Bath without a single complaint. Fittings held in the unspeakably intimate environment of Amelia's dressing room; a place where she should never, ever, be alone with a man.
Jean LeClerc was most certainly a man. Amelia looked over the desk at the mirror, noting the guilty expression in her eyes even as she sat there alone. Jean LeClerc had been scrupulously professional—he had never touched her improperly. But Amelia knew, with a dread that grew greater every day, that she had behaved unforgivably in the eyes of the ton. In the eyes, in fact, of everyone she knew.
What manner of woman, unmarried or not, had fittings with a male modiste with no other servants present? What manner of woman allowed a man to touch her in private, even if it were only to measure the width of her arm or the span of her waist? What woman let a man observe her, notice her, make comments like you are growing too thin or you have bitten your thumbnail again, without making any form of protest?
A woman like her. A woman ripping at the seams, cracking at the corners, ready to scream and scream and scream until there was no sound left in her. A woman who desperately hoped that Jean LeClerc was feeling at least a little of the tension that coiled in her whenever the knock came at the servants’ entrance; the way her heart fluttered in her throat, full of excitement that walked hand in hand with fear.
Amelia kept her eyes trained on her reflection, willing herself not to look away. She should be able to look at herself without shame—her actions spoke of someone utterly shameless, so why should her face escape scrutiny? Every day, she expected to look into the glass and see the proud, harsh expression of a woman who had gleefully left behind the opinions of others.
Alas, that woman had yet to arrive. All Amelia saw was a girl; a stupid, reckless girl, who couldn't keep tears from falling down her face.
The knock came from down the corridor; secret, near-silent, everything an innocent knock absolutely should not be. Amelia jumped to her feet, smoothing down her skirts, noting the raw edges of her bitten thumbnail with an annoyance that felt exaggerated even to herself.
Of course. She would greet Jean shaking and weeping, with bitten nails and an air of panic. Another problem, to add to her ever-growing list.
As she padded along the corridor that led to the servants’ quarters, making sure that every room she passed was empty, Amelia tried to calm herself. To keep her mind occupied, she tried to remember exactly how she had ensured that each servant was well and truly out of the way by the time Monsieur LeClerc knocked on the door. That fact that she had done this brought another wave of guilt, of shame, flooding to her face—but she swallowed hard, smoothed down her skirts, and walked on.
Stockton the valet had been easy to ignore; he was normally tasked with taking care of Matthew’s wardrobe during fitting hours, which kept him confined to his master's bedroom until he had been taken on Matthew’s honeymoon. Jameson, the butler, had been a little trickier—until she had learned from Eliza, her lady’s-maid, about his unrequited love for the dairy woman who lived in Chiltern village. Daily milk deliveries became an afternoon task; one which Jameson insisted on performing. That left kitchen and scullery maids, who were easily moved to different parts of the house for cleaning tasks which had never before been urgent, but which needed doing all the same; darning curtains, deciding which shoes needed to be taken to the cobbler, choosing the sunniest part of the grounds to hang wet sheets.
The only member of staff left had been Eliza. Amelia had wondered, for a desperate instant, if telling the young woman everything would lift the leaden weight from around her heart—but at the last moment, she had succumbed to her need for secrecy. Eliza had been present during the first fitting; eyes narrowed, watching Jean’s every move. Amelia knew that the girl would have little trouble believing any scandal that reared its head.
In the end, she had told Eliza that she would have an hour of time every afternoon in which she was expected to learn to read; an hour which Eliza had eagerly seized, tears of gratitude rolling down her cheeks. A gratitude that Amelia had felt sick at heart for accepting.
Still. She had managed it, by the skin of her teeth, just as she had managed everything else. When Jean arrived at the Benson residence the second time, he had seen no-one but herself. A faint air of triumph thrilled through Amelia at the thought, before she viciously squashed the feeling.
She opened the door. Staring at Jean, all six feet of him, his green eyes boring into hers, Amelia fought the familiar sensation of losing the power of speech.
