Chapter Thirteen

"How do you do, Mrs. Pariseau. It's lovely to see you again. And I see you have brought a friend with you today!"

Lord Kirke had been correct when he'd surmised there was a shortage of modistes in her part of the world, especially the faux French sort, so meeting her was novel, indeed. Catherine liked Madame Marceau's long, regal face and her shrewdly sparkling brown eyes.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Madame Marceau," Mrs. Pariseau said. "I'm here for my spencer, as you likely know. I've brought Miss Catherine Keating, who has decided upon a new ribbon."

Catherine gestured to the little spool of ribbon she'd chosen.

Madame studied Catherine fixedly for a full three seconds of silence, her face alight with pleasant and, it seemed, an unusually avid curiosity.

"How delightful to meet you, Miss Keating!" It sounded as though she meant it. "You've made a wonderful choice! That shade of pink is so subtle. It's the color of the roses in your cheeks, I should think."

"You are very kind, Madame Marceau, thank you. I admire your work immensely. Mrs. Pariseau's new dress is so beautiful."

The modiste nodded, graciously accepting the compliment. "Speaking of beautiful things..." She pressed her lips together. "Well... forgive me if this is presumptuous, and a bit unorthodox... but we have here a beautiful blue silk ballgown that was made for a woman who decided she did not want it, after all. Can you imagine?" she clucked. "The extravagance! The waste! And as you appear to be about the same size... well... I wondered... would you like to have a look at it?"

Catherine's heart skipped.

"We can make alterations if it fits you," Madame Marceau added briskly.

"Oh my goodness... I... I don't know..."

Certainly there was no way she could afford an entire dress, let alone one made by seamstresses employed by the celebrated Madame Marceau.

"My dear, it wouldn't hurt to have a look. It might be serendipity," Mrs. Pariseau coaxed.

Catherine was tempted to say, "But it might hurt a lot if I love it and can't have it." Her feelings around dresses were increasingly raw.

But her season had so far featured quite a bit of serendipity. More would not diverge dramatically from the plot, she told herself.

Ten minutes later she stood in front of a mirror wearing a dress that was spun from her dreams.

Blue silk shot through with gold threads poured over her body in a smooth column to a hem trimmed in filigree embroidery and three vandyked rows. The low bodice was caught in the middle with a single bar of velvet ribbon in a way that fetchingly highlighted her fine long neck and excellent cleavage. The sleeves were short, puffed, gauzy affairs, scattered with tiny spangles and trimmed in more velvet. She looked... queenly. She looked like dawn coming up over the horizon of a day that promised to be sunny. She looked like the sort of girl who would make an excellent countess.

She quite fell in love with herself and could imagine other people doing it, too.

It was a little snug in some places and loose in others, but the general proportions suited her utterly and could easily be adjusted.

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 anyone giving such 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 really was different 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 for sleep, 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.

"Good afternoon, Keating," he said politely.

"Good afternoon, Lord Kirke. I was just having a sniff of the blossoms. I like to read here in the park, when I can." She did indeed have a book in her hand.

"Any nose-shaped blooms yet?" he asked.

"No, alas. No enormous misshapen ones, either."

She didn't say "phallus," but the word fair hovered silently in the air.

His lips curved in a small, wry but not entirely amused smile. The resulting hot rush along his nerve endings was inevitable and could not be helped.

He knew she had come to suspect her effect on him and was shyly dazzled by it. She was testing it, and testing him.

They were both much safer if he stood where he was.

He moved closer expressly so that he could witness that minute leap of her bodice when her breath caught. Better than a shot of whiskey, that leap.

She was wearing a white day dress. The wind whipped it about her legs and threw the ribbon of her bonnet like confetti.

It was a brutal test of his fortitude not to flick his eyes down to her cleavage, looking for the little heart-shaped birthmark.

They regarded each other wordlessly while the only sound was the wind moving through the greenery around them.

"I didn't think Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand would mind that I plucked this. Here. Take this with you into battle today."

