Wedded in Scandal

Chapter 4

Robert hadn’t known what to expect when the curtain parted between workroom and showroom. Of course he’d heard the women’s voices, even knew that the enterprising Mrs. Mortimer was one of them. But he had not expected to come eye to bosom with a young girl of a decidedly lush figure.

He leaped to his feet, as did Anthony beside him, at the very same moment that Mrs. Mortimer squeaked in alarm.

“Lord Redhill!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Robert forcibly dragged his eyes away from the girl turned nymph. And not an anemic nymph as drawn in children’s books, but the kind pictured on Greek vases. “My God, woman, what have you done to the girl?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Mrs. Mortimer said stiffly, obviously not sorry at all. “But you do not belong here.”

“I don’t belong here? No decent woman belongs here! Is that what you intend to do to my sister?”

The woman arched a brow at him, but he did not miss the way her clenched fists had landed on her hips. She was trying to control herself, but there was raw fury inside her.

“Lord Redhill, you forget yourself!”

“I most certainly do not!” he roared. “I won’t have you doing that to my sister!”

Mrs. Mortimer was about to object. She drew in her breath, but she never got the chance to speak her mind. The girl grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way. And then she stepped right up to Lord Redhill, her face flushed and fearful.

“What has she done to me?” she asked.

He looked down at her and, as God was his witness, he could not prevent his eyes from dropping farther. He didn’t intend to, but they were right there. And he was a man after all.

Then the girl stomped her foot, making her bosom jiggle in the most delightfully terrible way. “Tell me! What has she done?”

He dragged his gaze up to the girl’s face. He tried to modulate his voice, but his throat was choked off. “You seem like a nice young woman,” he said gently, “but this…woman…has dressed you as a…a…”

“A tart?” the girl asked, her voice shaking slightly.

He shook his head even as he said, “Yes. Well, not exactly a tart. Much higher class than the usual flyer. But I’m afraid no man can look at you like that and think of anything but…but…” He felt his face heat in a blush. In desperation, he looked back at Anthony, hoping for help in explaining the situation. Sadly, the poor bookkeeper had flushed a bright crimson and his gaze was locked exactly where it ought not to be. “Oh, bloody hell,” he murmured, only to belatedly realize he shouldn’t be saying such words in front of ladies. “Well, you can see exactly what happens when you are dressed like that.”

With a soft curse, he walked directly in front of the bookkeeper, blocking his view. “Anthony, I believe I should like that tea now,” he said by way of distraction. It didn’t work. The boy was clearly still dazed. So Robert had to snap his fingers. “Anthony! Tea!”

The young man blinked. “Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course. Yes. Tea. Right away…”

Except the man didn’t leave. He took a meandering route to the workroom kitchen that allowed for him to see the girl the whole way. He didn’t even bother to hide his intentions, but stared slack-jawed the entire way. Fortunately, Mrs. Mortimer wasn’t completely lost to propriety. She released a heavy sigh.

“Perhaps you could have my mother assist, Anthony. In the kitchen upstairs, if you would.”

Anthony nodded, and finally disappeared up a staircase to the upper rooms. Only then did Robert turn back to the girl.

“You see,” he said gently. “Dressing in such a way is not at all appropriate. What would your mother say?”

That was the wrong question to ask. He knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The girl’s eyes widened. At first he thought it was in horror, but it quickly became something more like glee.

“Mama will hate this!” the girl gasped. “Hate it with a passion!” Then she leaped forward to engulf Mrs. Mortimer in a hug. The lady stumbled slightly, but quickly regained her footing, returning the hug threefold.

“Oh, Francine, you are most welcome!” she said with a laugh.

“I want three more dresses like this!” the girl said when she stepped backward. “No, ten more! I shall have my entire wardrobe redone just as you think best!”

Robert groaned. He couldn’t help it. “That is not at all what you should do.”

Then the girl turned to him. Her back was straight and her eyes glittered with happiness. “My lord,” she said loftily, “I believe you and my mother would get along quite famously. Her dresser is down on Bond Street with all the other stuffy old people. I suggest you go there and leave the younger generation to dress as we wish.”

Robert gaped at the girl, completely flabbergasted. It was bad enough that she had spoken so tartly to him—a peer of the realm. But to call him stuffy? Old? Good God! Thankfully, Mrs. Mortimer intervened before he could find the right words to blast the chit back into her place.

“Yes, well, I believe Lord Redhill’s tastes have been adequately expressed. Come along, my lord. This is a place for ladies. I believe your tea awaits in the front room.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him along. She could not have budged him if he had not allowed it. But his mind was still grappling with the girl’s words. Had it happened to him? Had he really turned old so young?

