A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(75)

“He’s a beautiful baby,” she murmured, nestling into his body.

“Of course he is.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling the familiar verbena essence of her hair. He loved this scent, so fresh and comforting. He loved this woman. Someday he would tell her so—and then stand there with his heart lodged in his throat, waiting to hear if she felt the same.

But not today. Today, he was all out of words.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Really, Toby. Are you certain it’s proper?” Isabel frowned up at the gilded, curlicued sign: Mme. Pamplemousse, Modiste. A young couple jostled past, causing her feet to shuffle on the Bond Street pavement. “Do gentlemen truly accompany their wives to such a place?”

“No,” he said, holding open the door for her. “Gentlemen usually accompany their mistresses to such a place.”

Bel halted, one slipper balanced on the threshold.

“Don’t look so anxious,” he teased, prodding her inside and up the narrow staircase. “I wasn’t referring to me. If I’d brought a mistress to this establishment, I wouldn’t bring my wife around now, would I?”

“Sir Toby!” As they reached the top, an unseen woman called from the interior. Her voice blended silk and smoke. “Mon dieu. We thought you’d never return.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Bel asked, eyeing her husband warily as she stepped inside. A dazzling sight waited within. Bolts of fabric in every color of the rainbow, lining both walls in perfect, parallel symmetry. After blinking a few times, she realized the fabric actually lined one wall, and mirrors covered the other, creating the illusion. Spools of ribbon and lace filled any available gap between the bolts, and toward the window, a glass case held a glittering array of plumes and brilliants. The crowded, colorful space gave the appearance of disarray, but the floorboards beneath Bel’s slippers gleamed. The corners were the cleanest parts of the room, free of cobwebs or collected dust.

“We heard you had married.” A silver-haired matron clad in violet silk swished forward to greet them, her broad hips trading the rustling weight of her skirts back and forth. As the woman took Toby’s arm, her thin, dark eyebrows rose. “We did not want to believe it. We were so delighted when you escaped that little pale thing, that Sophie. She had an eye for color, that one, but I always knew she would have played you false.” She turned to Bel. “But I see your taste has improved. This one, she is not English?”

“Only half,” Bel told her.

“Ah,” Madame said, looking Bel up, then down. “One hopes it is the correct half.”

Bel gaped at Toby. He gave her a sly grin. “Isabel, allow me to introduce Madame. She’s designed every one of my sister Margaret’s gowns, since her debut Season. I was Margaret’s unwilling escort for many a fitting.”

“Unwilling?” The Frenchwoman pursed her lips in a rouge-red moue. “This does not match with Mirette’s account.”

“Mirette?” Bel bit her lip. Had she said that aloud?

Madame Pamplemousse grasped Bel’s arm. “My niece and apprentice seamstress, come from Paris to learn our trade. Sir Toby corrupted her most horribly.”

“I corrupted her?” Toby laughed. “I was a tender fifteen years old. That niece of yours had three years on me, and a half-dozen beaux on her chatelaine. It was all I could to wheedle a kiss.”

The modiste made a very French sound of skepticism. “What of Josephine?”

“Pray, let us not speak of Josephine.”

“Marie-Claire?”

“Let us not speak of Marie-Claire either.” Toby pressed a hand to his lapel and made a dramatic face. “Do you know, this shop made a pincushion of my adolescent heart. Sent me down the path toward waste and ruin. Forget good intentions. I tell you, the road to hell is paved with toile. But—” His hand caught Bel’s waist. “I have here to protect me my very own angel, who is determined to redeem my corrupted soul.”

Madame Pamplemousse turned her kohl-rimmed gaze on Bel. Her lips curved in a feline smile.

“An angel? I do not think so. Not even half.” She slowly circled Bel, running her palms over the contours of her shoulders, her arms. Then her hips. Bel stiffened.

“Arms to the side, ma chère.” With two well-placed jabs to the ribcage, Madame forced Bel’s arms out. Then, grasping her by the hips, the modiste pivoted her body until they faced the wall of mirrors. Bel felt rather like a marionette.

“To be a true angel,” the modiste said, sliding her hands up Bel’s corseted torso, “you must offer men a glimpse of heaven.” With that, she cupped Bel’s bosom in her palms and thrust upward, until olive skin overflowed her muslin bodice in two generous scoops. Mortified, Bel worked her throat. No sounds came out. Most likely, the woman had cut off her supply of air. Fortunately, Toby had bent over the display case and was not watching.

“Yes, much better,” Madame said, scrutinizing Bel’s reflection. “Lady Aldridge, we will make you a proper corset. One that will have these”—she plumped the handfuls of flesh again

—“floating like clouds.”

The modiste dropped her hands, and Bel’s br**sts fell back into her stays with a nearly audible plunk. Immediately, she crossed her arms over her chest to ward off any further assault. She must be nearing her courses. Her bosom was already heavy and achy today, and Madame’s liberties hadn’t helped matters any.