‘Monsieur LeClerc.’ No, her voice still worked. She curtseyed, watching the man bow. 'I am ready for my fitting.'
‘Good, Madame.’ Was she imagining it; the flash of fire hidden behind his serious expression? ‘Let us begin.’
She had been scratching the back of her neck again. Jean focused on the small patch of reddened skin as he walked through the house, the newest gowns weighing heavily on his shoulder in their silk-lined bags. He stayed the correct number of steps behind Amelia as she led him to the dressing room—the dressing room that Jean had imagined many times as he lay in his bed in Bath, sleepless and hungry, his dreams full of mirrors and screens and her.
Amelia Benson; his muse, quite by accident. His one desire, entirely by mistake. He had only come to the Benson House as part of a joke; a favour to his friend Laurence, who had wanted to play a trick. That girl is far too shrill to be around my pastries—the egg whites will be too scared to stiffen.
Jean had laughed; why not go to a grand house for an afternoon’s flirtation, after all? Even if he had to pay court to an empty-headed, shrill woman who would do nothing but delay his becoming the best modiste in Bath?
Amelia Benson was not empty-headed; not in the least. Neither was she shrill. As soon as Jean had seen her walking out to meet the carriage, her slim frame practically shaking with nervous energy, he knew that he would be dealing with someone remarkable. When he had heard her voice, arch and rigid and panicked, terribly panicked, he had known that Amelia Benson was both remarkable, and in great distress.
It didn’t take a practiced observer to notice the source of her disarray—or sources. More than one aspect of Amelia Benson’s life was causing her tremendous anxiety; all Jean had to do was keep quiet, and notice the small details. The brother that he’d barely seen, blinded in some mysterious accident, still entirely too content to have his sister take care of him… the mother he had never seen, concealed in some shadowed part of the house—the mother that made Amelia’s face crease with worry whenever she mentioned her…
There were other, smaller details. The tension in Amelia’s body whenever she spoke of small purchases that needed to be made; tea, wool, notepaper. Money was apparently a problem; something that Jean could relate to. At least he didn’t have a title and reputation to maintain; Amelia had the Benson name, which was something of a heavy weight. Jean would make more money in his first Bath season than he’d ever made in France, he was sure of that—but Amelia, if his understanding of the ton was anything to go by, could sink her family further into debt if she failed to attract a suitable husband.
Husband. Jean’s brow furrowed as he closed the door of the dressing room. That word shouldn’t hurt him as much as it did.
Yes. Amelia Benson was in trouble. How wonderful that he could help her; in his gowns, which he had already taken to calling LeClerc gowns, she would be irresistible. How wonderful that he would find wealth through her beauty; every woman would want a gown from the House of LeClerc, after they had seen one on Amelia.
&
nbsp; Yes. Wonderful. The only agonising, horrifying part of the whole business was… well. All of the wonderful parts. The better his gowns were, the more quickly she
would be snatched from him forever.
After that first meeting, he had known that he would kill for her. He was French, after all; there had been many women in Jean’s past that he would have quite happily killed for. But after two weeks of meetings—of meeting her alone, the absence of servants never explained, sitting in the close confines of the dressing room as he heard each bewitching rustle and drape of her clothes, Amelia dressing and undressing behind the screen—Jean was certain that Amelia Benson was the only woman he would die for.
He had never been ready to die for any woman before—apart from his sister, but Jonquil had never needed him to fight her battles. Neither was he in any position to fight Amelia Benson’s battles for her… but Lord, would he, if given the chance. Fight, fight and fight again, dying gloriously, hopefully able to kiss the hem of her gown with his last breath. Perhaps, if he were truly fortunate, he would be allowed to kiss more than her hem.
‘Well?’ Amelia stood before him, arms folded, her usual air of hurry and worry filling the room like a cloud. ‘Do you have it?’
