The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(49)

He should leave. She’d already capitulated, and they’d struck an agreement that saw him victorious in their debate. Yet, he remained . . .

Broderick examined the display of nauseatingly cheerful scraps of fabric, surveying them with the same intensity he did his ledgers and accounts. “This”—he said, pausing to pick up a chocolate-brown muslin, one that would be perf—“will never do.” Tossing aside the modest fabric, he picked up a long bolt of emerald satin. Broderick guided her around so she faced the floor-length, gilded mirror.

“Wh-what are you . . . ?” Her words ended on a breathy cessation as he brought his arms around her in a loose embrace. He snapped the fabric several times until it draped about her in an illusion of a gown. The green satin, finer than anything she’d worn in the whole of her life, fluttered against her skin like a butterfly-soft caress. And yet it was the hard-muscled wall of his chest at her back, their bodies brushing, that brought her eyes briefly shut.

He was so close he must have heard her heart pounding in response to his nearness. The catch of her breath. The whispery sigh that slipped from her lips.

In the smooth, immaculate glass panel, his gaze held hers. “Look at yourself.”

“I am,” she whispered. Only she didn’t see the freckle-faced, gangly woman with hideously red hair and slightly crooked teeth. Rather, she saw the two of them together—her and Broderick.

And in that mirror reflected his gaze, locked on the sight of her. His eyes widened, and then he hooded his lashes once more. He layered the satin against her, her body so attuned to his that she felt everything: the faint tremble to his hands as he wrapped that fabric about her, the quick fall of his chest. “Everyone connected to the Killorans shines, Regina.” Her pulse quickened. He’s as aware of me as I am of him. And there was a heady empowerment in that realization. She reveled in that power. “Everyone,” he whispered, his lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear. “Including you.”

Including you.

That was, of course, all this was about: how the ton viewed the Killorans. That was all it had ever been about with him, as long as she’d known him. That reminder shattered his mesmeric hold and the illusion she’d allowed herself. Fool.

She tugged the fabric from her person, freeing it from his hands. “No one with the name ‘Reggie’ shines,” she muttered. Tossing it aside, she retrieved the bolt he’d previously discarded. “And I like this.”

He snorted.

“What?” she asked, her indignation creeping up. “Because it is not the brightest nor the most extravagant, it does not mean it’s not lovely in its own right.”

His lips twitched, the corners tilting up in the faintest half grin. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in any shade other than brown.”

She started. He’d noticed the dresses she’d worn.

He caught the slight puff of her brown wool dress. “I notice everything,” he murmured, following her thoughts with an unerring accuracy.

Her chest constricted, and for an endless, terrifying instant, she believed he toyed with her. That along the way he’d at some point gathered the truth of her affections. In the mirror, Reggie searched his face for evidence of that knowing. Finding none, relief chased off the horror. “Well, I like it,” she repeated. “It’s the color of chocolate and . . . and . . .”

He arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, hush.” She held the muslin close to her breast. “It’s a perfectly fine color.”

Broderick touched the tip of her nose. “Precisely.” He glanced to the door. “Enter.” His voice boomed around the parlor.

Madame Colette pushed the panel open and swept inside.

“You shall find Miss Spark far more agreeable,” he promised as the modiste approached. “No browns for her.” He continued over Reggie’s protestations. “No matter how much the young woman might insist. I want her in rich greens, lavenders, deep shades of blue.” Broderick’s gaze locked with Reggie’s. “I don’t want simply ‘fine’ for my sister’s companion. I want a masterpiece.”

Reggie slapped a hand over her eyes. “Companions do not neeeeed masterpieces.” She let her arm fall and tried to reason with him. “We simply need dresses. Proper ones. Modest ones. Uninteresting ones.”

“All of that means the same thing,” he drawled.

She gritted her teeth. “I know. I was attempting to make a point that servants do not wear extravagant gowns. Isn’t that right, Madame Colette?” With her palpable loathing for her clients missing those noble connections, Reggie could certainly count on support there.

The modiste angled her body in a way that made it clear there were only two participants in this conversation, and Reggie was certainly not one of them. “I only do masterpieces, Meezter Killoran.” Madame Colette patted the back of her turban.

“Of course, madame,” he purred. Quitting Reggie’s side, he moved to gather the other woman’s spare hand. He trailed his lips over her wrist. “She’ll need a gown readied in two days’ time.”

No! Reggie sprang forward on the balls of her feet in protest.

“Two days?” Madame Colette squawked, slipping out of her already-poor French accent. “Why . . . why, that is impossible. It takes no fewer than two days for a seamstress to craft a day dress. Let alone a masterpiece. And . . . and . . . that is if the girls are working without a moment’s rest.”