“All right then,” she said with relief. “I’ll be back, Odette.”
She followed the plumassier to a backroom. A large work table cluttered with specially shaped knives, scissors, and other implements of the trade dominated the space.
Diderot opened a door at the side of the room. “After you, Mademoiselle Kent.”
Rosie stepped inside the small chamber—and froze.
“You,” she said furiously.
Chapter Seven
The sight of Primrose tore into him like a bullet of sunshine.
His rationality—all the reasons he’d given himself for arranging another meeting—bled away. Her impact on him went beyond that of her beauty. It was more than her corn-silk locks, her rare green-gold gaze, her figure so fetchingly displayed in a blue pelisse and gown edged in ermine.
It washer. The sum total of who’d she become. The transformation of his brave little chick into a passionate, willful woman devastated his senses: she affected him as no woman ever had. If the kiss at the Pantheon hadn’t made him aware of the true nature of his feelings, then he was a fool. And a greater fool still if he gave into those yearnings.
He no longer saw Primrose as a sister; he had no right to desire her as a woman.
Which was why he’d arranged this meeting, he reminded himself. To make his apologies. To disentangle himself from a situation that, contrary to his intentions, was placing her reputation in greater jeopardy than ever before. Bad enough that she’d suffered for the inconstancies of her aristocratic admirers; imagine if it became known that she’d been kissed by a goddamned pimp.
For her own good, he had to retreat, to return to his strategy of protecting her from afar.
He gave a subtle nod to Madame Diderot. She discreetly closed the door, leaving them in the privacy of the stock room, a small space with boxes piled along one wall, a table tucked up against another. Drying feathers fluttered on clotheslines overhead.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kent,” he said.
Her icy stare would have frozen a lesser man. “How did you know that I would be here? Did you bribe Madame Diderot?”
Tread carefully.
From the inner pocket of his jacket, he withdrew the ivory feather he’d taken from her at the masquerade and held it out. A peace offering. “I figured sooner or later you’d be in need of a replacement. And bribery was unnecessary in this instance. Madame owed me a favor.”
Primrose snatched the feather from him. “Well, if you’ve come to lecture me on my behavior again, save your breath.”
“Actually, it’s my behavior I wished to discuss. I owe you an apology.”
Her eyebrows winged.
“What happened at the Pantheon...” He cleared his throat. “I was entirely at fault.”
“Without a doubt,” she said coolly. “You ruined yet another opportunity for me to meet with Lord Daltry.”
“Will you leave off Daltry for a bloody moment?” Taken aback by his own vehemence, he forced himself to say in calmer tones, “I wasn’t referring to the earl but the kiss we shared.”
He’d imagined how she might react to his apology. Profuse blushes. Stammering denials.
Her shoulders hitched in a careless shrug. “It was just a kiss.”
“Justa kiss?” He had to check himself. Again. “How many times have you been kissed?”
“You ought to know. After all, you’re the expert on my behavior.” She wandered to the table. Her back to him, she lifted a magenta feather from its surface. “The advantage of being a hussy is that one doesn’t fall into a swoon over something as inconsequential as a peck.”
“It was more than a peck, and you know it,” he said shortly. “And don’t call yourself a hussy.”
“I’m just quoting you. And, by the by, one must wonder at your familiarity with hussies.”
“I beg your pardon?”