He stepped into the front parlor, moving easily to the settee as Mrs. Mortimer directed. Anthony appeared a moment later, the tea set rattling on the tray.

“Thank you, Anthony,” said Mrs. Mortimer as she gracefully removed the tray from his hands before the china shattered. “And in the future, I believe guests should wait in this parlor, not the back workroom.”

Robert looked up to see the young man blush again, his gaze going down to his feet. “Er, yes, mum. It’s just that…er, well…”

“It was raining,” Robert inserted, trying to rescue the man. “And I was rather forceful in pushing my way into the nearest doorway.” He had, in fact, maneuvered exactly to get into the back workroom. He learned much more about a business from the back.

The lady turned to frown at him. “You bullied your way inside my workroom?”

“Er…yes.”

Her eyes narrowed and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to receive a well-deserved dressing-down. It didn’t come…at him. She turned to poor Anthony, and he was stunned to hear how cold her voice became.

“Any number of lawbreakers and miscreants will attempt to push their way into the back. If you cannot stand proof against them, then you are of no use to me.”

As expected, Anthony flushed a dark red, but he was not entirely without a spine. He lifted his chin. “I am an excellent bookkeeper, Mrs. Mortimer. I have served you extremely well in that capacity.”

“Not if you allow anyone to push their way uninvited into my back room. Good God, Anthony, there are ladies there! Clients and their families, not to mention Wendy and myself. Can you imagine what could happen?”

Robert all but rolled his eyes. “Doing it a bit too brown, aren’t you? I hardly think you were in any danger from me.”

“Really?” she drawled as she spun around. “And how would you feel if I pushed my way past your valet to enter your bedroom, my lord?”

It was a poor choice of words, especially since he was thinking how magnificent she looked. Her clothing was perfect, emphasizing her height and her full bosom, but it was the color in her cheeks and the smudge of dirt on her forehead that he found so appealing. She appeared both statuesque and infinitely human. Which made her a woman in his mind, and a very appealing one.

His thoughts must have appeared on his face, because she abruptly glared at him. And that, perversely, made her more attractive to him.

“Very well, my lord. I shall remember that you find it perfectly acceptable for a stranger to bully your staff, enter your library, and rifle through your personal papers at will.”

“That would be most unwise,” he said, his voice dropping at the very idea.

“As it was for you to try the same with my own.”

He arched his brow in outrage, but honesty forced him to keep quiet. That was exactly what he had been trying to do when he went into the workroom. He had wanted to know what sort of woman she was. But all he could manage was a stiff rebuke.

“Anthony was most discreet regarding your personal affairs. And he never left me alone in the back.”

She huffed as she turned to face the boy. “And that, my lord, is the only reason Anthony has not been sacked.”

He could see her words hit the young man, as well they should. In truth, no bookkeeper would stay employed for long if he did not live and breathe the word “discretion.” But he didn’t say that aloud. At least not until after Anthony had bowed stiffly and retreated. And even then, Robert waited while Mrs. Mortimer took her seat and served him tepid tea.

“Not many young men can withstand a peer, you know,” he said gently.

“And I’m sure you were most forceful.” She lifted her chin. “That does not endear you to me.”

Far from being insulted, he was rather amused by the idea. Usually merchants tried to ingratiate themselves with him, not the other way around. He found the difference in her delightful. But that did not mean he had to be nice.

“And I find your manner of dressing women to be deplorable,” he said.

She nodded. “And I agree with Francine. You should dress yourself on Bond Street. Leave the young to those who are young.”

He arched a brow. “Are you calling me old, Mrs. Mortimer?”

“And stuffy.”

“Good Lord, soon you will be offering me a cure for rheumatism.”

She tilted her head. “I believe my mother has one. Would you like me to fetch her?”

He shook his head, startled to find his lips curving into a rueful smile. “I believe I have more than enough women in my life.”

She dipped her chin in agreement, and he noticed that her eyes were sparkling with humor. His mood as well had lightened considerably. Then, contrary woman that she was, she had to go about and destroy his bizarre mood.

“I dress my clients as they wish to be dressed, my lord. Francine needed to see herself as desirable.”

“You will not do that to my sister!” The response was automatic, the words irrational even to his own ears. And the dratted woman wasted no time in pointing that out.

“Your sister is about to be married. She is a woman grown and able to choose for herself how to dress. Obviously, you have no respect for me, but do you have none for your own sister?”

He swallowed. Did he truly have no respect for this woman? “On the contrary,” he said, though the words came stiffly to his lips. “I have respect for your fearlessness. Bold business dealings are the only way for a woman to manage on her own. You impress me with your very survival.”

She set her teacup down without the slightest sound. “I do not know whether to be complimented or insulted.”

