A Lover's Kiss. Margaret Moore

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      Juliette’s dismay at Sir Douglas’s description of her dress was quickly overcome by the beauty of the new one in Polly’s arms. She let the maid help her into it, and the shoes and stockings, too. When she was finished, she went to study her reflection in the cheval glass.

      She hardly recognized herself in the fashionable dress with short capped sleeves and high waist, the skirt full and flowing. “I feel like a princess,” she murmured in French.

      “It is pretty, isn’t it?” Polly said, understanding the sentiment if not the words. “And you look like a picture, miss, although your hair’s a little old-fashioned. Here.”

      She reached up and pulled a few wispy curls from the braid, so that they rested on Juliette’s brow and cheeks. “Isn’t that better?”

      Juliette nodded in agreement. Perhaps she could pass as the cousin of a barrister, at least until Sir Douglas’s enemies were captured.

      Then she would go back to her old life—something she must remember. This was a dream, and dreams died with the morning.

      “If you’re finished eating, Sir Douglas said to tell you he’s waiting for you in the morning room. I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer if you can help it, Miss Bergerine. He’s, um, getting a bit impatient.”

      Sitting in Buggy’s mother’s morning room, surrounded by bolts of fabric brought by an anxious linen-draper with a droopy eye and an obsequious silk mercer whose waistcoat was so bright it almost hurt the eyes to look at it, Drury wasn’t a bit impatient. He had already lost what patience he possessed, and if Miss Bergerine didn’t come down in the next few moments, he’d simply order some dresses, a couple of bonnets and send these people away.

      It wasn’t just the men keen to sell fabric who were driving him to Boodle’s for a stiff drink and some peace. In the north corner of the room decorated in the height of feminine taste, a shoemaker busily finished another pair of slippers, using one of Miss Bergerine’s boots for size, the tapping of his hammer like the constant drip of water. A haberdasher kept bringing out more stockings for Drury’s approval, and a milliner persisted in trying to cajole him into selecting feathers and laces and trim, bonnets and caps—when she could get a word in between the exuberant declarations of the modiste, who was dressed in the latest vogue, with frills and lace and ribbons galore, and more rouge on her cheeks than an actress on the stage.

      Even the most riotous trial in the Old Bailey seemed as orderly as a lending library compared to this carnival. The commotion also roused memories better forgotten, of his mother’s extravagance and endless demands, and the quarrels between his parents if his father was at home.

      “Now take this taffeta,” the linen-draper said, unrolling a length from a bolt as he tried to balance it on his skinny knee, quite obviously mistaking Drury’s silence for permission to continue. “The very best quality, this is.”

      “Taffeta,” the mercer sniffed. “Terrible, stiff stuff. This bee-you-tee-ful silk has come all the way from China!” He brought forth a smaller bolt of carmine fabric shot through with golden threads. “This would make the most marvelous gown for a ball, don’t you agree, Sir Douglas?”

      Despite his annoyance, Drury couldn’t help wondering how a gown made of that silk would look on Miss Bergerine.

      “And I have the latest patterns from Paris,” Madame de Malanche interjected, the plume on her hat bobbing as if it had a life of its own. “I’m sure any cousin of Sir Douglas Drury’s will want to be dressed in the most stylish mode.”

      As if that plume had been some kind of antenna attuned to the arrival of young women with money to spend, Madame de Malanche abruptly turned to the door and clasped her hands as if beholding a heavenly vision. “Ah, this must be the young lady! What a charming girl!”

      When Drury turned and looked at Miss Bergerine standing uncertainly in the doorway, he did have to admit that she looked very charming wearing a pretty gown of apple-green, with her hair up and a shy, bashful expression on her face. Indeed, she looked as sweet and innocent as Fanny Epping, now the wife of the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway.

      That was ridiculous. There was surely no young woman, English or otherwise, less like Fanny than Juliette Bergerine.

      Nevertheless, determined to play this role as he had so many others, he rose and went to her, kissing both her cheeks.

      She stiffened as his lips brushed her warm, soft skin. No doubt she was surprised—as surprised as he had been by the difference in her attitude as well as her appearance.

      “Good morning, cousin,” he said, letting go of her.

      “Is this all for me?” she asked, looking up at him questioningly, her full lips half-parted, as if seeking another kind of kiss.

      Desire—hot, intense, lustful—hit him like a blow, while at the same time he experienced that haunting sense that there was something important about this woman hovering at the edge of his mind. Something…good.

      He must be more distressed by this commotion than he’d assumed. Or perhaps he should ask Buggy about the possible aftereffects of a head injury.

      In spite of his tumultuous feelings, his voice was cool and calm when he spoke. “After your ordeal, I thought it would be easier if Bond Street came to you.”

      “It is very kind of you, cousin,” she murmured, looking down as coyly as any well-brought-up young lady, her dark lashes spread upon her cheeks.

      He could keep cool when she was angry. He had plenty of experience with tantrums and volatile tempers, and had learned to act as if they didn’t affect him in the slightest.

      This affected him. She affected him.

      He didn’t want to be affected, by her or any other woman.

      “Oh, it is our pleasure!” the modiste cried, pushing her way between them. “Allow me to introduce myself, my dear. I am Madame de Malanche, and it shall be my delight to oversee the making of your gowns. All the finest ladies in London are my customers. Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh, Princess Esterhazy, Countess Lieven, Lady Abramarle, and the beautiful Lady Chelton, to name only a few.”

      Drury wished the woman hadn’t mentioned the beautiful Lady Chelton.

      “I see that gown fits you to perfection—and looks perfect, too, I must say! I’m sure between the two of us you will be of the first stare in no time.”

      Miss Bergerine regarded her with dismay, a reaction the modiste’s overly befrilled and beribboned gown alone might inspire. “I do not wish to be stared at.”

      Madame de Malanche laughed. “Oh, la, my dear! I mean all the young ladies will envy you!”

      Not if she persuaded Juliette to wear gowns similar to her own, Drury thought.

      “I believe you’ll find my cousin has very definite ideas of what she’ll wear, madame,” Drury said. “I trust you will defer to her requests, even if that means she may not be the most fashionably attired young lady in London.”

      “Mais oui, Sir Douglas,” Madame said, recovering with the aplomb of a woman experienced in dealing with temperamental customers. “She will need morning dresses, СКАЧАТЬ