Her fingers froze mid-sew. “Yes?”
“And your father is no longer tailor to Ferdinand?” Something—a question, a foreboding—hung just out of reach here.
“The King no longer requires my father’s services.”
The same look he’d noted in her eyes when she’d encountered Montfort shone there now.
Fear.
And, of a sudden, he understood. “Lord Bertrand Montfort has connections to every court in Europe. In fact, it would come as no great surprise if he were acquainted with King Ferdinand’s tailor.”
Isabel’s sewing fell to her lap, a fact he doubted she had any awareness of. The fear in her eyes expanded. He doubted she could draw breath in this moment. “This debt owed Montfort,” he continued, softly, soothingly, as if wooing a wild animal to come closer, “is it your father’s?”
Her brow crinkled, frozen in a state of bewilderment. Then it released. Gone was the fear, replaced by a spark of fire. “Is it so easy for you?”
“Is what so easy for me?” he asked, wary. The ground beneath his feet felt like it was beginning to shift.
“To separate yourself from your family.”
The statement hit Percy like a solid blow to the solar plexus. He hadn’t only been observing her. She had been observing him, too.
“It is our family’s problem,” she continued. “What affects one, affectsall.”
The implication of her words landed like a follow-up uppercut to the jaw.Family.Percy had neglected his; she would never abandon hers. He deserved her scorn.
But, now, the flare of anger faded from her eyes, and she looked upon him with a sort of contrition. “A dozen seamstresses and tailors sewed for Papa at the royal court,” she began, gently moving the conversation in a less combative direction. “He oversaw the purchase of materials and the construction of all the servants’ uniforms. But only his hand sewed the king’s clothes. There isn’t a stitch he is unequal to.”
But Percy couldn’t let the matter go, even if she heaped an avalanche of scorn upon his head. “Why isn’t your father in England with his daughters?”
Her gaze slid away. “Matters became complicated, so Eva and I left first. He will be following soon. We’ve been given assurances.”
“By Montfort?” Percy needed a yes, or even a nod, anything that would convey trust.
Instead, Isabel concentrated on her stitching. “Every little stitch is vital to the integrity of both the garment and its maker. Papa taught us that.”
She wasn’t ready for that depth of trust yet, and Percy knew better than to push. Besides, the light was returning to her eyes. He liked it. He felt himself drawn into her like a magnet meeting its polar opposite. She had the power to illuminate and chase away his darkness.
How cold it had been in the shadows all these years.
How warm was her light.
“When a woman wears a well-constructed garment,” she continued, fervent, “and she feels those stitches perfectly aligned with the curves of body, it gives her confidence. No one else in the world can wear this garment like she, because it was fashioned solely for her. More than fine fabrics, this is the luxury that has been the sole preserve of the rich.”
“And you would like to change that?” He wanted her to keep talking and telling him of her hopes, dreams, and goals. It was damned attractive.
“Oh, yes, very much. An entire segment of the middling classes crave bespoke fashion they can afford. Our idea is to keep costs down with carefully chosen materials, using the latest creations by Eva. She is a genius of design.”
“And you run the business side?”
Isabel laughed. “Eva cannot be trusted on her own in a fabric shop. It would be all shantung silks and jamdani muslin and debtor’s prison.”
Percy felt himself smiling along with her.
Of a sudden, she shot upright on a pained, “Oh!” She held up her forefinger. On its tip beaded a drop of blood.
Before she could bring it to her mouth, Percy crossed the short stretch of sofa between them and caught her wrist. “May I?” he found himself asking.
Another, “Oh,” fell from her lips, this one soft and very possibly inviting. Eyes wide, she nodded.
