Marianne saw the emotions flutter across Amelie Rousseau's thin features: anartiste's rapture, a businesswoman's delight. As expected, clever Amelie did not mention the fact that Marianne had purchased a good many gowns at the beginning of the Season.
"The order, it will have to be rushed," the modiste said, with just the right touch of doubt.
"I am happy to pay for the inconvenience," Marianne said.
"Then,chérie, time is not to be wasted." Excitement danced in the Frenchwoman's black eyes, and her hands clapped together. "Let us make art."
As the assistant helped Marianne to disrobe to her chemise, Amelie went to sort through the fabric on the table. She picked up one beautiful roll after another, muttering to herself, "Non, ça ne suffit pas…" Finally, she said, "Bien.I have found it. Let us have a look in front of the glass."
With capable hands, Amelie draped the material over Marianne. She pinned here, tucked there, muttering in French as she worked. Finally, she stepped back. "What do you think?"
Iridescent shades of blue and green glimmered like mysterious and alluring waves. Even without a finished shape, the chiffon flowed with natural grace, clinging to Marianne's curves. Its beauty infused her with a feeling of power—her armor to protect her from harm.
Marianne sighed with bliss. "Atour de forceas usual, Amelie."
"C'est parfait," Amelie agreed. "Paired with a sheer underskirt and cut à la Grecque, the gown will be unparalleled."
A bell sounded from the front of the boutique. Amelie nodded at her assistant, who scurried off to attend to the new customer. The modiste continued to play with the fabric at Marianne's neckline, twisting it this way and that. "The exact design, it will depend on your purpose,non?"
"I shall be hunting," Marianne said succinctly.
"Ah." Amelie lowered the décolletage an inch. Seductive yet still tasteful. "A particular gentleman of interest?"
Kent's face leapt into Marianne's head. His eyes heavy-lidded with passion, his face stark as his touch drove her higher and higher… Her throat flexed in the reflection, color creeping up her cheeks.
Stay focused. 'Tis Ashcroft, Boyer, or Pendleton you're after—they're your targets.
"Not in the manner which you are implying," she said.
"Non?Then why the blush,chérie?"
Marianne thought to deny it. Instead, she said ruefully, "There's no hiding anything from you, is there, Amelie?"
"A dressmaker understands her client's form. A modiste,she must comprehend her client's heart."
"You, of course, are a modiste," Marianne said with fondness.
"And a friend, I hope. Like you, I am a woman of the world… and French besides. You may speak freely without fear here, my lady."
Marianne believed the modiste. With her philosopher's mind and independent spirit, Amelie had proved a confidante over the years. Though Marianne had not gone so far as to speak of Rosie, she had once mentioned her marriage to Draven. Amelie had listened without judgment or pity. In the end, she'd said simply, "He is dead, and you are rich,ma chère.If not kind, the universe is at least, on occasion, just."
Marianne experienced the urge to confide her sexual experience with Kent. There was no one else she could speak to about such matters: Tilda distrusted him, and Helena, well… Marianne shuddered. The last thing she wanted was for the marchioness to know about her dalliance. Knowing Helena, she'd likely start pestering Marianne. About claptrap like romance and relationships.Feelings, God help her.
"There is a man," Marianne said.
"A lover?" Amelie said.
Marianne gave a slow nod.
"I, myself, have had a few. Some better than others," the modiste said with continental candor. "This one, he is good?"
"Very," Marianne admitted. The best she'd ever had in fact, though she'd only known one other. And she hadn't evenknownKent, at least not in the strictly biblical sense. With just his hands, his mouth, he'd brought her such shattering pleasure…
Even as her sex quivered, she recognized the danger. With Kent, she'd given into her impulses, something she had not done since Thomas and for good cause: those reckless couplings had resulted in a child. Though she now possessed the knowledge to prevent conception—methods includingcoitus interruptusfollowed by a special vinegar rinse—could she have trusted Kent to obey her wishes? More to the point, could she trust him at all? He'd already nosed into her business twice, and she still didn't know his true motives.
Men cannot be trusted. If you haven't learned that lesson, you're a fool indeed.
"You do not seem happy about this lover," the modiste observed.
