It was clearly meant for high-paying clientele tooohandahhover each other in private.
“Here’s a seat for you, Your Grace,” the modiste said, indicating a chaise longue. “I supposeI’llbe the one to bring the refreshments in,” she muttered on her way out the door.
Bessie followed quickly behind, leaving Edward and Fiona alone.
“What are you doing?” Fiona hissed, waving her hands toward the door. “Get out!”
“I can hardly loiter in the main shop instead of sitting comfortably. That’s a dead giveaway that something is amiss.”
Fiona crossed her arms. “Then go to another shop.”
That was a fair suggestion. There was a gunsmith across the road who sold exquisite hunting rifles. Edward nodded and was about to exit when Madame Allard reentered with two glasses, a decanter, and a beaming smile. “I’ve opened my best brandy, just for you, Your Grace. I’ve been saving it for years, but if you won’t open it for a duke, when are you going to open it?”
Blast.He looked to Fiona. Leaving now would be exceptionally rude. The woman had just opened her best brandy. The set of Fiona’s jaw suggested that she didn’t care.
Bessie reentered, dragging a screen with her. “Mr. McTavish has always been shy, ma’am,” she said to her shop owner. “It’s probably best you leave.”
The girl had her wits about her. She’d managed to oust the curious shop owner and protect Fiona’s modesty without setting off any alarm bells.
As soon as Madame Allard had left the room, Edward stood to help Bessie position the heavy screen.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Thankyou, Miss Bleufleur. I appreciate your discretion in this matter. You shall be compensated accordingly.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Good God, Ed. Nae everything needs to be solved with money.”
He looked at Bessie, who was in turn looking at Fiona as though Fi had sprouted three heads. “It’s not a payment for her silence. It’s a token of my appreciation. I assume it’s welcome?”
Bessie grinned. “I appreciate the appreciation, Your Grace. I won’t say no.”
Edward settled himself onto the chaise longue, taking a sip of the special-occasion brandy and wishing that he was not so special. But he would drain every drop purely because Madame Allard had been so absurdly pleased to give it to him.
His shoulders were tight, the tension of the past few days making itself felt in the stiffness of his muscles and a general ache that ran from his shoulder blades to his skull. He leaned his head to each side, enjoying the pull that gave him momentary relief. When he arrived home, he’d send for his healer to massage the area.
He twisted his neck to the left, and then to the right—and that’s when he saw it. The plethora of mirrors placed around the room to give the model a view of all aspects of their outfit also provided a clear view of Fiona, despite the screen in front of him.
Despite knowing better, he couldn’t look away.
She shrugged off her jacket, Bessie helping to guide it past the bandage on her wrist. With her left hand, she clumsily unbuttoned her waistcoat, allowing the seamstress to remove it for her.
Beneath the simply knotted cravat, which came undone with a simple flick and tug, the lace of the shirt neck was open, likely because she’d been too stubborn that morning to ask one of the maids for help. He would send Mrs. Phillips to attend Fiona the next morning.
Then Bessie lifted Fi’s shirt, and Edward’s mouth went dry. He looked away, but not before catching a glimpse of her creamy skin, only a shade darker than the thick, white bandage wrapped around her breasts and scattered with orange freckles. The binding might hide her breasts when covered with a shirt, but two soft mounds and the deep crevice of her cleavage were visible.
He counted folds in the fabric that hung off rolls in the corner of the room, but it didn’t erase the image from his mind. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. They had not made love—he was not in the habit of taking a young lady’s virginity—but there had been nights, hot passionate ones, when they’d shared more than a kiss.
And the sight of her in nothing but a wide bandage and men’s drawers had his cock straining against his breeches.
He turned his attention to the backs of his hands, which were rubbing against his thighs.
But just because he couldn’t see her anymoredidn’t mean he didn’t have a perfect mental picture. His skin prickled and he was keenly aware of every sound that came from the women’s direction. He imagined what those sounds were attached to. How she was moving. What that would do to her figure.
He needed different thoughts before these ones got him into trouble. He needed a distraction.
“Why do you insist on walking?” he asked. There. Banal. As unprovocative as conversation could get.
“I like walking.”