The house prepared for seduction, and the manner of a harried fishwife. A beautiful, saddened fishwife. Jean had to resist smiling at the thought. He simply opened his bag, gently removing one of the carefully wrapped, half-finished gowns he had brought with him. ‘Of course, Madame.’
‘You still call me Madame.’ Amelia’s mouth twitched as she frowned. ‘I assumed I would be Mademoiselle by now.’
‘You would be.’ Jean held out the gown, the crackling intimacy of their simple words to one another making his muscles tense. ‘But you… you are in charge, no?’
This could be a step too far; too knowing a comment. A veiled reference to the weakness of those around her. But Amelia, after a short, reflective pause, let loose a harsh rattle of laughter that Jean loved more than any carefully crafted giggle.
‘Yes.’ She shrugged, taking the gown. ‘Yes, I am.’
Jean turned to face the wall without another word, as Amelia walked behind the screen. He sat in the small chair that he always used, shoulders hunched, fervently trying to imagine anything that wasn’t Amelia Benson undressing a few feet away.
Old men. Shipping routes. Smoke, and wet Sundays, and over-boiled vegetables. He concentrated as hard as he could, but it was to no avail; his body was still rebelling, hardening at the mere thought of her.
‘Monsieur? I believe I am ready.’
Jean turned to face Amelia as she walked out from behind the screen. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw the brief, half-hidden smile on her face. The gown was a success, then; he had hoped it would be, stitching and shaping late into the night until his fingers had bled. A shining column of lilac silk, the exact colour of the lilac blossoms that graced the trees of London’s parks, and decorated with shining sprigs of white thread that danced across the bodice. A day-gown; easy to smile and laugh and walk on smooth green lawns in, surrounded by friends, the sunlight shining on her face and hair as if the light knew how blessed it was to touch her… yes. A success.
But this wasn’t the gown he needed her to love. The other gown still lay in his bag, a ghost, waiting for Amelia to make it live. An Amelia that Jean had only imagined, up to this point; an Amelia in full command of her beauty. Vibrant. Sensual. Strong.
‘It… it is most pleasing.’ Joy shone in Amelia’s voice despite her reserved words. ‘Truly. Although I fear some minor—’
‘Yes. I know.’ Jean’s heart sank a little. ‘Adjustments.’
He tried not to stitch optimistically when he was alone in his studio, the mannequin under his hands. He knew he had no business stitching for an Amelia who nourished herself; who was adequately cared for by those around her. But when he saw the spare inches of fabric at her waist, the slight but definite sharpness of her collarbones rubbing the edges of the gown’s shoulders, Jean couldn’t help but feel a burst of intense concern.
‘You are still not eating.’ He stated it as a fact; a fact could not be reasonably denied. ‘You are growing too thin.’
‘You are not my physician, and neither are you my mother.’ Amelia’s voice revealed equal parts irritation and weariness; an exhaustion that troubled Jean more deeply than her annoyance. I do not eat. What of it? ‘You are also not a chef.’
‘No. I am your modiste, and I will not be forced to alter my gowns mere days before the Season begins because you are not eating.’ Jean knew he sounded too involved; too personal. He took a deep breath, trying to sound more impersonal. ‘Think of my seams, Madame. Think of my thumbs. You must eat.’
‘I… I have little time.’ Amelia looked down at her skirts; Jean caught sight of the red patch of skin at the nape of her neck again, and fought the intense urge to kiss it until it was soothed. ‘And when I do have time, everything seems far too leaden to eat in any sort of comfort.’
Now was his moment—his chance to help, even if Jean knew that it would only make these meetings twice as painful. Twice as wounding; looking at the woman he loved, sharing newly-found intimacy with her, and knowing that he could still never have her.
Still. How could he not help her, when every part of her cried out to be helped?
‘Yes. I find all English food very leaden—apart from one dish.’ He reached down into his bag, finding the thrice-wrapped package as Amelia watched him, clearly confused. ‘This dish, to be exact.’
Laurence, his dear friend and an excellent cook, hadn’t asked any questions when Jean had demanded he make this particular dish. The man’s silence was to his credit; Jean wouldn’t have been able to explain his need to him, even if Laurence had asked.
