As she chattered on, Cosette found herself momentarily speechless. She was wracking her brain for any mention of an engagement, or ward, or anything that might necessitate his putting in an order of that magnitude, but the sight of her knapsack lying innocuously in the corner diverted her attention.
She instantly walked over and rummaged through the contents, but she could tell that everything was accounted for. “He returned it?” she murmured, more to herself than anything, but the madame instantly picked up on it and replied.
“But of course, mademoiselle!” the woman said brightly, before her happiness dimmed somewhat. “Although this does put me in a slight bind, since you are the duke’s new paramour, and I shall have to find a new seamstress right away . . .”
Cosette’s mouth fell slack. “What did you say?”
Madame Louvre tilted her head curiously at Cosette’s puzzled tone. “You are to be mistress to His Grace, yes?”
“Absolutely not!” Cosette returned, her cheeks growing warm with frustration and embarrassment. “I barely even know the man, and I certainly have no intention of . . .”
“I’m regretful that you feel that way, Miss du Bouir.”
Cosette spun around and found Blackburn himself, casually leaning against a desk that led toward the back room where alterations were made. He was dressed in a blood red waistcoat, black breeches and jacket, with a snowy white cravat. He looked as intimidating as he had last night, that dark, sensual gaze fixed on her face, holding her captive.
He rose to his full height, standing well over six feet, and strode toward her with calculated steps. “Surely you will reconsider?” he said softly. “To refuse me will surely distress Madame Louvre, for she was so looking forward to the task at hand.”
With a quick glance at her employer—correction,formeremployer—Cosette watched as the woman’s mouth pinched with haughty disapproval. At least that was more familiar. But either way, Cosette lost. If she accepted the duke’s offer she was making a devil’s bargain, but to refuse him would see her terminated, for the madame wouldn’t be pleased to lose that much money because of her.
But what other choice did she have? She could turn around and walk out of the shop and hope she could find new employment, but honest work was hard to find, even in a city as large as London. And if the duke wished it, he could make it impossible for her. All he would have to do is whisper the right word in the right ear . . .
And by the intense look he continued to direct at her, she had no doubt he would do everything in his power to make her his—in every way.
Cosette had felt trapped and despondent in her life, but she had never been without her pride. She touched the locket beneath her worn dress and knew what she had to do. While it was the only thing she had, a link to a past that was cloaked in haze, she knew it would kill her to sell it, but it would be even worse to barter her soul for a few pretty dresses.
She turned to the modiste. “I’m sorry, Madame Louvre, but this is one sale you’re going to have to do without.” Cosette ignored the astonishment on the woman’s face as she walked blindly out the door without even giving the duke another glance.
~ ~ ~
Davien watched Cosette leave with no outward change to his expression, although that part inside, the one he thought was long dead, started beating again. It had been so long since anyone had raised their esteem in his eyes. He’d waited years to feel this way again, and nothing would stand in his way to obtain it.
Not even Cosette.
“Headstrong gel!” The modiste huffed after Cosette’s departure, although she turned to him with a pleading, simpering glance, “I do hope you will not let such ill manners reflect poorly on my establishment, Your Grace.”
“On the contrary,” he replied smoothly, throwing a handful of notes down on the counter, to which Madame Louvre eyed greedily. “We shall keep my order as it stands. I have a feeling the lady will come around.”
“Oh, thank you, Your Grace!” she gushed, quickly scooping up the money and shoving it into her bodice. “I shall see it completed in all due haste! You shall not regret coming to my shop, I promise you!” As she continued raving about her enterprise, chattering and bringing out bolts of material and fashion plates for his inspection, Davien listened with only half an ear as he went to the window and peered outside.
He closed his eyes and let the beast within follow her scent . . .
~ ~ ~
Cosette didn’t even know where she was heading when she left the dressmaker’s shop, only that she had to leave, to get away from the duke and those prying eyes. Even now, she could feel that stare on her, and it caused her to shiver. After one chance meeting he’d decided to upend her entire existence. She should be furious.
And yet . . .
She headed for the Whitechapel district. Surely, even at this hour, she might be able to pawn her locket. The money she would make off of it would surely keep her fed for a week, where she could hopefully find sufficient employment. As she headed for the bowels of the city, the area known for its cutthroats and scoundrels, Cosette felt the back of her neck suddenly prickle with alarm. She cast a wary glance around her, but she could see nothing of concern. Nevertheless, she hastened her steps and kept her head lowered, the sound of her worn boots against the cobblestones sounding louder than usual, but then, she suspected her imagination was playing tricks on her.
She was about a block away from the tavern where Charlotte worked when Cosette caught sight of a worn sign indicating a jeweler’s shop. She thought she caught the flicker of light coming from inside, so Cosette sprinted across the street. Unfortunately, the door was firmly locked, so whoever owned the establishment was already gone for the night. Disheartened, she leaned against the side of the building and closed her eyes.
She heard the scrape of a boot moments before a filthy hand covered her mouth and dragged her squirming body into a back alley. She blindly kicked out with her foot, connecting with his shin. Unfortunately, her victory was short-lived as she was abruptly backhanded across the face. Cosette was temporarily dazed, tasting the coppery tang of blood on her tongue, feeling the trickle at the side of her mouth.
The man spoke, his fetid breath causing Cosette’s stomach to roil. “Stop yer fightin’, wench!” It wasn’t until he began to pull up her skirts, that she started her struggles anew. He grabbed her hair, pulled her head backward so hard that she saw stars. “Please, I’m not . . .”
“Aye, that’s it. Beg fer it. I like tha’, I do.” He slammed her up against the brick wall, his breathing more heavy and harsh than before.
Cosette realized then that any further pleas would fall on deaf ears as he began to fondle and grope her backside. She felt a sob rise up in her chest.Dear God, please just let it end quickly . . .