“Complimented, Mrs. Mortimer. Definitely complimented.”

She paused, and he could tell she was thinking deeply. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows, which he found unexpectedly charming. “Does that mean you will pay in advance for your sister’s trousseau?”

He released a sharp bark of a laugh. “I have told her that such a practice is ridiculous and demanded only by sharks and thieves.”

“Now I am definitely insulted,” she retorted coldly. Oddly, she did not sound insulted so much as resigned. She had expected his opinion to be as such.

“But I stand by my word. She has been given access to her funds. She will choose how to spend them.”

The woman visibly brightened, and he couldn’t help but feel pleased by the change. “You will not stop her then? You will allow her to come here?”

“It’s not real freedom unless she has the right to make bad choices.”

Her shoulders lowered in relief. She didn’t speak at first, and he became captivated by the slow dawning of humor in her expression. Her brows lifted, her cheeks seemed to gain color, and her lips curved in the slightest of smiles.

“Thank you for your wisdom.”

He blinked, his mind only slowly shifting away from the sight of her lips. “You make me sound like an old cleric sitting on a dais. You know, some women find me quite spry.”

“Some women would find aged Cheddar cheese to be spry.”

He blinked. “Did you just compare me to cheese?”

“I did, my lord.” Then she leaned forward and touched his hand. “But never fear. I have quite the fondness for Cheddar cheese.”

He looked at her. First at where her hand touched his, then at the sparkling humor in her eyes. Never before had he imagined such a conversation. Certainly never with a woman, much less a dressmaker. But there was an ease between them, one that allowed for absurdities. And he found himself completely charmed.

“I can see why my sister likes you,” he finally said.

She shook her head. “I assure you, you do not.”

“Really?” He was learning to just let her have her say. No matter what nonsense she spouted, she would nevertheless manage to be both charming and interesting. “Pray enlighten me.”

“Your sister likes me because I listen to what she wants, not what you or your mother or her future in-laws want her to want.”

He shuddered slightly at the thought. “My sister can be too willful by half.”

“Those days are long gone. You have nearly cowed the spirit out of her.”

“The devil you say!”

“I do. But never fear. She is learning to assert herself again.”

Now he did groan. “Reason enough to keep her far away from you.”

She smiled. “Reason enough to let her have control of her own funds and make her own decisions. She will never be able to stand up to that mother-in-law without some strength of her own.”

He could not argue there. And no matter what Mrs. Mortimer thought, he did wish the very best for Gwen. “Very well, then I grant that you are simply another step in her growing independence.”

She took a sip of her tea. “At least you did not suggest I was a ‘bad choice’ again.”

“The words were implied.”

“Of course. How silly of me to miss that.”

“But if Gwen likes you because you support her budding independence…” He had to suppress his shudder at that thought. “Why is it that you believe I like you?”

She set down her cup and looked at him, her expression turning serious. “Do you, my lord? Like me?”

“Like” was much too pale a word. And it wasn’t even remotely accurate, though he had no substitute. “You are not repellent,” he finally said.

“Damned by faint praise.”

“I don’t believe that was praise at all.”

She snorted. “Touché. Very well, my lord. You aren’t repelled by me because I do not allow you to bully me. I suspect that everyone dances to your tune at home—”

“Nothing could be further from the truth—”

“And that can be extremely exhausting, what with telling everyone what to do and seeing that it is done.”

He leaned back in against the settee, dislodging a pile of dress patterns as he moved. “I tell you, no one listens to me. At home or anywhere else.”

“Anthony did. Francine listened as well.”

“But did exactly as she pleased.”

The lady grinned even as she picked up the tumbled patterns. “Francine listened to what you thought and then made her own decision. That is an excellent thing, I believe, in a young person.”

“You obviously know different young people than I do.”

She smiled, but her expression was wistful. “This is fun, is it not? Trading insults, bantering back and forth about the people we know.”

He grinned. It was the most fun he’d had in an age.

“That is why you don’t despise me, my lord. Because there is no relationship between us, no need to please or be pleased by the other. We can be as absurd or as contentious as we wish, with no consequences.”

“I could still ban Gwen from your shop.”

“But you are a man of your word, my lord, and promised not to do such a thing.”

He sighed loudly, adopting a most dramatic pose. “Oh, damnation, my honor!”

Her expression went from wistful to fully entertained. Exactly as he had wished. “No consequences, no relationship, not even as dressmaker to client.” She took a deep breath, unconsciously drawing his attention to her beautifully formed breasts. “I vow it is a relief to me as well.”

He was silent for a time, his mind on her curves, on the lightness he felt in her presence, on the delight of her conversation. The offer formed in his mind long before he voiced it. In truth, he’d had it in his thoughts after their first meeting, even knowing how improbable it was. That, perhaps, was the real reason he had come skulking about her back room, and it was not to have a look at her books.