The woman I am not meant to be meeting, on whom I am hanging the hopes of my future. Not just my future; all of our futures. She is not eating. I want her to eat.
I want her, just once, to feel safe.
‘Apple-snow.’ He opened the package carefully, making sure his movements were neither expansive, nor sudden. Silly, really, acting as if he were facing a frightened deer rather than a spirited young women—but there was something of the doe about he, a fragility that hid a strength and quickness he could barely comprehend. ‘Very light, and sweet. Exceedingly easy to eat.’
‘You… you have brought me food.’ Amelia eyed the package as if it would bite her. ‘Snow-apples.’
‘Apple-snow.’
‘The name of the dish is irrelevant.’ She looked up at him, her tone as frosty and forbidding as possible. ‘This is a grave imposition.’
‘Yes.’ Jean held her gaze, letting the moment stretch into an awkward, intimate silence. ‘It is.’
He held his breath as Amelia looked down at the dish of apple-snow again. She was, of course, correct; this was a grave imposition, completely inappropriate for a man of his station. But their continued meetings fell into this category too, as did the lack of servants, and the way they spoke to one another, and the fact that she changed clothes while he was still in the room.
It was all wrong. All a step, or a look, or a bite away from a scandal. Jean hoped, watching Amelia, that she would decide to throw just a little more caution to the wind.
Quickly, almost furtively, she snatched the bowl from his hands. Jean had to restrain a whoop of triumph as Amelia unwrapped the cloth from around the dish, lifting the lid to reveal the pale, smooth expanse of mashed and sugared apples. As she bit her lip, taking in the sight of the painstakingly prepared food, Jean felt parts of himself stirring that were even more inappropriate than his thoughts.
‘You did not think to bring a spoon.’ She said it as a last-ditch attempt; even her voice had changed, plaintive rather than cold. Jean, rifling through his bag with undue haste to produce the cutlery, knew that he didn’t even have to reply.
He tried to avert his eyes as she ate, pulling a square of embroidery out of his bag and adding to
it with deft, neat stitches. Amelia turned away from him as well, but only partly; remaining within the bounds of propriety was clearly not as large a concern as her hunger. Jean listened to the sound of the spoon scraping the bowl, snatching brief, greedy glances of her face as she closed her eyes in apparent pleasure.
In far too short a time, the bowl was pushed back into his hands. ‘You were correct. It was light enough to consume without trouble.’
‘I told you as much.’ Honesty compelled Jean to admit his lack of involvement. ‘Laurence made it.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Amelia looked at him, suddenly wary again. ‘You told Monsieur Martin that I needed to be fed? Like a cat?’
‘No.’ Jean smiled. ‘I told him that I wanted apple-snow. What I do with it is nobody’s business but my own.’
He saw Amelia visibly relax. How torturous it must be; not letting anybody know one’s weaknesses. She absent-mindedly licked her lips; Jean felt himself hardening further, and hurriedly placed his bag on his lap.
‘One must be careful with Laurence’s food.’ Amelia laughed, a slight, brittle edge of panic trilling at the end of the sound. ‘The last time he baked things here, we had to finish with a wedding.’
‘Yes.’ Jean paused, his heart suddenly in his mouth. ‘… Yes.’
He looked at her, his world suddenly narrowing down to her slightly parted lips. His body willed him onward, even as his mind urged him to stay in place. Do not kiss her. Do not lean forward and kiss her, again and again and again, until you rip your own gown off of her body and kiss the rest of her as well.
For a brief, startling moment, Amelia leaned forward; Jean paused, racked with lust and caution in equal measure. Perhaps, just perhaps, his dream was about to be realised…
… Amelia blinked, her eyes darting away. ‘It must be time for the next gown. You said there would be another today.’
Jean’s mind spoke smugly to him. Die. Die and kiss the hem of her gown, you wretch. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to kissing her.
Private Passions Page 39