Marianne heaved a sigh. "It's complicated, and I have other more pressing concerns. Besides, he is not someone I ought to get involved with. We fight whenever we meet—and we come from different worlds."
The other woman shrugged as she unpinned the chiffon. "C'est l'amour."
Marianne blinked. "This isn't about love."
"An irrational and inconvenient attraction, a star-crossed relationship, andverygood lovemaking." Amelie counted off her fingertips. "If notl'amour, then what would you call it?"
The possibility struck Marianne like a blade in the chest. She could not possibly be developing feelings for Kent. Could. Not. If she felt anything, it was mere… obligation. Yes, because he'd saved her twice. Because she'd never met anyone like him. Because... he'd given her the greatest pleasure she'd ever experienced?
That's physical attraction. Nothing more.
Shoulders tensed, she said, "I cannot afford sentiment. It has never served me well."
"L'amourisn't meant to serve. It simplyis—to our delight and our despair.Alors, if we must suffer the aftermath of our foolish hearts, should we not also enjoy the sweetness of their abandon?"
"You advocate for a broken heart?" Marianne said, brows arching.
"Better broken than unused.Le coeur va guérir—it is only a matter of time."
Perhaps time healed some hearts, but the pain in Marianne's organ had not subsided one whit since the fateful morning she'd walked into Primrose's nursery. She'd stayed up late the night before, stitching a ball for her active poppet to play with. But Rosie's bed had been empty, the cupboards bare of all the little dresses Marianne had sewn, and the ball had dropped from Marianne's icy hands...
Seven years later and the wound still felt as fresh and raw as it had when Draven had informed her that he'd taken away her daughter:
Now you'll do my bidding. You'll breathe when I tell you to, stop when I say so. This is the fate you earned by being a trollop.
A touch on the arm brought her back. "Love takes courage," Amelie said softly, "a quality you possess in spades. Why deny yourself a taste of happiness?"
Because I don't deserve it. Not after all the mistakes I've made.
Throat dry, Marianne said, "The risk is too great."
"Risk,ma chère?Ah, je comprends." The Frenchwoman's eyes gleamed."As it happens, I can be of assistance—wait here."
The modiste left the room, leaving Marianne alone with her reflection. Clad in only her chemise, she looked less like a sophisticated widow and more like a version of her younger self. Miss Marianne Blunt, wayward daughter of a dusty squire… A memory unfurled of that first time she'd gone to meet Thomas in the meadow adjoining their fathers' estates. When Helena's brother had returned from Oxford that summer, Marianne had known he was the one she would marry. Sweet Thomas, with his chestnut hair and hazel eyes and the son of an earl to boot.
Had that been love? she wondered. Not a mature vintage, certainly, but the youthful infatuation had been intoxicating nonetheless. Excitement had bubbled through her, heady as champagne, propelling her across the swaying fields toward her dreams. She hadn't known fear then. Or bitterness or guilt. She'd simply reveled in the sun's warmth, the breeze's soft caress.
How long had it been since she'd felt that vitality, that freedom of spirit?
The answer popped into her head with stunning clarity:last night with Kent.
"I have returned." Amelie's voice cut through Marianne's thoughts. Shutting the door, the modiste approached, holding out a small flat box. "For you, my lady."
"What is it?" Bemused, Marianne lifted the lid.
"French letters, as you English insist upon calling them." Amelie's eyes flitted heavenward. "A friend of mine owns a shop in Covent Garden, and these are her finest stock. They have been kept in a solution of rosewater for suppleness, and consequently a most delicious scent accompanies them. The red ribbons, they add a pretty touch,non?"
"Er, indeed." Marianne fought down her blush. "Merci,Amelie."
"You are welcome." The Frenchwoman nodded, smiling. "Maintenant, I have a few other ideas for your new gowns…"
A commotion outside the room cut off the modiste's words. The next instant, the door flung open; Marianne's pulse spiked as Kent stood there, his eyes burning into hers.
Lud. Her bloody note. Obviously he'd gotten it.
The assistant flung herself in his path with valiant effort. "I tried to stop this man,madame! He would not listen—"
"Who do you think you are,monsieur? Remove yourself this instant, or I shall summon the magistrates," Amelie hissed, moving to stand in front of Marianne.