So he waited a time, thinking once more upon the possibility. He had made some discreet inquiries after their first meeting. He had learned from Gwen what was said about the woman, and from there it was a matter of the right question in the right ear. The answer was just what he had hoped. It took a moment’s more consideration but in the end, the words were inevitable.

“I should like to offer my condolences, Mrs. Mortimer.”

She frowned, obviously confused by his words. “My lord?”

“On the passing of Lord Metzger. I understand you were both very…close.” She had, in fact, been his mistress for many years. But now the man was dead—he’d died some months ago—and she was without protection.

He watched her swallow, seeing those exact thoughts whisper across her features. “His lordship was indeed a good friend,” she said, caution in every word.

“So I understand. But now he is gone, and I should like—”

“No relationship, my lord. Do you not recall what I just said? No relationship. The delight we have in our conversations would alter drastically if we began…something else.”

“Really?” he said as he leaned forward. Her hand was resting on her knee and it was the work of a moment to capture her wrist and thereby trap her in her seat. “Do you think so?”

“I do. I most certainly do.” Her voice was high in pitch and he caught an undercurrent of panic. She knew he was drawing close to kiss her. She knew it and was panicked by the thought. Or perhaps she was simply playing the part of an ingenue to spark his interest. Whether real or feigned, he was beyond intrigued. Indeed, certain parts of him were all but demanding she surrender to him right here and now.

But he was more refined than that and so he slowed his approach. He easily flipped her hand over to press a kiss into her wrist. To his delight, he felt her shiver as he pressed his mouth to her tender flesh.

“Do you know,” he said against her skin, “I believe I should like to explore something with you.”

“I’m sure you would,” she said somewhat tartly, though her voice trembled. Her arm did not as she whipped it backward out of his hand. She didn’t know that it was exactly as he’d planned. While she drew her hand back, he pretended to be pulled forward enough that he had to catch himself on the armrests of her chair, thereby trapping her beneath the tent of his body. “My lord, this is most inappropriate.”

“On the contrary,” he said as he slowly lowered his face toward hers. “I believe an offer of protection is exactly appropriate between the two of us.”

“My lord! I am a dressmaker!”

“Not to Lord Metzger, you weren’t. And not to me.”

She had drawn back to the farthest reaches of her chair, but she hadn’t screamed. He saw the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat and felt the tight puff of her breath against his cheek. She was interested, of that he was certain. But how quickly could he get her to fall? Normally he enjoyed the dance of maybe yes, maybe no. But with her, he found he wanted merely to possess as quickly as possible.

“No, my lord.” She put a hand to his chest to stop him. There was little strength in her words and her wrist, but it was enough to make his honor prickle.

“Don’t you want to explore, Mrs. Mortimer? To find out if our delightful conversations will continue with the benefit of a relationship?”

She licked her lips in anxiety, and his gaze dropped from there to even lower. Her bosom was flushed rosy pink above her gown, and her beautiful breasts were tightened into hard points that made his blood crow with delight. Without even thinking it, he lifted his hand to stroke one hard nub, but she caught him before he connected.

“No, my lord. No!”

He twisted his arm around hers such that he caught her wrist again and lifted it to his mouth. Nearly a decade ago, his uncle had taught him how to seduce a woman with just his tongue. It had been the most useful lesson any relative had ever given him. He used it to its fullest extent now as he teased and stroked her wrist. And as he applied himself to her skin, he watched her face. Her mouth opened on a gasp as she made to pull her hand away. But he was already at work on her wrist, and he saw her eyes widen in shock. Obviously Lord Metzger had never been instructed by a lecherous uncle, because Mrs. Mortimer’s body began to react.

Her lips darkened to a rich, wet red. Her eyes, so wide a moment ago, began to soften in a kind of daze. She shivered against his lips, and her knees, which were pressed so hard against his thighs, eased slightly apart. She probably wasn’t even aware of her reaction, but he had been taught well. He knew what to look for in a woman.

And then, formidable woman that she was, she gathered her wits. She closed her eyes and stiffened her spine. When her words came, they were hard and implacable.

“No, my lord. I will not be your mistress. Pray respect my wishes and remove yourself from my person.”

He lifted his head and slowly set down her arm. He watched her exhale in relief, obviously believing she had won. And cad that he was, he took advantage of that one moment of vulnerability. Before she could stop him, he closed the distance between them.

He kissed her. He more than kissed her, he used his superior position—in height, in social status, and in simple physical prowess—and he owned her mouth as only a man can own a woman.

One kiss, one moment, and she was his. Or so he believed…for about five seconds.