She extended a little pale pink sprig of blossom.

After an absurd hesitation, he gently took it from her.

Reflexively, he held it to his nose. His eyes closed fleetingly and involuntarily. It was so vulnerably soft it made his heart contract. It was indeed the color of her lips.

Which were, in all probability, exactly this soft.

His head went light.

He tucked it in his coat pocket. "Thank you," he said quietly.

When he could speak again.

There was a little silence, during which his feet refused to turn him around so he could leave.

"I just returned from visiting the modiste with Mrs. Pariseau a few moments ago. I thought I'd enjoy the rest of the day outside. Did you know the park is named for Lord Bolt's mother? It's rather sweet." She pointed to the bench.

Her visit to the modiste was, coincidentally, the reason he was up earlier than usual this morning. He'd directed his man of affairs to do something which may yet prove inadvisable. He had struggled with the decision, but in the end, he'd been unable to stop himself.

He read the little plaque on the bench, which said Helene Durand Memorial Park. "I didn't know. That's lovely indeed. He must have cared for her very much."

"My mother is in the churchyard at home. I wondered if she would like a bench with her name on it, too. But it seems as though she's everywhere I look in our village, somehow, regardless. She might wonder why I decided on a bench, specifically." She gave a little laugh. "She never did like to sit still for long."

He was wordless, but his heart contracted almost painfully.

"Do you resemble her?" He hadn't known he'd intended to ask this question.

"I'm told I have her eyes."

And there were things he might have said then if he were someone else, and if she was someone else, too, someone less innocent, less vulnerable: Your mother must have been devastating, was one. How hard your father must have fallen for her, was another. Something torrid but wholly sincere. He knew how easy it would be to coax stars from her eyes and nurture the dangerous little flame between them, and he had no bloody business doing simply that because it was better than champagne as a distraction.

"Did you see the little gossip item in the newspaper?" she asked.

"I saw it," he said shortly.

"I thought it was unkind of them to refer to you as a devil."

He smiled slightly. "Don't call anyone out on my account, Keating. I've been called worse."

She smiled uncertainly at that. "And it was inaccurate to call me an angel."

If this was an innuendo, he wasn't going to take it up.

"Yes. Well. The gossip columns aren't known for their specificity. With luck, that one item will be the end of the matter."

The "end of the matter" rang with a certain implication. They both knew it.

She glanced away briefly, then returned her gaze to his. He had not moved his from her for one second.

"I have not yet had an opportunity to thank you. My season seems to be going very well at last. Lady Wisterberg will even be holding a party at her town house. Everyone invited is coming," she marveled.

"I'm glad," he said gently.

Neither one of them remarked on the fact that he was not invited.

She cleared her throat. "I wondered if you would be attending the soiree at Lord and Lady Hackworth's house this evening? I'm told it's after a fashion a salon." She gave the word "salon" a flourish.

He went still. It was a damned shame she'd somehow been introduced to the Hackworths, but he supposed not terribly surprising. The Hackworths were all about pursuing social power, and cultivating Keating, who now had a certain cachet, was naturally part of that. The Hackworths were also profligate spenders, in debt up to their sparkly eyes and lived decadently on credit—in other words, by taking advantage of unpaid working men and women. They never ceased inviting him to their events, however.

"I was indeed, but I'm afraid I won't be attending. And I don't think you should go, either, Keating. I can't imagine it would be any more stimulating than what goes on here in the sitting room at The Grand Palace on the Thames."

"But I thought you attended all of these events for the opportunity to ‘make friends.'" She'd given the last two words an ironic emphasis, too, quoting him.

He smiled slightly. Not entirely amused. "I can tell you definitively that the Hackworths are awful people. Boring and bored and empty. They are all glitter on the surface and spiteful beneath. Indolent, but the cruel sort of indolence, not the content sort. They are like spiders. Always needing a new novelty to drain. And guess what you are, Keating."

