Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares

“I don’t know what I’m taking,” she said. “Halliday promised I’d have your fastest vehicle. They’re waiting for me.”

He wanted to go with her. He wanted to see the dress, and Clara’s face when she saw it. He wanted them all to see that it was business, and Noirot was not only talented but principled—to a point—when it came to her work, in any case—and honorable—to a point—when it came to her work, in any case…

But that, to his shame, wasn’t the only reason he wanted to go with her.

He was near enough to breathe her scent, to see the faint wash of color come and go in her cheeks…and the pearly glow of her skin where the light caught it…and the tendrils of dark hair straying artfully from her bonnet, curling near her ears. He wanted to bring his hand up to cup her face and turn it to his and bring his mouth to hers…

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And ignoble as well, when she was carrying Clara’s dress, and he loved Clara and had always loved her and couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her.

He’d caused trouble enough. Lady Warford had probably been harassing Clara all day long, blaming her for Clevedon’s negligence and misbehavior. The jealous cats who pretended to be their friends would be sure to sharpen their claws on Clara, too.

He stepped back from the door. “I should be a great idiot to keep you, after you’ve achieved what I could have sworn was impossible.”

She stepped back, too. “Let’s hope they let me deliver it.”

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_022fd0ad-7015-5c68-a695-5f2b32a1f4d6)

A lady of genius will give a genteel air to her whole dress by a well-fancied suit of knots, as a judicious writer gives a spirit to a whole sentence by a single expression.

John Gay, English poet and dramatist (1685–1732)

Marcelline reached Warford House at five minutes before seven. Though she arrived in Clevedon’s carriage, his crest emblazoned on the door, she knew better than to go to the front door. She went round to the tradesmen’s entrance, where she was made to wait. It had occurred to her that she might be rebuffed, but she’d refused to entertain doubts. The dress was magnificent. Lady Clara had understood she was in the hands of a master, else she’d have sent Marcelline away the other day, the minute she started tossing out her ladyship’s wardrobe.

At last Lady Clara’s maid, Davis, appeared and gave her permission to enter. Her expression grim, Davis led Marcelline past the staring servants and up the backstairs.

Her dour look was soon explained. Marcelline found both Lady Clara and her mother in the younger woman’s dressing room. Clearly, they’d been quarreling, and it must have been a prodigious row, to make both ladies’ faces so red. But when Davis entered and said, “The dressmaker is here, my lady,” a silence fell, as heavy and immense as an elephant.

Lady Warford was nearly as tall as Clara, and obviously had been as beautiful once. She by no means looked like the battle-ax she was well known to be. Though a degree bulkier than her daughter, the marchioness was a handsome woman of middle age.

Battle she did, though, going promptly on the attack. “You!” said her ladyship. “How dare you show your face here!”

“Mama, please,” Lady Clara said, her gaze darting to the parcel Marcelline carried. “Good heavens, I couldn’t believe it when they said you were here with the dress. Your shop—I read that it burnt to the ground.”

“It did, your ladyship, but I promised the dress.”

“Dress or not, I cannot believe this creature has the effrontery to show her face—”

“You made my dress?” Lady Clara said. “You made it already?”

Marcelline nodded. She set down the parcel on a low table, untied the strings, unwrapped the muslin, and drew the dress out from the tissue paper she and her sisters had carefully tucked among its folds.

She heard three sharp intakes of breath.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Lady Clara. “Oh, my goodness.”

“This is outrageous,” Lady Warford said, though with less assurance than before. “Oh, Clara, how can you bear to take anything from this creature’s hands?”

“I’ve nothing else to wear,” Lady Clara said.

“Nothing else! Nothing else!”

But Lady Clara ignored her mother, and signaled her maid to help her out of her dressing gown. Lady Warford sank onto a chair and glowered over the proceedings as Marcelline and the maid dressed Lady Clara.

Then Lady Clara moved to study herself in the horse-dressing glass.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”

The maid stood, her fist to her mouth.

Lady Warford stared.

Marcelline’s creation comprised a white crape robe over a white satin under-dress. The neckline, cut very low, displayed Lady Clara’s smooth shoulders and bosom to great advantage, and the soft white enhanced the translucency of her complexion. Marcelline had kept the embellishments simple and spare, to better showcase the magnificent cut of the dress and the perfection of the drapery, particularly the graceful folds of the bodice. A few judiciously placed papillon bows adorned the very short, very full sleeves and trimmed the edges of the robe where it opened over the satin under-dress. The robe was delicately embroidered in gold, silver, and black sprigs. The style was not French, but it was just dashing enough to be not completely English.

Most important, though, the dress became the wearer. No, it was more than merely becoming. It made Lady Clara’s beauty almost unbearable.

Lady Clara could see that.

Her maid could see that.

Even her mother could see that.

The dressing room’s silence was profound.

Marcelline let them stare while she studied her handiwork. Thanks to her fanaticism about measurements, the fit was nearly perfect. She wouldn’t have to take the hem up or down. The neckline needed a little work in order to lie perfectly smoothly across the back. The puffs Davis had provided weren’t large enough to support the sleeves properly. But these and a few other very minor matters were easily corrected. Marcelline quickly set about making the adjustments.

When the technical work was done, she guided Davis in adding the finishing touches: a silver and gold wreath set just so to frame the plaited knot of her ladyship’s hair, heavy gold earrings, a gauze scarf. White silk slippers and white kid gloves embroidered in silver and gold silk finished the ensemble.

All of this took nearly an hour, while Lady Warford grew increasingly impatient, muttering about the time. She gave Marcelline scarcely a minute to admire her masterpiece. She’d made them late for dinner, Lady War-ford complained, and swept Lady Clara out of the dressing room without another word.

No thanks, certainly.

Davis admitted gruffly that her mistress looked very well, indeed. Then she ushered Marcelline down the backstairs like a dirty secret, and back to the tradesman’s entrance.

As she stepped out into the night, Marcelline told herself she was very, very happy.

She’d done what had to be done. Lady Clara had never looked so beautiful in all her life, and she knew it and her mother knew it. Everyone at Almack’s would see that. Clevedon, too. He would fall in love with Lady Clara all over again.

And in the midst of her triumph, Marcelline felt a stab, sharp and deep.

She knew what it was. She was a fine liar, but lying to herself wasn’t a useful skill.

The truth was, she wanted to be Lady Clara, or someone like her: one of his kind. She wanted to be the one he fell in love with, and once would be enough.

Never mind, she told herself. Her daughter was alive. Her sisters were alive. They’d start fresh—and after this night, the ton would be beating a path to their door.

Clevedon had hardly arrived at Almack’s before he was calculating how long it would be before he could decently escape. He wouldn’t stay as long as he ought to—at least in Lady Warford’s opinion—but it wasn’t his job to please Lady Warford. He’d come solely on Clara’s account, and he doubted Clara expected him to live in her pocket.