As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(32)
“And you, Carlisle.” A toothy grin blossomed on his ruddy face. “Say, we should meet up at Boodle’s sometime—”
“Have a safe drive to Mayfair,” he interrupted, unable to imagine a worse outing than a night spent prowling the clubs with Mariah’s dandy in tow. “Miss Winslow.” He bowed his head and ignored the irritation that once more flitted across her face as he murmured, “I’d stay away from the phaeton’s ribbons, if I were you.”
With a soft humph, she flipped up her cape hood and flounced from the room. “We’re not through with this discussion,” she warned as she pulled on her kid gloves.
Oh yes, they were. Yet he tossed out an olive branch. “I’d appreciate any further insight you could give about St Katharine’s.”
She paused as she reached for the door and shot him a look of annoyance over her shoulder as he stood in the middle of the office, his feet wide and one hand closed in a fist against the small of his back.
But she’d better get used to seeing him here. Because he’d determined to make this business his life’s work, and no one was going to stop him. Not even a hellcat with emerald eyes and ebony hair, a mouth that would have tempted a saint, and an attitude as hot to match. Not even the vulnerable woman beneath, of whom he’d had a fleeting but striking glimpse.
“Don’t get too comfortable here, Carlisle,” she warned as Whitby rushed to escort her out. “The season is far from over.”
The door closed behind her.
Robert blew out a harsh breath and a soft curse.
Through the office’s front window he watched Whitby help her onto the seat, then settle in beside her. As the groom scurried to the rear, the dandy leaned over to say something in her ear that earned him a laugh and a bright smile. And her hand resting far too familiarly on his arm. Robert felt that touch from twenty feet away, its heat pouring through him as palpably as if she’d reached for him instead of that fop at her side.
His eyes narrowed as they drove away. What did a woman like Mariah see in a pup like Whitby? For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine.
But he sure as hell understood what Whitby saw in her. The magnetic attraction she stirred in men was undeniable. He knew firsthand how she challenged them with her cleverness, always keeping them on their toes and leaving them wanting more. How much she made them long to lay her down, peel away the layers, have her panting—
Christ. Mariah was the last woman he should be thinking about as…well, a woman.
He’d been too long without the physical pleasures of a woman, that was all. Because of the long hours he’d spent managing his business ventures, he’d not been with a woman since he returned from Quinton’s wedding in Cumbria nearly four months ago. That was all that was the matter with him. Nothing else.
Because the alternative—that he truly desired the Hellion—was simply unthinkable.
*
The next afternoon, Mariah stood in front of a full-length mirror in the private salon of Madame Bernaise, wearing only her stockings, stays, and shift. Around her, a small army of French assistants scurried to take her measurements, present bolts of the finest satins and muslins for approval, and make certain that the tea never cooled.
Sitting on the settee and calmly sipping her tea, Elizabeth Carlisle seemed right at home amid the flurry of activity. She had a list of all the dresses and accessories Mariah would need for the start of her season, in specific colors and fabrics, right down to the ribbons on her slippers. She gave orders to the assistants as firmly and without compromise as Madame Bernaise herself.
Madame, meanwhile, draped fabric after fabric over Mariah’s shoulders so that Elizabeth could see how each one complemented her complexion. Those deemed acceptable were whisked away by the assistants though a rear door, where seamstresses immediately set to work to fashion gowns from them. Those that were rejected were sent away by Madame with a dismissive wave of her hand, never to be seen again.
“I have the perfect material for her ball gown!” Madame raved. She snapped her fingers and spoke in street French to one of the shopgirls, threatening that she would have the chit’s hide if she didn’t fetch the bolt of copper satin.
Mariah bit back the smile at her lips. Madame didn’t know she could understand every word. When the assistant complained that she had no idea which fabric Madame meant, Madame called her a worthless cow whom she should have left behind in Marseilles.
“I shall fetch it myself,” Madame declared to the duchess, as if the material were too special to trust to an assistant. Then she swept through the room with the imperial air of a woman who had dressed the finest ladies at the French court, rather than the displaced seamstress she was who had been lucky to flee from France with her life.
Elizabeth set down her teacup and stood. Smiling warmly as she approached Mariah, she reached for a length of cream-colored lace, decorated intricately with tiny pearls and silk ribbons.
“Are you having a good time?” she asked as she draped the lace over Mariah’s shoulders, possessing an eye for fashion and quality that rivaled Madame’s.
She beamed. “I am.”
Truly, she was. Her past fittings had been rushed affairs filled with pinpricks and admonishments from the dressmaker that she was too tall to be fashionable, her hair too dark to complement any of the fabrics on hand, her tastes too simplistic. Today, though, there was none of that, and Mariah suspected that if she told Madame that she wanted to attend her debut ball wearing a burlap bag, the Frenchwoman would have fallen over herself in her hurry to recommend a matching wrap of flour sack.