It had been an almost cruelly undiluted assessment, even for him. It was his true self at his most unadulterated. Even he was shocked at himself. He had from the beginning been gentler with her than he was with most.

But she ought to fully understand this, too: he was not, on the whole, a man prone to delicacy.

He'd meant every word sincerely. He was alarmed that she might be pulled into their orbit.

"Lady Hackworth seems charming to me."

Her voice had gone somewhat faint. And a trifle defensive. It sounded like a dare for him to convince her otherwise. He'd unnerved her.

Keating was more astute than that about people, he'd thought.

He studied her for evidence of facetiousness.

"Yes. ‘Seems' is the proper word for it. Have I been wrong about any of the people you've met so far? Perhaps we have different tastes in friends."

He suspected she was testing him, which irritated him. He usually quickly recognized and smacked down attempts to manipulate him. But it was clear she'd sensed he'd created a deliberate wall between them since the waltz. This was her way of trying to discover why.

He was unaccustomed to being readable. Or in any way vulnerable.

"No. You haven't been wrong," she admitted. More subdued.

"Was your friend Miss Morrow invited to the Hackworth soiree as well?" he guessed shrewdly.

She hesitated. "Lady Hackworth said it was rather an exclusive event and she could not invite everyone," she admitted, carefully.

This didn't surprise him a bit. These were the sort of games the Hackworths enjoyed. Dividing friendships. Playing people off of each other, fomenting rivalries, perpetrating, then feigning ignorance of, tiny slights.

"Who will be your chaperone for the evening?" He could not imagine Lady Wisterberg tolerating one of their soirees, either.

"It's in the early evening, and only for a few hours. Surely I can call upon them without one? For a few hours and come straight back to The Grand Palace on the Thames?"

He was a little angry now. And incredulous. "Come now. That doesn't sound like something you would do. Surely you know that isn't wise?"

"What harm could come to me?" She sounded a bit defiant.

That sounded like a dare, too.

He didn't honor that with a reply. She knew full well the harm. "And they will make you feel even lonelier, Keating," he wanted to say. "The Hackworths will."

"From what I understand, Lord Vaughn will be in attendance," she added idly.

He tensed. She'd somehow known that name in particular would jar him. He resented that he could be so easily riled. And so uncharacteristically clearly seen.

"I've told you what I think," he said tersely. "By all means, Keating, go, don't go. It's all the same to me."

Her face tightened against some flare of emotion.

Likely hurt. She looked away briefly.

His heart felt scored by the line of her profile. The fine straight line of her nose, the soft, full swell of her lower lip. The slightly short chin.

She turned back to him. "Forgive me," she said stiffly. "I'm sorry to bother you about it. I think I see my mistake now. I didn't know."

"What didn't you know this time?" It was a stunningly unkind thing for him to say. If he worked hard enough, perhaps he would get her to dislike him, which seemed safer for both of them.

"That a man can care very much about the people while not actually caring very much about people."

It took a moment for her words to fully penetrate, but they somehow slid like a shiv beneath all of his clever armor and pierced him clean through.

He stared at her, stunned.

He was filled both with fury and breathless admiration for the accuracy of the strike.

What had she said that night he'd found her on the verandah? She can't hurt me if she doesn't know me.

He doubted she believed her own words. She'd said it because she knew it would hurt him.

He felt shamefully close to rank fear at being so seen.

"What rot," he said with idle contempt.

He arranged his features into an expression of boredom.

When she flinched, he felt it as surely as if someone had hurled a dart right into his chest.

But she wasn't a fool or a coward. She knew she'd hit her mark. This he admired so fiercely it was an ache. How he loved a fighter.

"No doubt it is. I suppose you would know, as you know so many things," she said politely.

They stared at each other from a distance that felt somehow unnatural. Since she'd touched him and he'd touched her, any moment during which they were not touching felt unnatural.

"I hope you enjoy your evening, Keating," he said politely, and stepped into the hack that came to take him away.