The two other women stood by and gazed at her with their hands clasped beneath their chins in delight.
“There was much competition over this particular bolt of shot silk. I know a number of other women wanted it before it was purchased and brought to me.”
“It’s easy to see why. It’s so beautiful my heart hurts,” Catherine sighed. “But I couldn’t possibly... I’m certain it was shockingly dear. Surely you can reuse the fabric... the trim... the spangles...” She almost didn’t feel worthy of touching it.
Catherine was an expert at taking apart dresses and turning the fabric to get more wear out of them. Her practical streak balked at the shocking notion of anyonegivingsuch a masterpiece away. Then again, the thought of anyone dismantling this beautiful creation was like swallowing glass.
“But the craftsmanship, you see, is priceless, as is the time of the seamstresses, and taking it apart again might damage the fabric,” Madame Marceau said regretfully. “Our customers tend to be a bit fussy about that, too—wearing something made for someone else, that is. So there’s no charge, my dear.”
Catherine’s heart stopped. No charge? Surely this couldn’t be true?
Her experience with dressmakers was that they drove hard bargains, and that was because they deserved to be paid well for their skilled, artful labor. And she couldn’t imagine that even wealthy customers wouldn’t want to brag about a bargain. It was one of life’s little pleasures, after all.
But perhaps it reallywasdifferent in London? So many things were.
She didn’t know how Lord Kirke could look at her and think “clover” when she was wearing such a dress.
“You may think I am mad, Miss Keating, but I believe you will be a priceless walking advertisement for our exquisite garments,” Madame Marceau persuaded. “I believe this with all my heart. We can make little alterations and deliver it to you as soon as tomorrow.”
“Do you often give dresses away?” Catherine was still a little wary.
“It is a rare occurrence,” Madame Marceau conceded smoothly.
She did not expound.
It was almost too much for Catherine to absorb: the sudden popularity, her social life roaring into life from a nearly complete standstill, and now a stunning dress. She was mute with wonder.
“Will the woman who originally ordered it be attending the Shillingford ball?” Catherine asked. This was of critical concern. Given what she knew of the ton, she was certain the original owner would waste no time in pointing out her rejected gown if Catherine happened to stroll in wearing it.
“Oh, I can assure you she will not. I believe she is, in fact, currently out of the country entirely. And no one has yet seen the dress but her and my staff.”
“Well, then.” Cat’s voice trembled. The miracle of it made her as dizzy as if she’d bolted too much ratafia. “Thank you. I believe I will take it.”
The small, eccentric, valiantly blooming little park in front of The Grand Palace on the Thames comprised a few blossoming trees and shrubs and was encircled by a wrought iron fence, through which flowers eagerly leaned their bright little heads. Kirke had become fond of it as he raced past it every morning, just after dawn. This morning he’d been out even earlier; he’d had an important assignment for his man of affairs.
He’d never seen the park in full daylight, but today he’d inadvertently left behind in his room some correspondence he’d meant to mail, and he’d rushed back in a hack midday to retrieve it and tuck it into his coat. He thundered up the stairs and then down them again.
He’d asked his hack driver to return for him in thirty minutes, so he could have time to take a tour of the little park.
When he emerged into daylight again, he stopped abruptly.
Keating was standing just inside the wrought iron fence, standing on her toes sniffing a blossom on a tree.
His heart stopped.
Then hurtled forward again, as a wayward exhilaration swept him.
He hadn’t been alone with her since the night of the waltz.
Unless one counted the nights. Because he was excruciatingly aware that her bed was likely right below his. And as he listened to her settling in forsleep, he would lie very still. As if he remained so braced, none of those wicked, vivid notions hammering away at the iron walls of his will could ever get through.
She turned.
When she saw him, her face went brilliant.
Hell’s teeth. This clanged his heart like it was a damned bell.
They regarded each other from that distance, in absolute silence. He could only hope she hadn’t seen his expression before he’d settled it into a less incriminatingly rapt one.
