The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(47)

She made it two steps.

“Stop, Miss Spark.”

Broderick’s smooth baritone earned sighs from several of the young seamstresses.

Reggie gritted her teeth. She’d once appreciated that melodic flow of his speech, so controlled and yet with a hint of sin underlying each word. His was the kind of voice that made a lady toss aside logic in order to know what other promises were contained within that slightly husky tone.

Drawing on the years of long-buried-but-never-forgotten time as a governess, she forced herself back with measured movements that didn’t set so much as her hem aflutter. “Mr. Killoran?” she murmured, clasping her hands as demurely as an abbess before her. “Is there something else you require?”

Those thick golden lashes she’d spent years envying him for swept down as he leveled a piercing stare upon her. The sharp intensity of that look was softened by a single lock that slipped over his brow.

Reggie’s heart did a pathetic jump.

“Madame Colette is not here for Gertrude.”

It took a moment for his words to sink through the bothersome haze he’d cast. The modiste wasn’t here for Gertrude. Then who in blazes was—

“She is here for you.”

“For me,” Reggie repeated dumbly.

“You,” he said coolly.

And just like that, he’d upended her previous bravado. “Wh-what?” she squeaked.

“Your wardrobe, Miss Spark.” Broderick flicked a glance over her person, and she drew back under that cool scrutiny. “You’ll require a new wardrobe.”

On cue, the modiste clapped her hands together once. “Shall we begin?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, the plump woman swept over to an ivory sofa that had been overtaken by heinously bright fabrics and lifted several bolts to reveal one of gold-and-silver satin.

“No. No, we shall not.” Reggie held her palms up, warding off the modiste, preferring the fight she’d been prepared to face to . . . this.

Gasps exploded around the room.

Madame Colette’s jaw fell agape as she glanced over to Broderick.

Reggie lifted her chin. “I am grateful for your . . . generosity.” Generosity he’d thrown in her bloody face not even a day ago. She’d take not one more thing from this man.

Ever perceptive, he narrowed his eyes at that slight taunt.

“For my purpose here”—as a dutiful servant and prisoner—“my garments are just fine.” The last thing she wished for was to have her drab dresses stripped away and replaced with the finest satins and silks. Not when she’d spent the better part of her adult life using her coarse garments as a protective shield against the leering stares that had once been directed her way.

The young seamstresses looked around at one another.

Broderick’s gaze locked with Reggie’s, and she shivered at the frost there. He’d no intention of conceding this point. He was one who didn’t surrender in any battle. But then, she’d never gone to war with him, either. The clock ticked away, leaving with each passing moment another level of tension upon the room. “Leave us,” he said quietly.

So he’d seen that fight, or mayhap he’d simply seen the logic in not wasting a single shilling on a wardrobe for a mere companion. Either way, a thrill of triumph humming in her veins, Reggie dropped another—albeit hasty—curtsy and turned on her heel.

“Not you, Miss Spark.”

Bloody hell.

Of course it would never be that easy with this man.

The small army of seamstresses filed past her in a neat line like perfect ducklings, with Madame Colette close behind. Each young woman shot Reggie a disapproving glance as she went.

After the door had closed behind them, Broderick stalked toward her with sleek, panther-like strides. He was a predator toying with his prey, and every instinct screamed to flee. “Do not challenge me in front of anyone, Miss Spark. Not my servants. Not my family.” That hit with a daggerlike pain and precision in her chest. For the Killorans had been the family she’d lost. “Not my guards. And not those who I employ at any level.” Broderick finally stopped, several steps between them. “Am I clear?”

Do not let him intimidate you . . . he’s used that lethal whisper in front of you . . .

But never on her.

Refusing to be cowed, Reggie gave a toss of her head. “Come, never tell me you’re worried that a gaggle of young girls will not find you suitably impressive.” The sting of jealousy pulled that from her before she could call it back.

“Is that what you think this is about?” he murmured, drifting closer.

And despite her resolve, Reggie faltered. Broderick Killoran had torn down the empires of rivals. He’d shredded the reputations of men who’d slighted him. She’d be wise to not toy with him. In a bid to escape so she might regroup before battle, she stepped sideways.

He shot an arm out, laying a palm against the door, blocking that path. “Hmm?” he pressed.

Her pulse jumped. “I don’t know what this is about,” she brought herself to say. “But I do not need a new wardrobe. And I’ll be damned if I accept that extravagant offering from you.” Reggie feinted in the opposite direction.

Broderick brought his left hand up, anchoring both palms alongside her head, effectively trapping her in his arms. The fabric of his jacket strained under the rippling muscles of his forearms, muscles she’d seen before without the hindrance of either a jacket or shirt when she’d tended him after a street fight. Her mouth went dry at the mere remembrance of that whipcord strength bared before her eyes.