The fitting rooms were modestly curtained, concealing the person inside. There had been rustling and low voices from behind Madeline’s curtain, where Madame Tishell herself was helping her into the gown. Tristan had not looked much at the gown, which Madeline had chosen with her friend’s advice. Charlotte had excellent taste, so it was likely to be a lovely dress.
Without warning, the curtain came whisking back suddenly enough to make Tristan jump.
“Go on out, Your Grace,” he heard Madame Tishell say. “Look at yourself in the large mirror. Tell me what you think.”
Madeline appeared, and Tristan felt as if he had suddenly become stuck to his seat.
Her dress was forest-green at first inspection, but when she moved, or the material shifted, a thin golden sheen rippled across the fabric.
The neckline was shockingly low, curving below her collarbones and skimming her shoulders, with a thick fold of material forming a narrow collar. The bodice was designed to pull in tightly around the waist, decorated with gold sequins so that it shimmered like fish scales in the light.
The skirt was full and rich, ruched at the hem but with no other decoration. Its simplicity was its beauty. At the back of the gown—which he saw when she turned her back to him to look in the mirror—were golden laces, braided like rope. They would be laced up properly and tucked away, of course, but for now, forthe purposes of trying on the dress, Madame Tishell had only loosely laced up the gown.
The knotted ends of the laces trailed down the back of the skirt, begging to be undone. A tug on one lace would undo that flimsy knot, and the back of the dress would open up. Tristan could see the white skin at the small of her back, the laces pressing against the flesh.
He swallowed thickly and found that his throat was dry. He wondered whether Madame Tishell would consider bringing him a brandy. Probably not.
Madeline turned back to face him, almost warily. He could appreciate now how the color flattered her complexion. Her green eyes seemed to glow against the green, and her hair took on an almost whitish-blonde tinge.
“Well?” Madeline asked after a moment, holding out her arms to the sides. “How do I look?”
“Like a forest nymph in spectacles,” Tristan managed.
She blinked at him. Madame Tishell, standing behind her, gave amoueof displeasure.
“You like it, then?” Madeline prompted. “It is an expensive gown.”
“Fortunately, I am a man of great means.”
And great appetites,he thought numbly, swallowing hard. Desire flooded through him, pooling hotly in his gut.
He could imagine himself stepping forward now, when Madeline was observing herself in the mirror. He would put his arms around her waist and kiss the warm skin at the curve of her neck. She would close her eyes, tilting her head to let him press his lips against her neck.
He imagined his hands curving around her ribcage, feeling it expand and contract with her breaths. One hand would edge higher, higher and higher, half-inch by half-inch, until his hand brushed the underside of her breast. He could almost imagine how her breath would hitch in her throat, and her eyes would fly open. She would look at herself in the mirror, eyes wide, andhewould look at her. He would smile, of course, like a wolf waiting to pounce.
In his imagination, of course, they were alone. They were in the same place, with its dark wallpaper, plush carpets, and velvet curtains. There was something sumptuous and luxurious about the place, something that he liked. Madeline suited a place like that, in her lovely green gown.
This time, she would not avoid his stare. She would not squirm away. She would not ignore her own feelings. She would lean back against him, her body warm and firm against his.
I could take her right there, in front of the mirror.
“Oh, how lovely!” Charlotte exclaimed, effectively jerking Tristan mercilessly out of his daydream. He flinched, abruptly crossing his legs, and tried his best to will down the rush of desire. Suddenly, the world came flooding back in, and he was aware of Charlotte, of Madame, of Madame’s assistant, of hismotheron the other side of the curtain.
Oh, dear, Tristan, you fool,he thought wildly.
“Do you like it?” Madeline asked almost uncertainly and glanced at her reflection. Their eyes met through the mirror, and for one heady moment, he wondered whether she could tell what he was thinking. Perhaps she could. Women often had a sort of sixth sense when it came to reading minds. Or something like that indeed.
“It’s beautiful,” Tristan answered, surprised at how cool his voice sounded. “If you like it, you must buy it.”
“I think I do like it,” she said, smoothing down the bodice with one uncertain hand.
“Then it’s yours,” Tristan responded brusquely, jumping to his feet and wandering over to inspect a basket of buttons. “Tell me, Madame, is there anything else, eh, in this color? Or in that pattern?”
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Madame Tishell answered, her eyes sharp and almost amused.
He waved a hand. “Well, she seems to suit them. Perhaps we should buy more.”
Now Madame Tishellwastrying to hide a smile.
